Long like thought, the water swirls.

Deep the flow of life and death.

Deep his thoughts, where Pilate sits

in steaming mirror circles round.

–

Deep the flow of life and death.

Deeper still the war inside.

In steaming mirror circles round,

he hears the spittled screams and shouts.

–

Deeper still the war inside

recalled from years so long ago

he hears the spittled screams and shouts

as though again: that night of doom.

–

Recalled from years so long ago,

and still he, secret, washes hands

as though again: that night of doom

could lay a blame upon his soul.

–

And still he, secret, washes hands–

is it enough? This deep contrite

could lay a blame upon his soul

and all his thoughts accuse, indict.

–

Is it enough, this deep contrite?

He tried to turn the mobs away

yet still his thoughts accuse, indict.

He killed the hope of truth that day.

–

He tried to turn the mobs away.

That man was silent, wise and good.

Had Pilate killed the truth that day?

should he have knelt where Jesus stood?

–

That man was silent, wise and good.

Deep the thoughts where Pilate sits.

“The best I could” he speaks to air

as long like thought, the water swirls.

–

–

–

Photo by K. Mitch Hodge on Unsplash