It Was Like This

It was neither the Herod in me
nor the Pilate that spoke, it was
the mob’s mocking voice, no wonder
you cried out as if a spear tipped
with anger touched love’s flesh
this autumn day. How dare I call
for the judgment? After three weary
days (who breaks faith lives with
guilt), the bright spirit hid in the
crypt, you mourned as Martha but as
the angel rolled the stone away and
love rose up in time for me to ask
forgiveness.