"They" say that small things never hurt

"They" say that small things never hurt,
But "they" are not honest.
A bee is a something small,
But when it stings, it is a great hurt.
Words, usually nouns, or verbs,
Or adjectives are small things,
But when they are shot, like bullets,
From the hot muzzles of angry mouths
They hurt bad enough to kill a small spirit
Before it has had time to grow strong.

Some sins, they say, are too small
To worry over, that they bear no weight
On the eternal soul, but such sins,
Done repeatedly over long years,
Are no longer recognized as faults.
But they are chinks in the soul's armor,
And they become, rather, the familiar
Habits of a turgid and tumultuous life.
And when the body is sloughed off
At Death's arrival, the immortal part
Sinks like a dark stone into a
Profound oblivion
Where it is forgotten by all that lives—
Forever.

It is said, that once, the God of Creation,
Who made all things, seen and unseen,
Let go of God-ness and become a single cell,
Conceived in a virginal womb,
That became a child, then an adult,
Who died a terrible death
At the hands of small-minded men
Who thought themselves great
In the scheme of things.

For love, for a love so pure that
Even light could not contain it,
Greatness allowed itself to be killed.
In this love of small things,
Magnanimity beyond the speaking of it,
Let go of greatness, shrank to almost nothing
And saved everything.