Amid the heart where grace should softly bloom,
Pride swells instead, a graceless, thorny vine,
A critic’s tongue, too eager to consume,
Devours sweet peace with bitterness divine.
No humble seed takes root in stony ground,
Where judgment reigns and mercy finds no place,
The soul, once light, by arrogance is bound,
Its mirror shows a cold, unyielding face.
Each word, a barb; each glance, a sharpened blade,
To wound the weak, to mock what’s pure and true,
Yet in this scorn, a hollow price is paid—
A life estranged from love it never knew.
Oh, spirit harsh, beware thy prideful fall,
For grace withheld returns no grace at all.