Scruple

Lyrics

Close the window against the draft.
Hold your breath to drop the brass.

He taps the crease of the waxen fold,
Letting the bitter powder fall.
Tweezers holding a square of gold,
So thin it casts no shade at all.
A heavy hand will kill the boy,
A lighter hand won't cure the cough.
The balance hangs on a silken cord,
And a single tremor throws it off.

It is not the mountain that blocks the way.
It is not the anvil that tips the tray.
It's a pebble in the shoe, a speck of lead,
A sudden, sharp quiet inside the head.
A scruple when it sits upon the scale,
A scruple when your forward motion fails.
Such a tiny weight to halt a man.

The ledger needs a perfect line.
The law demands a steady rate.
But I have watched a righteous man decline
To push the latch on an open gate.
The fingers freeze before the mind knows why,
Caught on a hook he cannot see.
The shadow of a fraction of a doubt,
Tugging at the sleeve of certainty.

It is not the mountain that blocks the way.
It is not the anvil that tips the tray.
It's a pebble in the shoe, a speck of lead,
A sudden, sharp quiet inside the head.
A scruple when it sits upon the scale,
A scruple when your forward motion fails.
Such a tiny weight to halt a man.

Standardize the brass, stamp it with a crown.
Make the measure true in every market town.
But no king's mark can weigh the hesitation—
That little drag of dread,
Between the willing and the doing.

He dusts the pan. He wipes the glass.
He sweeps the powder in the vial.
It doesn't take an anchor to hold you fast.
Just a speck of dust.
Just a little while.