I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just; that

Host: The night was thick with mist, the moonlight barely cutting through the cold air that hovered above the silent riverbank. The city’s lights shimmered faintly across the water, trembling like guilt trying to hide beneath the surface. Jack stood near the edge, his coat pulled tight, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. Jeeny sat on a bench a few feet away, her hands clasped, her eyes following the slow drift of fog that curled between them.

The wind carried the distant echo of sirens, and somewhere a church bell tolled — slow, deliberate, mournful.

Jack: “You know what Jefferson said — ‘I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just; that His justice cannot sleep forever.’ Sounds poetic, doesn’t it? But justice doesn’t come from the sky, Jeeny. It comes from people. And people… they sleep just fine.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the problem, Jack. We sleep while injustice keeps breathing. Jefferson’s words weren’t about divine punishment — they were about the moral debt that a nation builds when it forgets its conscience.”

Host: Jack exhaled, the smoke curling upward, vanishing into the night. His eyes narrowed, reflecting the faint orange glow of the cigarette.

Jack: “Conscience doesn’t pay the bills. Look around — the world runs on convenience, not conviction. If God’s justice hasn’t struck yet, maybe He’s not watching. Or maybe He doesn’t care.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe He’s waiting for us to remember that we’re supposed to care. Don’t you feel it sometimes, Jack? That silent weight — the shame that hangs in the air every time we scroll past another tragedy and do nothing?”

Host: The river whispered quietly beneath the bridge, the ripples catching the faint light like trembling hands. Jack turned, his jaw tense, his voice low.

Jack: “You talk about guilt as if it can fix anything. History’s full of guilt, Jeeny — and still, nothing changes. The same mistakes, the same blood, the same hypocrisy dressed in new clothes. Tell me — where’s God’s justice in that?”

Jeeny: “In patience. In consequence. Jefferson trembled because he saw the contradiction — a nation built on liberty but sustained by slavery. He knew that kind of sin doesn’t just disappear. It collects interest.”

Host: The wind rose, scattering a few leaves across the ground, brushing against Jeeny’s hair. She didn’t move; her eyes glistened under the streetlight, and her voice softened — like a confession carried through the cold.

Jeeny: “When Abraham Lincoln said that every drop of blood drawn by the lash would be repaid by one drawn by the sword — that was the echo of Jefferson’s fear. Justice may sleep, but it never dies.”

Jack: “And yet here we are — centuries later, still bleeding in different ways. Wars, inequality, corruption — all wrapped in the same words of righteousness. If that’s divine justice, it’s a cruel accountant.”

Host: Jack threw the cigarette, watching it spark briefly before dying in the wet dirt. His voice deepened — half anger, half exhaustion.

Jack: “If God exists, He’s outsourced His job. Humans commit the crimes, humans pay the price. There’s no divine balance, only human reaction.”

Jeeny: “Then what do you call those moments when history finally turns? When truth finally catches up to power? Like the fall of apartheid, the civil rights movement — wasn’t that justice waking up?”

Jack: “That’s just people getting tired of pain. Not divine will — human fatigue. We fix things when the damage becomes unbearable, not because heaven whispers in our ears.”

Host: A pause fell between them — heavy, drawn-out. The fog thickened, dimming the city’s outline. For a moment, all that existed was the sound of water, the faint hum of distant cars, and the quiet tremor of two souls standing at opposite ends of faith.

Jeeny: “You think justice is a luxury. But it’s survival, Jack. A country that forgets its soul doesn’t fall in an explosion — it decays in silence. Jefferson trembled because he saw the rot before anyone else.”

Jack: “He also owned slaves, Jeeny. Don’t canonize him. He trembled, sure — but he didn’t stop. His fear didn’t make him moral. It made him human. We’re all hypocrites in our own time.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes hardened; the streetlight caught the glint of moisture forming at the corners.

Jeeny: “Yes, he was a hypocrite. But so are we. The question isn’t whether we’re clean — it’s whether we recognize the dirt. He trembled, and that trembling matters more than blind pride.”

Jack: “So fear is the proof of morality now?”

Jeeny: “No — awareness is. Fear reminds us that the universe still has rules we can’t bend forever.”

Host: The river breeze grew colder; Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly, but her words carried the steady weight of conviction.

Jeeny: “When nations commit cruelty and call it progress — when they poison their planet, starve their poor, silence their dissent — they think they’re safe because punishment isn’t instant. But justice doesn’t forget, Jack. It accumulates.”

Jack: “You talk like it’s a force waiting in the clouds, keeping score.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Or maybe it’s just the human conscience multiplied across time — the guilt of generations pressing on the next until something finally breaks.”

Host: Jack’s hand went to his neck, rubbing the skin as if the weight of her words sat there. His eyes softened, though his tone stayed sharp.

Jack: “So what happens when the next generation stops feeling that weight? When guilt becomes entertainment and outrage expires in twenty-four hours?”

Jeeny: “Then justice sleeps again. But never forever.”

Host: Silence — long, cold, resonant. The moon hung above the water, a pale witness. Somewhere, a train horn sounded — distant, mournful. Jack looked toward it, his voice lower, quieter now.

Jack: “You think God’s still watching, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I think He’s waiting — for us to start trembling again.”

Host: The air shifted, softer now. Jack looked down, his reflection quivering in the dark current. He spoke like a man confessing to a mirror.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what frightens me — not God’s justice, but the idea that it might finally come due.”

Jeeny: “Then you understand Jefferson after all.”

Host: The fog began to lift, and faint stars appeared — small, flickering truths scattered across a sky too vast to comprehend. Jack sat down beside her, the bench creaking under their weight. For a while, neither spoke. Only the river did — slow, patient, endless.

Jack: “You know… maybe justice isn’t divine or human. Maybe it’s just time — collecting debts we thought we’d escaped.”

Jeeny: “Time has a perfect memory.”

Host: The camera of the night pulled back — the two figures small against the sprawling darkness, the river like a moving vein of silver beneath them. The city murmured its distant sins, unaware that two souls had just named its quiet fear aloud.

Jeeny: “He trembled for his country, Jack. Maybe we should too.”

Jack: “Yeah… maybe trembling is the first honest thing we do.”

Host: And with that, the wind carried away their final words, leaving only the sound of water, the echo of conscience, and the faint shimmer of a justice that — though sleeping — would one day open its eyes.