Pilate

I wash my hands

Off this sacrifice

Pontius, robed in death

I wash my legs

From this altar

With the water

From the cross

I wash my heart

Faraway

From rampant guilt

Clinging to the claw

Of boisterous hope

I died afore

With my shadow

Hanging on

Across the cross

Here I come

In newness

Blemishes no,

And spotless.