Cast the first stone

Here's what I picture.
A man, Middle Eastern descent
squatting on the ground
surrounded by angry confusion.
Eyes focused downward,
drawing in the dirt with his finger.

Listening, taking it all in,
standing out by not participating
in the accusations.

A woman, accused of her sins,
already pummeled by judgement
while awaiting her fate.
No recourse. Alone with her fear.
A tear makes its way down her cheek.

Angry, righteous people,
so ready to judge this woman for her sin.
(Is there no accused man to stand with her?)
A growing crowd waiting, in anger,
in hate, in judgement
to give this woman what she deserves.

Which ends up being what she receives.

Words are spoken.
The stones are dropped,
striking the earth with muffled thuds,
obscuring a heart drawn with a finger
in the dust.

Forgiveness.

As I turn to walk away, I realize
there is something in my hand.
Judgement changes into personal conviction.

He stands up finally,
and looks into my eyes,
seeing my soul.

Who am I in this story?
I release the stone I am holding
along with the sins I try to hide.

Forgiven.