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Scribophile, the online writing group for serious writers
Esther Spurrill Jones. Powered by Blogger.
25 March 2016
I stood with Jesus when the angry crowd called for His death,
Shouting, crying, “Crucify him!” upon every breath.
I stood and raised a hand and said, “I find no fault in him;
He’s not a threat to you or me, or anyone in Rome.”

I asked him if he understood the seriousness of the charges;
He answered not a word in his defense.
I asked the people, “Should I free Jesus or this Barabbas?”
They cried, “We want Barabbas, not pretense!”

I had him whipped and beaten as a ploy to save his life;
I wished to avoid riots and the resurgence of strife.
But nothing that I said or did would pacify the crowd;
They wanted this man Jesus dead; they shouted it aloud.

So then I said, “I wash my hands of this whole mess—you’ve won!
You want to kill him? Do it! I don’t care at all—I’m done.”
And so the crowd, they took him out to Calvary;
They took him and they crucified him there upon a tree.

I was not the soldier who nailed him to the cross;
I did not stand and watch him die in pain.
And yet, I am as guilty as the crowd who cried for death,
And I can never wash away the stain.