The Revenge Verse Jesus Never Gave Us
Chapter 1: The Moment Before You Strike Back
The phone is still in your hand, and the message is still glowing on the screen. Maybe it came from a family member who knows exactly where to cut. Maybe it came from a coworker who twisted the truth. Maybe it came from someone you trusted, someone who has now made you look foolish, weak, or dishonest. Your fingers are already moving. You know what you could say. You know which truth would embarrass them. You know which sentence would make them feel what they made you feel.
That is usually the moment when people reach for the phrase “an eye for an eye.” We use it as if God handed us a holy excuse to strike back. Yet the deeper message in what Jesus really meant by an eye for an eye is almost the opposite of the meaning we usually give it. The phrase was never permission to lose control. It was a boundary placed around retaliation, and Jesus later took that boundary into the human heart.
This matters because many of us are not struggling with whether the other person was wrong. We already know they were wrong. We are struggling with what their wrong gives us permission to become. That is where this message connects with the Christian path from wounded pride to spiritual freedom, because the real battle often begins after the injury, when we decide what kind of person will answer it.
Most of us do not call it revenge when we are the ones doing it. We call it standing up for ourselves, telling the truth, or making sure they never try that again. Sometimes those descriptions are honest. There are moments when the truth must be spoken, a boundary must be set, a report must be made, or a dangerous person must be stopped. There are also moments when we dress revenge in the clothing of justice because we do not want to admit how badly we want the other person to hurt.
That desire can feel reasonable. Someone wounded you, so part of you wants balance. You lost sleep, so why should they sleep peacefully? You were humiliated, so why should they keep their good reputation? You were left carrying the damage, so why should they walk away untouched? The mind begins building a case. It collects old offenses, rehearses conversations, and imagines the perfect moment when the other person will finally feel exposed.
This is where the phrase “an eye for an eye” becomes dangerous when it is misunderstood. It can sound like heaven is agreeing with our anger. It can sound like God is saying, “Make sure they get exactly what they gave you.” The original command, however, was not designed to give anger more power. It was designed to stop anger from running wild.
In the ancient world, retaliation often grew larger than the original offense. One injury could become a family feud. One stolen animal could lead to bloodshed. One insult could be answered with destruction that reached far beyond the person who caused it. The rule of equal justice placed a ceiling on punishment. It said the response could not become greater than the wrong. It was restraint, not encouragement. “An eye for an eye” was not God pouring fuel on revenge. It was God putting a brake on it.
Then Jesus stepped into that conversation and went deeper. He did not merely ask whether the response was equal. He asked what retaliation was doing inside the person who carried it. He showed that even limited revenge can still hold the heart in chains. The law could limit the damage done by the hand, but Jesus wanted to free the part of us that keeps replaying the wound.
That leads to the first major realization: the person who hurt you should not be allowed to choose your next move. Yet that is exactly what happens when someone becomes rude and we become rude, when someone lies and we decide to expose every weakness we know, or when someone ignores us and we punish them with silence. Without noticing it, we hand that person control over our character.
They set the emotional temperature, and we match it. They lower the standard, and we follow them down. They act without grace, and we begin treating grace as if it were foolish. This is not strength. It is being controlled from the outside by someone who may not even be thinking about us anymore.
Jesus offers a different kind of strength. It is the strength to remain truthful without becoming vicious, to name what happened without exaggerating it, and to create distance without spending every quiet hour planning punishment. It is the strength to protect your life without surrendering your heart to hatred.
This kind of strength is difficult because it does not always feel satisfying in the moment. A sharp reply can feel powerful for ten seconds. Exposing someone can feel like relief. Watching them suffer can feel like balance has been restored. Once the moment passes, however, the wound is usually still there. The anger may even become more complicated because now you are carrying what they did and what you did in response.
I have seen this happen in ordinary family arguments. A brother makes a careless comment at dinner. His sister answers with something far more personal. Their mother takes sides, and old history enters the room. By the time the plates are cleared, nobody is discussing the original comment anymore. Years of hidden resentment have been dragged into the open, and everyone leaves convinced that they were only defending themselves.
That is how retaliation grows. It rarely announces itself as hatred. It arrives as a reasonable response and says, “I am only giving them what they gave me.” Each person adds a little more force, history, and cruelty. Soon nobody can remember who first crossed the line because everyone has crossed it. Jesus interrupts that cycle by asking us to become people who are no longer ruled by what was done to us.
This does not mean becoming passive. A passive person may stay silent because they are afraid, while a peaceful person may speak clearly because they are no longer afraid of what the truth will cost. Those are not the same thing. Peace is not the absence of a firm response. It is the refusal to let hatred control that response.
Jesus did not avoid conflict. He challenged hypocrisy in public, defended people who were being mistreated, and spoke hard truth to religious leaders who used power without mercy. He overturned tables when a sacred place had been turned into a marketplace. His teaching about turning the other cheek cannot honestly mean that wrong behavior should always be met with quiet acceptance, because His own life does not show that. What He refused to do was let hatred decide how He would use His strength.
That difference changes everything. A person controlled by revenge asks how to make the offender pay. A person guided by justice asks what will protect the truth and prevent more harm. Those questions may sometimes lead to strong action, but they do not come from the same heart. One wants pain returned. The other wants wrong stopped.
Imagine a supervisor who takes credit for your work. Revenge may tempt you to spread damaging information about that person, including things that have nothing to do with the stolen credit. Justice may lead you to document your work, speak directly, involve the right leader, and refuse to participate in dishonesty. Both responses may create consequences, but only one requires you to become careless with another person’s dignity.
Imagine a spouse who has lied repeatedly. Forgiveness does not require pretending trust still exists, and love does not require ignoring patterns that are destroying the relationship. A faithful response may involve counseling, separation, clear boundaries, or a difficult decision about the future. Even then, Jesus calls us to resist the desire to humiliate, manipulate, or destroy. The issue is not whether consequences are allowed. The issue is whether your soul must become cruel in order for consequences to occur.
This is where many people misunderstand mercy. They think mercy cancels accountability. They think forgiveness means handing the same person another weapon and standing in the same place to be wounded again. That is not wisdom. Jesus never asked us to confuse forgiveness with unlimited access.
A person can release revenge and still lock the door. A person can pray for someone and still refuse the call. Hope for change can remain while proof is required before trust is rebuilt. Forgiveness can exist while the truth is told in a courtroom, a counselor’s office, a workplace meeting, or a family conversation. Forgiveness is not pretending the wound was small. It is deciding that the wound will not become your new identity.
That decision may need to be made more than once. Some injuries return to the mind at night when the house is quiet. You replay what was said. You imagine what you should have said. You picture the other person enjoying life while you are still trying to repair the damage. In those moments, forgiveness may not feel warm or spiritual. It may feel like placing the same heavy object back into God’s hands for the hundredth time.
That repeated choice still matters. Healing is not proven by never remembering. It is revealed in what you choose each time the memory returns. You may still feel anger, because anger can tell you that something mattered. It can alert you to danger, disrespect, betrayal, or injustice. The problem begins when anger stops being a signal and becomes a driver. A signal gives information, but a driver chooses the road.
Jesus does not shame us for feeling the first flash of anger. He warns us against building a home inside it. That is why the moment with the phone matters. The draft reply matters. The conversation you rehearse in the car matters. The story you are tempted to tell in order to turn people against someone matters. These small choices are where the teaching becomes real.
The question is not whether you have the ability to hurt them back, because you probably do. The better question is whether hurting them back will make you more like Christ or more like the wound. Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is wait before answering. Put the phone down, walk outside, and pray without pretending you are calm. Tell God exactly what you want to say, and let Him show you which part is truth and which part is poison.
You may still need to answer, and you may need to be direct. You may need to say, “That was dishonest,” “That behavior cannot continue,” or “I am stepping away because this is not safe.” Faith does not require vague language, and grace does not require confusion. You can speak those words without trying to crush the person hearing them.
This is the new way Jesus opens before us. He does not ask us to deny justice. He asks us to stop using justice as a mask for revenge. The person who hurt you may have written one painful chapter in your life, but they do not get to choose your character in the next one. They do not get to turn you bitter, reckless, cruel, or permanently suspicious. They do not get to decide how you love, how you speak, how you lead, or how you carry your faith.
Their action belongs to them, but your response belongs to you. When that response is placed in the hands of Jesus, even a wound can become the place where freedom begins.
Chapter 2: When Fairness Becomes a Prison
A woman sits in the hospital cafeteria with a paper cup of coffee she has already forgotten to drink. Her father is upstairs recovering from surgery. For three weeks, she has handled the phone calls, the insurance forms, the meals, the medication list, and the long drives before sunrise. Her brother arrives late, stays twenty minutes, and then criticizes a decision she made with the doctor. She feels something hard rise in her chest. She does not only want to correct him. She wants to remind him of every time he failed to show up.
That moment is not really about one comment in a cafeteria. It is about an invisible record she has been keeping because she feels alone. She knows how many nights she lost. She knows how much money she spent. She knows who answered when the hospital called. The record is accurate, but it has started becoming a weapon. She is no longer asking only for help or honesty. Part of her wants him to feel ashamed enough to carry the weight she has carried.
This is where the idea of “an eye for an eye” often moves from public justice into private scorekeeping. We begin measuring pain and searching for a way to return an equal amount. If someone ignored us, we ignore them. If they embarrassed us, we wait for a chance to embarrass them. If they withheld affection, we become cold. We tell ourselves that we are creating fairness, but the result is usually two wounded people guarding separate accounts.
The hard truth is that fairness can become a prison when we believe peace is impossible until everyone has suffered equally. Life rarely gives us that kind of balance. Some people never understand what they cost us. Some never apologize. Some enjoy the benefits of choices that left us cleaning up the damage. When our freedom depends on them finally feeling our pain, we place the key to our future in the hands of someone who may never turn it.
Jesus does not ask us to stop caring about what is fair. He asks us to stop treating another person’s pain as the price of our healing. Those are different things. Fairness can guide a wise decision, but it cannot repair the soul by itself. A court can order repayment, a manager can correct a wrong, and a family can divide responsibility more honestly. None of those outcomes automatically remove bitterness. The outer issue may be settled while the inner argument continues for years.
That is why Jesus moves the teaching beyond equal consequences. He does not simply tell us to calculate a smaller revenge. He invites us to leave the whole system of personal repayment behind. The question changes from “How do I make this even?” to “What response keeps me truthful, wise, and free?”
That change may sound small, but it reaches into nearly every conflict. When fairness is the only goal, we focus on what the other person deserves. When faithfulness becomes the goal, we ask what God is forming in us and what the situation actually requires. We may still confront, report, leave, refuse, document, or demand change. The action can remain strong while the motive becomes cleaner.
Consider the woman in the hospital cafeteria. Faithfulness does not require her to smile and keep carrying everything alone. She may need to tell her brother that criticism without participation is no longer acceptable. She may need to divide specific responsibilities and stop rescuing him from every obligation. She may need to say that if he will not help, he does not get to control decisions from a distance. Those boundaries are not revenge. They are truth placed into action.
Revenge would sound different. It would bring up every old failure, including the ones that have nothing to do with their father’s care. It would attack his marriage, his character, and his past. It would try to leave him feeling small. The difference is not whether the conversation is uncomfortable. The difference is whether the goal is clarity or injury.
This is one reason the teaching of Jesus is more demanding than simple retaliation. Revenge can be immediate. Wisdom requires us to slow down long enough to understand what we are trying to accomplish. Are we protecting someone, correcting a lie, stopping a pattern, or asking for repair? Or are we using a real wrong as permission to release years of stored anger?
The answer is not always flattering. Sometimes we discover that we want justice and humiliation at the same time. We want the truth known, but we also want the other person to be ruined by it. We want an apology, but no apology would feel sufficient because what we really want is for them to live inside the same pain we have known.
Jesus brings that hidden desire into the light, not to condemn us, but to free us from it. He understands why the desire is there. He knows what betrayal feels like. He knows what it is to be falsely accused, abandoned by friends, mocked in public, and treated as though love were weakness. He does not speak about mercy from a safe distance. He speaks as someone who carried injustice without allowing injustice to become His identity.
When Jesus refused revenge, He was not saying the people harming Him were innocent. He named sin clearly. He warned people about judgment. He exposed leaders who burdened others while protecting themselves. Yet He never needed cruelty in order to prove that He was right. That is a kind of freedom many of us have never considered.
We often believe that if we do not strike back, the truth will disappear. We worry that silence will be mistaken for guilt or weakness. Sometimes silence is the wrong response. There are situations where speaking is necessary, especially when another person could be harmed. Still, speaking truth and seeking revenge are not the same act. Truth can stand without exaggeration. It does not need every rumor added to it. It does not need us to turn one person into a monster so we can feel completely innocent.
A father may need to confront an adult child who keeps borrowing money and refusing to repay it. Love does not require another loan. Forgiveness does not erase the pattern. The father can say no, explain why, and allow the child to face the consequences of repeated choices. What he does not need to do is bring up every childhood disappointment and use the conversation to punish the child for years of frustration. One response creates a boundary around the present problem. The other turns the whole relationship into a courtroom.
Many people live inside that courtroom every day. They replay old testimony while driving, washing dishes, or trying to sleep. They imagine what they would say if everyone finally gathered to hear the case. They prepare evidence against people who may never enter the room. The trial continues, but no verdict brings peace because the mind can always find one more detail to present.
This private courtroom feels productive because it gives us something to do with our pain. In reality, it often keeps us emotionally tied to the person we say we want to escape. Hatred is still a relationship. It is a relationship built around opposition, but it keeps the other person near. Their face appears in quiet moments. Their words are given fresh life. Their choices remain central to our day.
Forgiveness breaks that relationship with revenge. It does not say the evidence was false. It says the trial will no longer occupy every room in your mind. It hands the final judgment to God and asks Him for wisdom about the next faithful step.
That next step may be small. It may be deleting a message you wrote while angry and returning to the conversation the next morning. It may be telling a counselor the full truth instead of protecting the person who harmed you. It may be refusing to join a family gathering where disrespect has become normal. It may be paying what you owe even though the other person did not treat you fairly. The form changes with the situation, but the purpose remains the same: you are choosing not to let someone else’s sin train you in sin.
This does not happen by pretending anger is gone. It happens by becoming honest about what anger wants. Anger may want protection, acknowledgment, change, or distance. Those needs can be addressed wisely. Anger may also want destruction. That desire must be placed before God because destruction will not give back what was lost.
If your reputation was damaged, ruining theirs will not restore your name. If years were taken from you, making them miserable will not return those years. If trust was broken, another broken life will not make your heart whole. Revenge promises restoration but can only produce repetition. It gives the wound another voice and another body through which to speak.
Jesus offers a different ending. He teaches that evil does not have to be answered in its own language. You can respond without copying. You can be firm without becoming hard. You can walk away without turning your departure into punishment. You can let consequences exist without celebrating another person’s collapse.
This is not natural, which is why we need grace. We cannot simply order ourselves to stop caring. We bring the anger to God as it is, not as we think a faithful person should feel. We admit that part of us wants repayment. We ask Jesus to separate the need for justice from the hunger to wound. Over time, the heart begins to understand that freedom is worth more than winning the private argument.
The woman in the cafeteria may still tell her brother the truth. Her voice may shake, and he may become defensive. She may leave the conversation without receiving the apology she hoped for. Yet something important changes when she speaks to establish honesty rather than cause pain. She no longer needs his shame to prove that her sacrifice mattered. God already saw every early drive, every form, every phone call, and every tired decision made beside a hospital bed.
The work of love is not invisible because another person refused to notice it. The wrong done to you is not erased because someone would not admit it. Your life does not become fair only when everybody agrees with your account. Sometimes peace begins when you stop demanding that an unfair person become the source of your fairness.
“An eye for an eye” limited what one person could take from another. Jesus goes further and protects what resentment tries to take from us. He protects our ability to love without becoming foolish, to confront without becoming cruel, and to keep walking when the person behind us still refuses to understand.
You do not need equal suffering in order to move forward. You need truth, wisdom, boundaries where they belong, and a heart that is no longer waiting for somebody else’s pain to give you permission to heal.
Chapter 3: The Freedom of Not Becoming What Hurt You
A man sits in his truck outside his house after work, both hands resting on the steering wheel even though the engine is off. He has been there for ten minutes because he does not want to carry the day through the front door. His manager blamed him for a mistake he did not make, then smiled through the meeting as if nothing unusual had happened. On the drive home, the man imagined quitting without notice, sending every private email to senior leadership, and making sure the entire department knew what kind of person the manager really was.
Then he looks through the windshield and sees his daughter waiting by the front window. She does not know anything about the meeting. She only knows her father is home.
This is where the teaching of Jesus becomes more than an idea about conflict. It becomes a decision about what we carry into the next room. The manager may have caused the injury, but the man still has to decide whether that injury will shape the way he speaks to his family, the way he sees his work, and the way he understands himself. The original wrong happened in an office. Revenge wants permission to follow him home.
Most of us think the main danger in retaliation is what it does to the other person. Jesus shows us that the deeper danger is what it begins doing to us. Anger narrows our vision until the offender becomes the center of the story. Their choices start determining our mood, our plans, our conversations, and our sense of worth. We may still go to work, cook dinner, answer messages, and sit in church, but part of us remains trapped in the moment when we were wronged.
That is why the real opposite of revenge is not passivity. It is freedom.
Freedom means the wound is real, but it is not in charge. It means you can remember what happened without letting the memory decide what happens next. It means the other person may have revealed their character, but they do not get to rewrite yours.
This changes the way we hear the words of Jesus about turning the other cheek. People often imagine that He was asking believers to become easy targets. Yet Jesus was teaching His followers to refuse the script handed to them by the person doing the harm. An insult was meant to provoke an insult. Humiliation was meant to produce either submission or rage. Jesus introduced a third response: a person could remain dignified, clear, and under God’s control.
That response is powerful because it breaks the expected chain. The offender no longer controls the next scene. The injured person is not pretending the harm was acceptable, but neither are they allowing the harm to choose their behavior. They may speak. They may leave. They may appeal to authority. They may refuse further contact. What they do not have to do is become a copy of the person who wounded them.
This is the part of forgiveness that deserves more attention. Forgiveness is not mainly about making the offender comfortable. It is about refusing to build your future around what they did. It releases you from the exhausting job of carrying a personal punishment system everywhere you go.
You can see that exhaustion in a person who checks an old partner’s social media late at night, hoping to find evidence that life has finally become difficult for them. You can hear it in someone who brings up the same family betrayal every holiday, long after the original argument has become part of family history. You can feel it in the employee who begins distrusting every new supervisor because one leader abused power years earlier.
Pain teaches lessons, but it is not always a good teacher. It can teach wisdom, or it can teach fear. It can sharpen discernment, or it can make us suspicious of everyone. It can move us toward healthy boundaries, or it can convince us that love itself is unsafe. Jesus does not ask us to forget the lesson. He asks us to let Him correct the parts of the lesson that pain taught badly.
That may mean admitting that one person’s betrayal does not prove everyone will betray you. One church’s failure does not prove God abandoned you. One dishonest employer does not mean every workplace is built on manipulation. One family member’s cruelty does not require you to become emotionally unavailable to the people who have treated you with care.
Without that correction, retaliation can continue long after direct contact ends. We stop punishing the offender and begin punishing innocent people who remind us of them. We hold back love from someone who never harmed us. We assume motives that have not been shown. We answer present kindness with defenses built for an old battle.
Jesus came to free us from that transfer of pain. He knows that unhealed wounds do not remain politely in the past. They enter new relationships, new decisions, and new opportunities. They shape what we expect before anyone has had the chance to show us who they are.
The man in the truck has a choice before he opens the door. He can carry his manager’s behavior into the kitchen and answer his daughter sharply because she left her backpack on the floor. He can sit through dinner in silence and let the whole family feel the punishment for something they did not do. Or he can take one honest minute before entering the house and pray, “God, help me deal with what happened without making the people I love pay for it.”
That prayer does not solve the workplace problem. Tomorrow he may need to document the meeting, speak with human resources, ask for a correction, or begin looking for another job. Faith is not denial. The prayer simply keeps one injustice from becoming several.
This is how the teaching moves into daily life. The greatest victories may never be visible to the person who hurt you. They happen when you refuse to send the message written in rage. They happen when you stop repeating a rumor, even though sharing it would damage someone who damaged you. They happen when you tell the truth without adding details designed to make the person look worse. They happen when you protect your family from your anger instead of using your family as a safe place to release it.
These choices can feel small, but they reveal who is leading your life. Revenge says the wound has the final authority. Grace says Jesus does.
Grace does not make us careless about justice. In fact, it can make justice clearer because we are no longer confusing correction with emotional repayment. When the goal is no longer to cause pain, we can ask better questions. What will stop the harm? Who needs protection? What truth must be documented? Which boundary has been avoided? Is reconciliation possible, or would distance be wiser? What action can I take without violating the person God is calling me to become?
Those questions require courage because they may lead us away from both easy revenge and easy avoidance. Sometimes Christians use forgiveness language to escape necessary conflict. They say they have “given it to God” when they are actually afraid to speak. Silence can allow a harmful person to continue. Mercy toward an offender must not become neglect toward future victims.
Jesus never treated truth as the enemy of love. He joined them. He could show mercy while still naming hypocrisy. He could forgive while still warning. He could love people without approving of the choices that were destroying them. Following Him means learning to hold those things together.
You may need to tell someone, calmly and clearly, that access to your life has changed. You may need to report what happened even if doing so brings consequences. You may need to stop covering for a relative whose behavior is harming the family. You may need to admit your own retaliation and apologize for the damage you added. None of that contradicts forgiveness. It gives forgiveness an honest place to stand.
The goal is not to become a person who never feels anger. The goal is to become a person whose anger answers to God. Anger can give us energy to address what is wrong, but it cannot be trusted to decide how far we go. It must be governed by truth, love, wisdom, and self-control.
This is where prayer becomes practical. Prayer is not only asking God to change the offender. It is asking Him to reveal what the injury is doing inside us. Maybe it has made us hungry for public approval because someone embarrassed us. Maybe it has made us controlling because someone once made us feel powerless. Maybe it has made us cold because kindness now feels risky.
Those discoveries can be painful, but they are also the beginning of freedom. We cannot surrender what we refuse to see. When Jesus brings a hidden reaction into the light, He is not humiliating us. He is showing us where the wound has quietly taken authority.
Then He invites us to choose again.
We choose not to let humiliation make us humiliating. We choose not to let dishonesty make us dishonest. We choose not to let abandonment make us incapable of staying. We choose not to let cruelty become the language we speak when we finally have power.
That is what it means for the cycle to end with us. It does not mean we were never affected. It means the harm stops reproducing itself through our choices.
Some people will misunderstand this. They may call mercy weakness because they only recognize strength when it is loud. They may tell you that you let someone “get away with it” because you did not destroy them publicly. They may not see the boundary you set, the report you filed, the door you closed, or the hard truth you spoke in private. They may not understand how much discipline it took to act without hatred.
God sees it.
He sees the difference between fear and restraint. He sees when silence is cowardice and when silence is wisdom. He sees when a strong action comes from protection rather than revenge. He sees every time you return judgment to Him because carrying it is changing you into someone you do not want to be.
The freedom Jesus offers is not the promise that every wrong will be repaired in the way we hoped. Some apologies will never come. Some losses cannot be returned. Some people will defend themselves until the end. Christian hope does not depend on every human account being balanced before we can live again.
Our hope rests in a God who sees clearly, judges rightly, restores deeply, and refuses to waste what we surrender to Him. He can take the place where you were betrayed and form discernment without bitterness. He can take the place where you were rejected and build compassion without desperation. He can take the place where you were powerless and develop courage without cruelty.
That is a better outcome than revenge can offer. Revenge can make another person hurt. Grace can make you whole.
The man finally opens the truck door. The workplace problem is still waiting for him tomorrow, but it is no longer allowed to own tonight. His daughter meets him in the hallway, talking quickly about something that happened at school. He listens. He puts the backpack where it belongs. He sits at the table with his family, still disappointed, still tired, but present.
Nothing dramatic has happened, yet something holy has. A wrong was prevented from multiplying.
That is the distinct lesson hidden inside a verse most people misunderstand. “An eye for an eye” was not a command to keep the pain moving. It was first a limit on retaliation, and Jesus then showed us the greater freedom of refusing to let retaliation rule the heart.
You can seek justice without worshiping revenge. You can set a boundary without losing compassion. You can tell the truth without becoming cruel. You can walk away without carrying the offender into every room you enter.
What happened to you matters, but what happens through you matters too.
Do not give another person’s worst choice the authority to shape your character. Let Jesus meet you in the moment before you strike back, in the quiet space before you answer, and in the painful work of deciding who you will become next.
The world may call that weakness because the world often mistakes uncontrolled force for strength. Jesus calls it freedom because He knows that the strongest person in the room is not always the one who can cause the most pain. Sometimes it is the one who has every reason to retaliate and chooses instead to remain truthful, guarded, merciful, and free.
Your friend,
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