Pilate

What was that man? Not mad, I knew that sort,
No freedom fighter I could understand,
Like those other wretches before me brought,
Whose blood my Roman duties did demand.
He spoke of truth, what business that of mine?
They called him a King, what Kingdom this?
Not of this earth he said, what Kingdom fine,
Made him abandon all life’s tender bliss?
I tried to save him, but they wailed,
For his destruction, I had to obey,
Washed my hands of him, but it failed,
A building burden borne by me each day.
Clinging to my old gods I dread to look,
Back at the gentle Jew whose life I took.

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