I am as guilty of this as anyone; my tongue is no less sharp than another’s and, if I think it might be dull, I quickly find a way to sharpen it. I write this to myself; perhaps to you, as well. But hopefully not.

My poetry is lame but all the same, with apologies to Thomas Hardy (The Man He Killed), I offer:

The Souls We Kill

Had he and I but met, I say,
In some old church or pew,
We should have sat us down to pray
As Christian brothers do!

But with our anonymity,
Remote in cyberspace,
I railed at him as he at me,
And put him in his place.

I attacked because –
Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
That’s clear enough; although

He thought he’d surf, perhaps,
Off-hand like — just as I –
He had some time — a cherished lapse –
No other reason why.

How dangerous our words can be!
You wound a soul in pride,
Failing at that time to see,
T’was him for whom Christ died.”


2 Cor 1.13