新曲をリリースしました(๑･ㅂ･)و
テーマは新約聖書ヨハネの福音書８章より、通称姦淫の女と言われる箇所からです。
しかし、彼らが問い続けるので、イエスは身を起こして言われた。「あなたがたの中で罪のない者が、まずこの人に石を投げなさい。」
ヨハネの福音書 8章7節
YouTube（MV ）: https://youtu.be/vVNxbW6qrpA
Playlist : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mhkdkhb-gmI&list=PLBO85IS5q8OfEF-sF9BGw-h-K3sh5LB5m
X : https://x.com/ashingabunko/status/2017107925849035088
— Info —
ASHINAGA BUNKO presents.
Label: ASHINAGA BUNKO
— 歌詞 —
Hear now a street of stone and dust,
where judgment gathered like a storm—
and mercy walked in quiet shoes.
At dawn the temple’s breath was cold,
a city’s hunger, hard and old;
they dragged a soul into the light,
as if her shame could feed their right.
Lantern-eyes and clenched-up hands,
law like iron, sand like sand—
they named her sin, they named their cause,
and called their cruelty “the laws.”
“Here,” they cried, “the verdict waits—
a public wound to balance fates.”
But in their voices lived a thrill,
a secret sweetness, sharp and still.
Not to heal, but to be seen;
not to cleanse, but to be clean—
to make a body bear the weight
of all the rot they will not face.
And in that ring of righteous stone,
each man stood tall, yet stood alone—
for every finger pointed out
was three that trembled, three that doubt.
O cast your stones, if you are pure—
if no dark ember can endure.
But if your hands have ever bled,
let mercy be your bread instead.
Let mercy be your bread.
He did not roar, he did not curse,
no thunder wrapped around his verse.
He bent as if to hear the ground,
where all our hidden names are found.
With patient dust beneath his palm,
he wrote a silence like a psalm—
a pause so deep the crowd could see
the shape of their own hypocrisy.
They pressed him like a sharpened spear:
“Condemn her, or confess your fear.”
Between the trap and temple wall,
they waited for his name to fall.
But truth is not a hunter’s snare;
it stands, it breathes, it will not share.
He raised his eyes—no flame, no show—
and spoke a blade as soft as snow.
Not “she is clean,” not “sin is fine,”
but “look within your own design.”
The purest judge who ever came
refused to use her as a game.
O cast your stones, if you are pure—
if no dark ember can endure.
But if your hands have ever bled,
let mercy be your bread instead.
Let mercy be your bread.
I’ve sung in courts of gilded men,
who chant “morality” again—
yet sell their pity by the pound,
and call it holy when it’s loud.
I’ve watched them trade a woman’s name
for one more sip of righteous flame.
They love a sinner on a chain—
it makes them feel less stained.
One by one, the stones grew heavy;
not in fist, but in the belly.
The oldest first—eyes tired, wise—
set down the rock and broke his guise.
Then footsteps stitched a widening seam
through all that fury, all that scheme,
until the wind could finally move
where fear had stood in iron grooves.
And there remained the hush of noon,
a wounded heart, an empty room—
and Mercy, standing close enough
to make the trembling world go soft.
O cast your stones, if you are pure—
if no dark ember can endure.
But if you know the taste of shame,
then do not turn her into flame.
Let mercy be your bread—
let mercy be your bread.
He did not crown her, did not lie;
he did not name her to the sky.
He gave her back her human face
and opened up a narrow place—
a road that starts where mercy ends:
“Walk. Live. Begin again.”
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