The thief came in the dead of night,
When lamps were burning low,
He moved as softly as a thought
Afraid the dark might know.
He searched for gold, for silver bright,
For things the rich might keep,
But found an open holy book
While all the house did sleep.
Its page lay bare, and there he read
A truth both grave and plain:
Do right for right, not hope of gain;
Be true when none remain.
The unseen act reveals the soul,
Not praise, nor fear, nor pain.
The thief stood still; the night stood still;
His restless breath grew tight.
The priest awoke with sudden fire
And cursed the thief in sight.
“Why crawl like rats through holy doors?”
The angry priest then cried.
“Your hands are stained, your soul is dark,
Your path is built on lies.”
“I came to steal,” the thief replied,
“My hunger led my feet.”
The priest struck words like blows and said,
“Your sin is base and cheap.
Walk straight, speak truth, fear God alone,
Leave theft and crooked ways.
The righteous need no hidden acts,
Their lives are clear as day.”
“I own no wealth,” the priest went on,
With sharp and narrowed eye,
“No gold defiles this sacred house—
Here, even want is dry.”
The thief believed the bitter words
And bowed his lowered head.
“I will not steal,” the thief replied,
“I’ll live the truth instead.”
He left the house with empty hands,
The verse his only gain,
And carried it through hunger, cold,
Through dust and falling rain.
The door stood open to the night
A little while too long.
The lamp burned low; the house held still,
As if it sensed a wrong.
The priest sat upright on his bed,
The dark still in his eyes.
The words he’d hurled like stones at sin
Now circled him like lies.
The book lay open where it was,
Its page unchanged, unmoved.
The truth it asked of any man
Had not been disapproved.
He rose and checked the silent rooms,
Each lock, each careful door,
His fingers knew the hidden paths
They’d learned so well before.
Behind the wall, beneath the stair,
The gold lay safe and sound.
He touched it once, then turned away,
Yet stayed within its ground.
The night did not accuse his hands.
No voice called out his name.
The scripture did not close itself
In protest or in shame.
Outside, the thief walked through the rain
With nothing but a choice.
The verse moved softly in his chest,
A small but steady voice.
Two lives went on before the dawn,
No balance struck, no sign—
One kept his wealth and lost his words,
One kept the words, not coin.
At dawn, the book lay open still.
Its page had not been turned.
The words were there for any hand—
Unkept, unread, unearned.
