Jesus didn’t mumble about love—
no footnotes scratched in dirt,
no ledger of debts to square.

He said it flat,
like a stone dropped in a well:

love the ones who sour your bread,
who knot your days with thorns.

We’re good at hate, though,
a craft we’ve honed,
sharpening grudges,
grinding out blood and broken teeth.

But to stand there,
face slapped red,
and let grace leak out—

that’s the work.

Mercy’s a bent nail,
hard to drive straight.

Violence meets violence
like dogs in a ditch,
snarling over the same bone.

We could keep it up forever—
a clock with no face,
ticking toward nothing.

Or we could stop,
stare at the mess,
and try loving
the bastard anyway.