His finger cut through the sand and dirt. It wasn’t the first time he had seen his finger write in the the flesh of the earth. On the mountain he had written the words in the stone. He had given them to his people, those he had chosen to make his own. Words that were meant for life.
And this is what they had done with it. They had taken the very words meant for life and twisted them into an excuse to accuse and rain down death with stones, lists to decide who was right and who was wrong, who was in and who was out. His words, their lists.