When you told them to kill him because he stole your money,
Were you not a judge?
Even if you sought beating for his crime,
Has judgment not already taken place?
When you whispered behind closed doors,
Declaring her ruined for loving the wrong man,
Did you not wear the robe of justice?
Did you not weigh her worth with your words?
When you turned your back on the beggar,
Scoffing that he should have worked harder,
Were you not the hand that passed the sentence,
As if fate were yours to command?
When you laughed at the man who lost his way,
Saying he should have known better,
Did you not already etch his punishment,
In the courtroom of your heart?
When you denied forgiveness to an old friend,
Who stumbled on the jagged road of life,
Were you not the jury, the executioner,
Striking the gavel with silent pride?
We have judged and been judged,
In whispers, in glances, in cold refusals.
We have built our own tribunals,
And filled them with our fears and faults.
Judgment Day was yesterday,
And the day before, and every day since birth.
Why wait for skies to split and trumpets to sound,
When justice has long been our own burden?
Look into your mirror, my friend,
See the scars you left on others' souls.
Do not ask when judgment shall come;
It lives within the choices we make.
Perhaps the heavens will remain silent,
For judgment was never theirs to wield.
We are both sinner and saint,
Condemned by the justice of our own hands.