Just.

And we,
Who are we to judge?
Is it for us to say whether a man is right or wrong, in the end?
And where's the line, between?
Between man's place, his own authority,
And heaven's?
What's the difference in divine discourse
And less fate, more choice?
Who are we, to mete God's sentence?
Or how are we ever satisfied by the justice we so crave?
An eye for an eye,
A man's dignity for a nation
And how does it help us all the more that this man is dead?
Or that we loved eachother, all the same?
That's the difference, then:
Our forgiveness in a warrior's end, whether his shot in the dark was true.
Or our fleeting righteousness in his profane disgrace?
For he,
Even he...
Was just a man, too.