Innocence; a narrative poem

Innocence

Yes, love, I read the message that you sent,

But too late. By then they were threatening

To report me. Riot seemed imminent.

And you must understand what that would mean.

I followed protocol just as I ought.

I sent him up the proper channels, and he

Was sent right back. I knew then I was caught

In the heavy net of bureaucracy.

The accusations seemed laughably weak,

Just the envies of power-hungry old men,

But when I asked the plaintiff questions, nothing 

He said gave me any solid reason

To throw out their case, though I told them

I could not see any broken law.

I wish I could have had him back again

Under different circumstances. I saw

Great depths in him. He spoke well and was calm,

Without fear or fretfulness, as though

He was at peace with all things and the swarm

Around him of murderous men was no

Concern to him at all.

                                            I said again

I found nothing worth conviction. But blood

Was what they wanted, and would without doubt

Get by any means. They worked up the crowd

To a fevered pitch; the people shouted

For his execution, even as they 

Demanded freedom for a murdering thief -

Idiots! 

                       Again, I asked him to say

Why his death alone would content these priests.

I was hoping for a loophole, something

That would help me save him from their schemes,

But he was silent, so I could do nothing. 

Then they turned on me, and said it seemed

To them like my refusal to act could be

Labeled treason. I knew I had to bend.

I had no choice. I gave the command

The guards came and took him away, condemned.

And still he was calm, led out like a lamb.

The crowd roared in savage triumph. I turned

And declared my innocence, and they screamed

That his blood would be on them. But I burned

Inside with guilt, and remembered your dream.

   

I called for a basin - you must believe I did what I could -

And took up the water to wash my soul; He took up the wood.

Pilate Washing His Hands by Joseph Mallord William Turner