Prisoner Exchange

The mob shouted for its hero 

in the courtyard below the pillared room

where Pilate asked rhetorical questions

even he had no real interest in.

He stalked around the silent man before him

racking his brain for an answer to

appease both crowd and conscience.

The soldiers had their fun

braiding thistles into a crown;

make-shifting royal robes;

spitting, slapping, taunting.

But the game had gone dull and all were restless.

Finally, he washed his hands, annoyed—

God, provincial life is boring—

and signaled the jailer to open the gate.

Barabbas didn’t know the extent of his good fortune

when he emerged, blinking, into sunlight.

He ran to freedom, not stopping to inquire

the name of the man who took his place.