[Introduction] Pilate, Governor of Judea, replies to Herod the Tetrarch concerning the fate of Christ. Verse 1 I received your message deep within my praetorium, Where implacable history is written in this atrium. I, Pilate, who hold the balance and the blade, Search for truth within this dream's deep shade. I questioned him beneath the arches of stone, Without finding any crime to make known. Chorus Oh Herod, justice is a fragile snare, Prisoners of a world unfaithful and bare. Between your council and my Roman toga, We throw the lamb to the gates of woe's omega. Water washes my hands, but the stain remains, While the empire dies in chains. Verse 2 Your envoy departs with my clear reply: This man does not trouble our land where banners fly. He has broken none of Caesar's decrees, Despite the random clamors carried on the breeze. You send him back to me like a burning load, Yet I see in him only a troubling mood. Chorus Oh Herod, justice is a fragile snare, Prisoners of a world unfaithful and bare. Between your council and my Roman toga, We throw the lamb to the gates of woe's omega. Water washes my hands, but the stain remains, While the empire dies in chains. Verse 3 The people grow restless and cry out for blood, The crowd ignites and becomes a rushing flood. I wash my hands of this very sentence, Facing your blind and deaf violence. Herod, take your share of this brewing storm, Since the sword falls on his head in uniform. Outro The papyrus rolls its shadows far away. Of this judgment, I am no longer a prop or stay. History will remember our cowardly accord, Sealed on the shores of death's dark lord...
