Washing His Hands

Over and over he must have washed his hands
trying to remove the stain, the tattoo of innocent blood
blood he allowed to be spilt, blood of a king
given for his people, those who knew his name
whose oil was kept full, who knew more than anything else
they needed his gift, his boundless mercy, his ultimate sacrifice
His wife knew too, something was wrong, something very wrong
to shed this pure, clean blood, untainted by human sin
a human life lived godly, that should have been proof enough
especially to those vacillating, questioning twelve
How could they go through three years of teaching, of learning,
of watching him, his actions, his compassion, his humanness,
his divinity, his pure love, his sinlessness, and not known
He was God; how could Pilate let the rabble dictate the death
of an innocent life, a man that did not threaten Rome
to sacrifice, to hang on the cross, instead of Barrabas
Washing his hands, no that didn’t truly clear his stain
that he must have carried, he must carry still
like the Master knew, and wrote so well

December 2, 2006 20:02
Matt 27:1-26; Luke 23:1-25
and The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov


All of my poems are copyrighted by Raymond A. Foss, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012. All rights reserved. Contact me at Ray Foss for usage. See all 19,050+ of my poems at http://www.raymondafoss.blogspot.com Poetry Where You Live.