We have saved the soul of the man who killed, We have turned to shrive the thief; We restored the pride of the man who lied And we gave him our belief; But for her who fell we have fashioned hell With a faith all stern and just— It was so of old; and no man hath told What our Lord wrote in the dust. We have sighed betimes for our brothers' crimes And have bade them be of cheer, For the flesh is weak, and the soul grown meek May yet read its title clear. But we draw away from the one astray As the truly righteous must, She is cursed indeed—and we did not read What our Lord wrote in the dust. For the men who thieved, and who killed and lied— Who have slain the woman's soul— We have worked and prayed, and have seen them made All clean and pure and whole, But we drive her out with a righteous shout In our Pharisaic trust, So the man goes free—but we do not see What our Lord wrote in the dust. |