The Cost of Mercy

The clock on the vestry wall doesn’t care about justice.

It just measures the distance between a man and a rope.

I walked out to the crossroads because the law is a mechanical thing,

And I needed something with a little more flex in its spine.

He was sitting there on a milestone, looking like a man who’d seen the start of everything.

He didn't have horns or a pitchfork; he just had a look of total exhaustion.

"You’re late," he said, and the air around him smelled like cold ash.

"The boy in the cell is twenty-two years old. He killed a man for a loaf of bread,

But the state says a life is worth exactly one life, no matter the weight of the hunger."

The Devil looked at me and asked why I cared about one soul in a sea of billions.

I told him that if one man is beyond saving, then the whole structure is a lie.

He laughed then—not a mean laugh, just a tired one.

"You want to swap a soul for a soul? That’s the oldest math in the book," he said.

"But you're a priest. Your soul isn't yours to trade; you gave it to the Great Architect.

So, let's bargain for something you actually own: your peace of mind."

The deal was simple: the boy walks free into the afterlife,

But I have to live with the knowledge that I broke the very laws I preach to uphold.

I had to choose between the dogma of the church and the survival of a human being.

I signed the dirt with a finger, and the ground felt like frozen iron.

There were no sparks, no sulfur—just a sudden, heavy silence in the woods.

When the sun came up, they marched the boy to the gallows.

The trap dropped, and the wood groaned, and the crowd held its breath.

But the boy didn't struggle. He didn't kick.

He just slipped out of his skin like it was an old coat that didn't fit anymore.

The executioner saw a corpse, but I saw a man finally stepping out of the rain.

He’s gone somewhere where the price of bread doesn't matter.

Now I stand in the pulpit every Sunday and I talk about the "Narrow Path."

But I know the path is wide enough to fit a bargain made in the dark.

People look at me and they see a man of God,

But I see a man who realized that mercy is a sin in the eyes of the law.

I saved his soul, but I lost the ability to believe in my own sermons.

The Devil didn't take my life; he just took the comfort of my certainty.

And that’s a much longer walk to the end of the road.

(The cello drone fades into a single, high-pitched violin note)

(Sound of a heavy door locking)

The rope is empty.

The cell is clean.

But the crossroads... the crossroads are always there.