Wooden pews creak peace be with you
And cheaply embroidered shirts
Colored from sweat and asphalt reply
And with your spirit.
Lunch trays stained wine bathe in stale water
As old women, next to the holy basin
Fulfill their sacred duties
Until all of them are clean.
Hands folded I stand
Cotton socks leaving red rings around my calves
Asking who is Pontius Pilot?
I don’t know who Pontius Pilot is.
Hand a fist I beat my chest,
Through my fault, through my fault,
Through my most grievous fault,
But I don’t know what I did.