John 18:37-38

“What is truth?” he stated rhetorically,

And he took a nice, long look before turning to leave.

The impression: ragged feet in worn sandals,

torn, dingy robes,

scraped and calloused hands,

tired eyes.

The servant met him with a basin.

“What is truth?” he thought confidently.

He turned over his hands in the water

And the tattered man’s words in his head:

“Why do you want to know?”

“Is this your own idea?”

His eyes rolled, mouth half-laughed.

“What is truth?” he mumbled reassuringly.

Examined his hands; yet here’s a spot.

The tired eyes hang behind his own:

feeling,

sensing,

knowing something he doesn’t.

He reached for the towel and feigned control.

“What is truth?” he settled finally;

What’s done cannot be undone.

He faced the light of the crowds:

lifted his palms,

eyed the sky,

waited for resolution.

Advertisements