Along the dusty path of days, where shadows stretch
long before the sun dips low, two figures walk in tense
silence, one ahead, the other trailing, bound by
an invisible chain of wrong and claim. The air hums
with unspoken words, accusations sharp as stones
underfoot. This is the way, the fleeting road
where mercy lingers still, before the gates of stone
and iron swing shut forever.
Settle now, the Master whispers through the wind,
while feet still share the same direction, while breath
mingles in the same uncertain hour. Do not wait
for the courthouse steps, for the gavel's echo,
for the judge's eyes that see no compromise,
only debt unpaid. The adversary, once a brother
or a stranger met in passing harm, becomes
the hand that delivers; the judge, unyielding,
passes to the officer whose keys are cold
and final.
In that locked place, the prison of reckoning,
no sun rises, no dawn breaks the dark.
There, the last small coin—the quadrans, tiniest
scrap of copper—is demanded, weighed,
and found wanting until every fraction
of offense is counted out in endless time.
No friend comes with ransom; no plea softens
the sentence. The bars are forged from pride
unbent, from anger nursed in secret,
from slights allowed to fester into chains.
Yet on this road we travel, life itself the journey,
every step a chance to turn, to face the one
who walks beside in grievance. The heart remembers
old wounds: a word like murder in its heat,
a glance that cut deeper than any blade,
a silence heavier than any shout.
These are the debts we carry, invisible
yet crushing, accumulating interest
in the quiet hours when sleep evades.
O soul, why linger in the shadow of delay?
The sun declines, the path narrows,
the courthouse looms on every horizon—
death, or judgment, or the simple end
of opportunity. Reach out now, while hands
can still clasp in contrition, while voices
can still speak the hard words of sorrow
or forgiveness. Swallow pride like bitter bread;
let it nourish humility instead of hardening
into stone.
For in the kingdom's economy, reconciliation
is no mere truce but a foretaste of grace,
a mirror of the cross where every debt
was paid in blood, the last farthing covered
by love that owed nothing yet gave all.
To settle swiftly is to walk free before
the bars descend, to breathe the open air
of mercy extended and received.
Consider the one who waits across the divide:
perhaps fear masks their anger, perhaps hurt
echoes your own. The road is shared;
the journey brief. Extend the hand,
speak the peace, release the claim.
In that moment of agreement, prison doors
remain unopened, chains unfastened,
and the heart finds liberty it never knew
while clutching grievances like treasures.
And if the adversary turns away,
still the act of seeking mends something
within, loosens the inner fetters,
prepares the soul for the greater court
where no excuse avails, where truth
stands naked and the Judge is just.
Yet even there, the One who taught this way
has walked it first, reconciled the irreconcilable,
paid what we could never owe.
So walk softly on this road, eyes open
to the fellow traveler, heart ready
to make peace before the shadows lengthen.
Settle quickly, lest the way ends
in confinement unending.
Choose now the freedom of forgiveness,
the release that comes not from winning
but from yielding to love's higher claim.
In every encounter, hear the quiet urging:
Agree while you are with him on the way.
The prison waits for those who refuse;
the open fields of grace await the humble.
Choose this day whom you will serve—
the debt or the Deliverer.
The road continues only a little farther.
Settle now.
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