Saint Pontius Pilate

I

Pilate goes to the tomb,
Though the Jews tell him it is not proper,
And why should he cause such horror
On account of some insignificant corpse?
But, disconsolate, desperate, trembling,
Thinking of the evil injustice he has done,
The Roman governor kneels and prays
For the resurrection of Christ,
And as he stretches his hands over the tomb,
A voice comes from inside,
From the mouth of the dead:
“Roll away the stone, my Lord Pilate,
That I may come out in the power of my lord Jesus Christ.”
And when he rolls away the stone,
He sees the dead man has gone,
Leaving only his winding cloth,
Exuding the sweetest fragrance and joy,
And there he stood in rapture and amazement,
And turning to the Jews he says:
“Don’t you see how
It smells and is so beautiful,
The fragrance of that linen cloth,
And is not like the smell of the dead,
But like the fine purple of kings’ robes?”
The Jews therefore say to him,
“You yourself know how Joseph
Put spice on him, and incense,
And rubbed him with myrrh and aloes,
And that is why they smell fragrant.”
And Pilate said, “Why then does the whole sepulchre
Seem full of musk and spices,
So warm and fragrant?”
And they replied, “That is the perfume of the garden,
Which the wind blows into the tomb.”
But he stood beneath the branches,
With the breeze on his face,
And did not believe them.

I believe
That you have risen
And have appeared to me,
And that you will not judge me,
Oh my Lord, because I acted
For you,
Fearing this
From the Jews.
And it is not that I
Deny your resurrection, oh
My Lord. I believe
In your word and in the
Mighty works you wrought
Among them when you
Were alive, you raised
Many dead.
Therefore, oh my God,
Be not angry with me…

II

His ancestors were the Samnite mountain people,
Warriors and farmers, scratching at the stony ground,
Hearing the gods among the oak groves,
Until they rose against their Roman masters,
And were crushed, and scattered on the wind,
Their villages lit like victory torches,
And though they became Roman citizens,
They were mocked as rustic buffoons.
Yet the tribe of Pontii were nobles,and men of legend,
Who drew the sword in freedom’s cause,
And won great victories against the odds,
Magnanimous in victory, and honourable in defeat,
Holding life in their hands, like a quivering javelin,
Hefted and aimed straight and true, to hit the mark.
Pilate was born to the knight’s bold gambit,
Coveting the purple-bordered toga, the luxurious villa,
To be borne through the streets in a fine litter,
Receiving the honour and rewards of a noble clan;
Thus he made his way, with relentless ambition,
Courting and flattering rich and powerful men,
Learning soft manners and speech,
Running errands for his patron, whatever he was asked,
And building his muscles in the gym, with friends,
Panting after mistresses, and sharing the same whores.
And,then, there was the army, the coveted commission ,
And years abroad, in camps, as tribune and prefect,
In slack times, forgetful of authority, order and respect,
The army a disgraceful shambles, and the pay not good,
Living on porridge and sour wine,
Singing ditties about Julius Caesar:
Guess who’s spent your money on many a Gallic whore?
He’s used up every penny, and he’s coming to borrow more!
He rode out with the legions in wars of conquest,
Eagle standards flashing in the sun, and medals clinking,
Teaching the smelly barbarians a lesson,
With the blessings of the gods.
Back in Rome, he petitioned for recognition and reward,
And bagged a position in the Praetorian Guard,
Pledging his life to the Emperor, with the famous in arms;
How far he had climbed, the upstart, in heaven’s favour!
And then ,at last, after all his efforts, all those dawn visits
To his patron’s house, clutching petitions to the Emperor,
Crowding onto the couch in the hall with all the others,
The longed-for promotion came:-he, prefect of Judea!
With him he took his bride, beautiful and spirited Procula,
Fresh from the garlands and confetti, the voices and flutes
Joined in the bridal hymn, and the pitch-pine torches
Casting light on the dark chamber’s myrtle-strewn bed.

III

He sits in judgment on a gilded curule chair in his palace,
In fine white toga, elaborately draped,
Imperious and handsome, straight-nosed and noble-browed,
Clean-shaven, well-groomed and pomaded,
Though paunchy from drinking too much,
And his shrewd eyes somehow melancholy.
Stumblingly, he forces himself to speak Greek,
Too proud and suspicious to use interpreters,
Though he scorns that effeminate tongue,
So ill-suited to a superior man of action.
Briskly he sentences thieves and bandits
To crucifixion;thus,order is maintained.
No time for philosophical reflection, no time
For diplomacy: his mission is to rule,
To serve the Emperor,-no, to impress Him,-
So fools, troublemakers, subversives,-beware!
Government is the application of cunning;
And so it must be, in a troublesome province,
Among insolent barbarians, enemies of Rome,
Idle, backward, superstitious and corrupt,
Their greedy priests’ mouths needing to be stuffed
With bribes;-how dare this race of slaves
Consider themselves God’s chosen people,
Superior to Rome. Well, he will show them!
He will make them bow down before the standards
Of his meagre garrison,and praise the name
Of Tiberius,saviour and master of the world!
At night he lies beside the incomparable Procula,
Besotted with her beauty, and while she sleeps
He reads pocket cribs of famous philosophers
To show off his erudition with fancy quotations
When next he meets some suave ambassador.
He must prove himself worthy of her love!
Ambitious and strong-willed, she builds him up
And strengthens his hand, when he wavers.

IV

One day he will win true military glory-
Yes, prove his genus for strategy, leading an army
Into battle,-instead of all this paltry bureaucracy,
Collecting taxes and promoting trade.
In Caesarea,at least,the governor
Can almost forget that he is in Judea,
Feeling safe, and near to home,
Gazing out from the dazzling white palace,
Watching ships take sail for Rome.
Pilate strolls out by the water in the evenings,
Along the majestic promenade,
Smelling the ozone tang, with the wind in his hair,
And at Caesar’s temple, offering sacrifice,
He raises his eyes to the statues of Augustus and Roma.
At the circus, revelling in the crowd’s acclaim,
And hollering on his favourite racing team,
There, for a while, he is happy.
How he hates returning to Jerusalem,
At Passover, Pentecost and Tabernacles,
Taking up residence again in Herod’s hill palace;
Among columns of coloured marble
And glittering fountains fly white doves,
And,on mosaic pavements of agate and lapis lazuli,
Under high ceilings painted with gold and vermilion,
In vast rooms furnished with gold,silver and jewels,
He paces,and plots his next show of power.
Gazing down from the terrace
At the Jews’ despicable hovels, he curses them all,
Offended by their foreign reek.
Accursed land of mavericks, prophets, and rabble-rousers,
Fomenting discontent in the streets!
Like scorpions he will crush them underfoot,
And bury them in their thorny brown desert!
Day after day, he dictates, scans, signs and seals his reports,
Pacing the room with hands behind his back,
As his secretary writes down his words;
Painfully, he searches for the ideal phrases,
To justify,conceal,and cast himself in a flattering light,
Laying on the sycophancy without stint;
A most delicate business, for who can say
What Tiberius wants to hear,
So distant and inscrutable is His Majesty,
And to offend him or arouse his suspicion means death;
None can ever be sure of his favour.
The missive sealed, he instructs the messenger
To make sure the emperor is smiling and relaxed
Before handing the letter to the Praetorian Guard.
And let the news get back to Tiberius
How extravagantly he is honoured in Judea,
That buildings are being dedicated to him,
Public prayers regularly offered up for him,
And his birthdays unfailingly celebrated
With ceremonies and parades of troops.
How dare the Semites defy his wisdom
When he raises imperial standards on the walls
And depicts Roman rites on the coinage?
Ungrateful scum,they even riot
When he tries to improve their wretched lives
With an aqueduct across the desert!
What business is it of theirs,if he uses
The Temple treasure as he sees fit?
Well, then, let them bleed,the fools,
And go to their Jehovah without delay!
If martyrdom is what they want,let them have it.

V

From time to time, he takes the auspices himself,
Observes the warm entrails, the flight of birds
And the regions of the sky, seeking the gods’ plans
He severs the sacrificial animal’s throat,
Watches as the blood flows, scarlet on white,
Staining his own robes,his skin;
He keeps lists of portents, and oddities arising
Anywhere in the province,
And studies the stars at night for ominous alignments.
Why had he been sent here, to this godforsaken place?
What did Fate intend for him?
Sometimes, at night, strange dreams visit him,
And sudden longings disturb the day’s work;
All the time the stars are moving to their fateful alignment,
On the day of the spring equinox,
When the sun passes the great celestial cross,
The day when the god dies, to be reborn after three days,
Sol Invictus,conquering the heavens.

Salutation to thy brows, frontiers of thine eyes; like an ocean
Whose sand in its depths is a mirror of the secret mystery.
Oh Pilate, salutation to thy breath, exhaling faith,
And thy throat, open to the taste of the gospel;
Salutation to thy breast, treasure of deep understanding,
Salutation to the nails of thy hands,
Salutation to thy heart, full of righteous love,
And to thy kidneys, torrents of water;
Salutation to thy internal organs, and to thy navel;
Salutation to the soles of thy feet, set on the earth,
And to the toes, branches of cedar,
Oh Pilate, the thunder of thy hymn over the mountains in the month of thy feast in the season of rains
Is heard from the heavens of men’s tongues, and now let the trumpets sound, bright with the blue-green sea…