He wore the robes when he was ten, Spoke words he didn’t understand. The elders said, “The path is straight,” And placed the world inside his hand. He learned the chants, the sacred signs, The way to make God's voice appear. He taught the rites, ordained the kings— And kept his trembling hidden near. He knew the laws. He was the laws. He bound all tight with holy thread. But in the dark, He broke one, small— And woke to find the thing he dread. A vow undone behind closed doors, A touch he should have never craved. No murder, no blaspheming roar— Just one small rule he never waived. He knelt alone in temple dust, His pleas ignored, their will like rusted keys in locks. But law is law, and stone is just— And now the faithful hold the rocks. He knew the codes. He spoke them all. He’d judged the weak with ruthless hand. But sin feels soft, And law feels cold, When you’re the one who’ll have to stand. The laws don’t bend. Ink doesn't bleed. You cannot argue need with fate. One begged for mercy once before— He gave none, So none was his to take. They stripped the robe. They cut the cord. They smashed his staff upon the stair. Bleeding out before the God he served— And found a judgment waiting there. Those he judged, stood at the gates, behind them a righteous fire. He knew them all. He pardoned none— So none saved him, from the roaring pyre.
