Poem July 7, 1945 Issue

Pontius Pilate Remembering Jesus

RAMONA A. MAURER

It was so strange ... he did not say
one word to me, but looked somehow as though he saw
in me a man he once had known and talked with
in the friendly, gentle way he had of speaking
to all men. And yet he said no word. Almost I am convinced
my pettiness showed forth, my cowardice, my shame ...
my shame that lifts even now an unquiet head
within me that says: "Oh, Pontius, had you but dared!
Had you but stood secure against the fears
of priests and jealous men. Each wind that wings
its way from Lebanon brings auguries of happenings to come.
The words this man has spoken in our streets
shall echo down succeeding centuries
and change the very order of our world.
There is not water in the seas themselves enough
to wash the scarlet from your hands.
Nor are there winds enough to blow from out your mind
the guilt clouds that are slowly rising there.
With this thing gnawing ever at the mind
can you turn and fill the duties of an office
that grows daily less secure? Can you find
within yourself the answer to your question,
'What is truth?'" I half believe he knew.
Somehow today the truth my eyes have seen,
and yet I knew it not. Though Herod and I mocked
with purple robes the man called Jesus, even then I knew
his teachings would outlast all mockery.
It was so strange ... he did not say
one word to me, but looked somehow as though he saw
in me a man he once had known and talked with
in the friendly, gentle way he had of speaking
to all men. And yet he said no word.

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