The Law Wears Shoes

I saw the Law walk into town last night.

Sandals spitting gravel, cloak soaked in firelight,

eyes made of ink and orchard smoke.

He didn’t speak. He hummed.

He didn’t carry stone. He bled scripture.

The children ran.

The scribes clicked their teeth like abacuses.

And the wind,

oh the wind,

it turned the pages in their hands

before they could recite a single verse.

They said the Law was a cage.

I say it was a windmill before the wind.

It spun for centuries,

waiting for the breath of a crucified Carpenter.

They said, “Do not steal,”

and meant silver from pockets.

But the Law meant breath from lungs,

meant time from the unloved,

meant don't hoard your hands

while your neighbor drowns in quiet.

They said, “Do not lie,”

and meant courtroom tongues.

But the Law meant the illusion

you wear like perfume,

the mask that rots slower than truth.

It meant,

“Do not let your soul become a ventriloquist for shame.”

And Sabbath

was never about sleep.

It was a scream turned inward

that whispered:

“Let go. You are not the sun.”

It was a holy pause

so the bones could remember Eden.

I saw the Law take off its sandals

and walk barefoot across the tongues of Priests.

They bled doctrines like sugar cubes.

He drank none of it.

Instead, He spat parables

into the chalice of power,

and the cup curdled

like milk in the mouth of a corpse.

They handed me the scrolls

like chains, like tickets to a trial.

But I rolled them open

and found blueprints for mercy,

symphonies in minor key,

and a window framed in thunder.

The Spirit

ah, the Spirit

She is not a bailiff.

She is a ghost with ink-stained hands

who rewrites the commandments

in the tremble of your gut.

She doesn’t shout.

She sobs in Morse code,

and your ribs rattle the translation

long before your brain does.

I tell you now:

The commandments are not barbed wire.

They are the fingerprints of a wedding vow

etched into the spine of creation.

“Do not covet”

isn’t jealousy control,

it’s the ache of looking at someone’s garden

and forgetting you are soil too.

The Law does not judge.

It remembers.

It hums the old songs

until they bloom on your tongue

like a psalm set on fire.

So when He said,

“I did not come to abolish,”

He meant:

I came to wear the Law like skin.

To walk it into your living room

and call it Friend.

The Law wears shoes now.

It walks beside you.

It dances when you're brave.

It limps when you're cruel.

And when you fall asleep

with your fists still clenched,

it kisses your knuckles and waits.