The Adulteress

The Adulteress

They’d been spying
so they could
wrench her from her bed of sin,
and throw her before the court
with self-satisfied glee,
her guilt indisputable,
knowing the verdict was assured,
the full penalty of the law would be decreed,
death by stoning.

With tear-streaked face
she huddled, head bowed,
eyes cast down,
encircled by accusers
gathering stones for her execution.
In fear and shame
she clutched torn robes against her chest,
eyes shut tight,
waiting for the pain.

She sensed a shadow,
heard a voice,
felt a presence
come between her and death.
A man squatted near her,
writing in the dust,
just numbers, one through ten.
With the voice of quiet authority he spoke:
“Whoever is without sin may cast the first stone.”

Numb, she stared at him
as he brushed the dust from his hands and stood,
with perfect calm, looking each accuser in the eye.
One by one
she heard the stones drop back to earth,
and footsteps trail away.
Then He turned and gently placed a hand upon her shoulder.
“I do not condemn you, either,” he said.
“You are forgiven. Go on your way.”