“A beast can never be as cruel as a human being, so artistically, so picturesquely cruel.” – Fyodor Dostoesky, in The Brothers Karamazov
 
 
You insulted my daughter
You betrayed my son
You falsely advertised
You shouldn’t have won
 
You aborted a baby
You shot my child
Your pants are too saggy
You are too wild
 
You look like a thug
You take drugs
You are self-righteous
You go to clubs
 
You’re supposed to lead
You’re supposed to follow
You might try to apologize
But your words are hollow
 
You’re gay
You’re fat
It’s your fault 
You did that
 
You hick
You snob
Ever grows the angry mob!
 
You paddle and spank 
You tattle and yell
There’s no doubt
You’re going to Hell
 
You don’t love the immigrant
You don’t love the farmer
You don’t love the environment
You are a charmer
 
You deserve what you get
You let people starve
You don’t share your wealth
You grew pot in your yard
 
You broke my heart
You are a creep
You left me alone
You are weak
 
You support the wrong store
You detest what I think
You racist
You pig
Your policies stink
 
Our ancestors were wrong
The youth are lost
You are part of the system
How much will that cost?
 
Your silence makes you culpable 
Your screams are defeaning
Your words amount to nothing 
You bring the reckoning
 
You spent our tax dollars
You, we cannot trust
You are loser
You only deceive us
 
You’re a terrible mother
You, a deadbeat dad
You hater!
You cheater!
You thug!
You are bad
 
You’re too much
You’re not enough
You Boomer, you Hipster
You know nothing of love
 
Undeterred, the mobs close in
Fingers point at me
I point at them
 
As I draw my weapon
Drops of rain gently fall
Some notice the drops
Some not at all
 
Upon the mobs 
Of fear, rage, and pain
Hangs a body
Whispering names 
 
Barely audible 
Over jeers and threats
The Innocent One
Drips blood and sweat
 
Hopeless we are
In our mobs and bands
We stop pointing
When we lift our hands
 
There’s no room for accusations
No fingers in a face
When we look to the One
Who hangs in our place
 
This is grace
 
Quieting now
The damning tongues of blame
A few begin 
To sing in the rain
 
Miserable we are
A beastly lot
If we can’t give and receive grace
What hope have we got? 

Can you hear the singing 
Above the noise? 

To drop your fingers and sing –

Is a choice