He wrote in the sand … the wind-blown sands
And the woman wept afresh,
But not a stone from the hundred hands
Was cast to bruise her flesh.

Not a deadly missile was sent
And the mob in twos and fours
Dispersed and down the street they went
Or gossiped in the doors.

The brave Christ blotted out the sign
Of all her sin and lust;
Obliterated each thin line
Traced in the roadside dust.

Later such mobs used spears to kill:
Lances and spikes and gall—
A wooden cross on a lonely hill
With a black sky over all.

But men have forged these modern days
New things for bringing pain
And they are skilled in all the ways
To grave sins deep and plain.

They cut their neighbor’s faults in flint,
Never in drifting silt,
And how they love the tinny glint
Of scabbard and of hilt.

~Jay G. Sigmund~