The Hidden Blade

You have heard it spoken in the courts of stone,  

Thou shalt not kill, nor spill the crimson flood  

That pulses through the vein and warms the bone,  

Lest judgment fall like thunder from the blood.  

The hand that wields the knife, the arm that strikes,  

Stands naked under heaven's righteous gaze,  

And pays the price in chains or pyre's spikes  

For shattering the image God did raise.  

But listen closer, for the Teacher speaks  

Beyond the letter carved on tablet cold:  

The law descends into the heart's deep creeks  

Where murder first is whispered, fierce and bold.  

Not only when the body lies in dust  

Does guilt arise to claim its heavy toll;  

The seed is anger nursed in secret trust,  

A brooding fire that chars the living soul.  

Whoever harbors rage against his kin,  

Though no red stain has marred his trembling hand,  

Already stands before the bar within,  

Where every thought is weighed in that stern land.  

The silent curse, the glare that wishes harm,  

The clenched resentment locked behind the teeth—  

These are the sparks that set the soul alarm,  

And summon judgment from the courts beneath.  

And if the tongue, more deadly than the blade,  

Lets slip the word that strips a brother bare—  

Raca—empty shell, a thing decayed,  

A worthless husk unfit for breath or air—  

Then answer must be made before the seat  

Of those who guard the city's ancient wall;  

For contempt has built its throne in mercy's seat  

And crowned contempt where love should hold its call.  

Yet deeper still the wound, the final fall:  

When "fool" is hurled like venom from the lip,  

A verdict passed on mind and heart and all,  

Declaring one beyond redemption's grip.  

No sword has struck, no poison found its mark,  

Yet hell's own flame is kindled in that breath;  

The fire of Gehenna waits to spark  

For those who murder souls while sparing death.  

O human heart, so quick to wound and maim,  

So slow to see the brother in the foe,  

How many times have we, in anger's flame,  

Destroyed the very one we ought to know?  

The hand restrained, the blow withheld in vain  

If wrath still reigns upon the inner throne;  

The deed prevented, yet the heart profane  

Has built its altar where the dead are known.  

Teach us, O Lord, to guard the hidden spring  

From which such bitter waters overflow;  

To speak no word that clips another's wing,  

To let no scorn in secret chambers grow.  

For righteousness must rise above the law  

That measures only what the eye can see;  

It searches motives, finds the root of awe,  

And calls us brothers, bound eternally.  

Let anger die before the sun goes down,  

Let "Raca" perish on the tongue unsaid,  

Let "fool" be swallowed, never to be sown,  

And love instead repair what hate has bled.  

For in the kingdom where the meek are blessed,  

The merciful find mercy in their need;  

The pure in heart behold the Father's face  

And walk where murder's shadow cannot tread.  

So turn the gaze within, where tempests start,  

And root the thorn before it bears its fruit;  

For every soul is fashioned by one heart,  

And every wound returns to wound the root.  

In quietness restore what rage has torn,  

In silence heal what words have ripped apart;  

Until the day when anger is no more,  

And love alone reigns sovereign in the heart.