His faith from failure withstood.
This sphere of iniquities saturated
For flesh alone, too weighted
From this silhouette of a man
Exuded a puzzling purity.
Blinding the harshest judge, but the land
Through ignorance, cried “ DEATH, NOT BLOOD!”
And sacred it flowed from thy vessels broken
From crowning nails piercing the skull.
The mighty fists of soldier’s roman.
But the searing lashes burnt worst of all.
Gasping, reaching, caught in a current of visions vile
Through the noise of adrenaline, the future
Stood still: sharp as the nails to come.
Though nauseas and numb, ungrateful forebodings consumed.
The governor’s reflections, such a different sort.
The scales of justice skewed by fright.
His balance brought down by duty, order and might.
Yet through the fog… a simple clarity confused.
“Enemy? King? The danger I fail to see.
Speak! For the unspeakable awaits you!
Plea! Why should I kill thee?!
Dreaming bears but hate, fear and envy!”
With silence calm in the noon-day-sun,
A response is made to the judge unclear,
“No power, no glory, to begin a new story,
And TRUTH I come as witness to bear.”
In a blinding, mindless, senseless rage,
The Italian roars back from instinct born,
“What do you propose, this TRUTH of yours?!
He has no sense of reason, this foolish sage.”
Ironically staring into the eyes of mercy,
Through generations of desperate souls,
Alas, the butcher begs for the life
Of the lamb, who utters nothing…
Finally, caving to the priest’s desires,
“You leave me no choice but to cleanse my hands.”
And what seemed to be the ultimate destruction,
By killing God, Pilate’s choice; a salvation for man.