The Death Penalty for Committing Abortion is the Most Pro-Life Position One Can Hold

She had already made one bad decision—surrendering her body to a man who had no intention of staying. The recklessness of the moment had given way to something undeniable, something real. A living child, nestled within her, dependent on her for life. And she knew it.

Not some clump of cells. Not a "potential human." A human being. A son or daughter whose tiny heart had already begun to beat out a rhythm of survival, a child who would, if given the chance, one day look up at her and call her "Mom."

But that was a future she refused to bear. She had plans, ambitions, a so-called "life of her own"—one that didn’t include sleepless nights, diapers, or the inconvenience of motherhood.

The father of the child—equally cowardly, equally complicit—wasn’t about to take responsibility either. "It’s the only way," he told her, knowing full well that the weight of the act would be hers alone to carry. It wasn’t an argument. It was a demand.

And she, despite the twinge of guilt clawing at her from the inside, relented. She knew she could say no. She knew that what was growing within her was not some abstract concept but a real, tangible human being. But, in the end, the promise of unburdened freedom was too tempting.

Together, they premeditated the crime. They scrolled through lists of abortion clinics online like they were picking a restaurant. They scheduled the execution with the cold efficiency of booking a haircut. And then, when the day came, they paid the fee to the hired assassin—the abortionist, a man who had reduced murder to a profession, a modern-day executioner draped in the sterile garb of "healthcare."

Depending on the stage of development, the child’s fate could have played out in several grotesque ways. Perhaps they opted for a chemical assault—a potion of poison designed to scald the child from the inside out, to strip the flesh from bone until nothing remained but lifeless tissue.

Or maybe they went for something more direct, something more surgical. The abortionist would have reached in, weapon in hand, and wrenched the baby apart limb by limb, tearing through fragile bones and cartilage with the detached precision of a butcher dismembering a carcass.

And if the child had developed past the point where dismemberment was convenient, a needle to the heart would have done the trick. A little injection of potassium chloride to stop the heart—because, again, this was no mere "clump of cells." This was a human being who could feel the agony of death.

And then, just like that, it was done. The child, silenced forever, discarded as waste. The mother, blood on her hands, walked free. The father, an accomplice to murder, carried on with his day. The abortionist, the seasoned killer, pocketed his fee and moved on to the next job.

This is the reality of abortion. You don’t have an abortion. You commit an abortion. And every single person involved in this cold, calculated slaughter is guilty.

If we are to take the sanctity of life seriously, then the punishment for the murder of the unborn must match the punishment for any other form of murder. Anything less is a scam, a cheapening of justice.

If we sentence murderers to death when they take the lives of those outside of the womb, how much more should we hold accountable those who take the lives of the most vulnerable?

If we truly believe that human life is precious, then its destruction must bear the full weight of consequence.

And let’s dispense with the mealy-mouthed excuses. The abortionist is a serial killer, racking up a body count that makes the Jeffrey Dahmer’s of the world look like amateurs. He doesn’t kill in a fit of passion. He doesn’t strike in self-defense. He executes with premeditated precision. A career hitman doesn’t deserve leniency. He deserves judgment. Swift, merciless, and final.

But what of the mother?