I HATE THEM WITH PERFECT HATE

	There is a weary joy in all revenge!
	When a man's rejoicing
	Over the broken lances of his vanquished foe
	Leaves him clean and fresh and free.
		Or so it seems.
		It matters not, the violence --
		The bitterness spewed out of his hating heart . . .
		Is there no law?
		The sowing and reaping --
		Are they ever one?
	Can man escape the consequence?
	Can it ever be true?
		The enemy caught in my vital wrath --
		Was he not reaping what was sown?
		The penalty of my revenge,
		Was it but the operation of law?
		He had piled deed upon deed upon deed,
		Reckless of all returns;
		Emptied each hour of all the good,
		Ringing it round with deeds that hurt,
		With things that kill.
		Is that not so?
		In what he did
		Was he not enemy of good,
		Of God?
		In my response, was I but a living ting
		In Holy Hands --
		Carrying out the law
		Of which I am a part?
	My hatred then is perfect
	And I am free of stain.
	But am I?
	The vengeance which I execute
	Becomes fresh seeds of violence sown,
	And I must reap;
	Or all is void.
	It matters not the cause --
	The consequence remains

		"Vengeance is mine," saith the Lord,
		"I will repay."

		I rest my soul at last in this
		And find my peace.


	----------------------------------------------
	Howard Thurman from The Inward Journey