Poetry

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© Bob Barra, 3-9-07

Worthy of death, I wronged the law;
I took matters into my hands;
Now I am held in the dungeon;

Thinking my time had surely come,
The soldiers came and brought me out;
I found myself before Pontius;

Beside the Prefect, stood a sad Man;
Beaten, wretched, barely alive;

Barely human...

The Prefect said, “Which of the two
Shall I release?”; They cried my name;
I was confused, yet so amazed;

Pilate then said, “What about Jesus?”
They cried, “Let Him be crucified!”
The Prefect said, “Why? For what wrong?”

They cried the more, “Crucify Him!”
Then Pilate washed his hands, saying,
“I am innocent of just blood.

“You see to it!”

Then all the people cried and said,
“His blood be on us and our own!”
Me, they released; but Him they scourged;

Then this Jesus was delivered
Into the will of the people
To be crucified, as His own;

A criminal for the just One;
The heinous live, in place of Peace;

I am Barabbas...

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