Pilate

Dead silence mocks me in this hall.

Voices echo, spirits call.

I listen to them – I listen well –

For it is my story they tell.

The footsteps ring within my mind.

The head that should have hung resigned

Held high

And always those eyes

That stopped the often thought of lies

That lingered on the edge of my tongue

And held them there,

Their song unsung.

Who was this man who walked the tile

With unshod feet and all the while

Stared at me as if it were I –

And not He that they would crucify?

Why does He linger in my thoughts?

I’d hoped forgetfulness could be bought

By the death of Him where all could see

That He did die – this prophet from Galilee.

The marble beneath my hand is hard and cold.

The light is gone, the day grows old;

He has been dead many a day –

Why won’t His memory go away?

I have heard the rumors that He did not die.

That He is even now alive….

The tomb is empty.  The body gone.

I have spread the rumor that it was John

And Peter who did this deed.

I only wish that I believed the rumor

That I caused to start.

But I do not.

I am sick at heart….

I placed a plaque above his head:

‘This is the King of the Jews’ it said.

They wanted, ‘He says’, added on.

But I would not.  What was done was done.

And then He died…

And then I was safe….

So much for all their faith in this Messiah,

Jesus Christ,

Who could not even save His own life.

So what had I to fear from them?

The plaque I could say, had been a whim….

Then a man with beard of white

Came to me to claim the right

Of burial for Christ ‘the King’….

‘Perhaps it would be placating,’ I thought,

‘To the more vengeful of His followers….

Go ahead, Joseph, the right is yours.’

And so He died, and so He was no more.

Then the guard fell asleep at the door;

The guard that I placed there to watch against theft,

Came and told me there was nothing left

In the tomb of the man of Galilee –

I didn’t care to go and see if what he said was true.

I knew what I must do.

And so the rumor started of theft in the night….

I only pray that I am right.

And yet what right do I have to pray?

If I killed the Son of God that day?