Pompous Pilate

Will a plea of ignorance do it?
'Forgive me, for I knew not
whom I was sacrificing.' There now.
My, how pompous that sounds.
Pompous Pilate, that's me.
Sitting in my palace, asking
all the right questions, but not necessarily
giving the right orders. I didn't know
who I was ditching, but I knew
he didn't deserve death. Damn him!

What was I to do? I, the Prefect of Judaea,
answering to the Syrian Headmaster,
handing out a detention here, a beating there –
I had too much – and not enough – power.
Please do not ascribe to malice
what incompetence adequately explains:
Incompetent Pilate, that's me. Competent
to crush a Peasants' Revolt, squeeze taxes,
and keep a precarious peace. But not
to face a different sort of king, to grasp
the nettle of his truth. Pity me.

Dante took me for a coward,
would confine me just inside
the Infernal gates. Well, here's the thing:
I've been in hell since first I saw that face;
bound by my office, bearing my cross,
I found my wiggle-room shrinking to nought –
I'm sorry. That sounds so pitiable.
I should stop.

I should have stopped.
I tried to stop –
I tried to stop them,
to offer a face-saving get-out:
a beating, a pardon, a festival boon:
surely they'd choose him over Barabbas.
But their clamour confounded me,
and I caved in cravenly.
Ha! I can still turn a phrase, then:
Sonorous Pilate, that's me.
I'm a man for all that –
but never a king.
A pawn?  A pretender? A viceroy?
Where did I stand in the strata of power?
Not high enough, not even close.

Who was I? A man, with the taste of fame
remorselessly turning to ash on his lips;
through ignorance, through weakness,
through his own deliberate fault
washing his hands, and soiling his soul.
May the judgement not be too heavy upon me.