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Back in the Roman barracks
of arms and armour free,
Christ’s brutal executioners
indulge in revelry,
convinced that their ‘Rex Judaeorum’
opposed Rome’s sovereignty.

While Pilate in his palace broods
on words his wife had said,
and curses simple Hebrews
by wily prelate led.
For he had found no fault in Him
who, crucified, lay dead.

Secluded in the Temple
the High Priest gloats elate,
recalling how his stratagem
had sealed his rival’s fate –
the gifted Nazarene who dared
old doctrines to debate.

On Calvary in silhouette
three vacant crosses rise,
their rough-hewn wood now envermeiled
by glowing sunset skies:
and cast upon the tainted ground
a blood-stained thorn crown lies.

T. C. Hudson

© T. C. Hudson.
This work may not be reproduced without prior permission of the author.

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