Pilate

The sun burns down on Jerusalem stone,
A governor's throne in a land not his own.
They drag him before me, broken and bound,
A king without crown, a god without ground.

I ask him the truth — he answers with silence,
A kingdom of spirit, a war without violence.
I find no guilt in this man of the cross,
But the crowd wants blood, and I am their boss.

Pilate! Pilate! Washing my hands!
Pilate! Pilate! But the blood still stands!
I gave them the choice — they chose the thief,
And I signed the death of my own belief!

Barabbas walks free — a murderer's grin,
While the innocent bleeds for the world's every sin.
I asked them: "What evil has this man done?"
They screamed back: "Crucify! He's the one!"

I called for a basin, I called for the water,
I scrubbed off the guilt — but the stain grew hotter.
The mob never leaves, the noise never ends,
I am the coward who called them his friends.

Pilate! Pilate! Washing my hands!
Pilate! Pilate! But the blood still stands!
I gave them the choice — they chose the thief,
And I signed the death of my own belief!

The water runs red, the towel is soaked,
The empire is silence, the verdict is choked.
I carved on the cross: "King of the Jews,"
A title of mockery — and the truth that I lose.

Pilate! Pilate! Washing my hands!
Pilate! Pilate! But the blood still stands!
I gave them the choice — they chose the thief,
And I signed the death of my own belief!

...What is truth?...
...What is truth?...
...I wash my hands...
...But the blood remains...