You were always washing your hands.
Cleanliness next to godliness, I suppose.
You told me once you liked things clean,
no matter the heart of a thing.

Fairness, they said, was your virtue.
A man of honor, reason and good measure.
You wanted peace and the rule of law.
That much we felt and saw.

I saw the light pass through your eyes
and the cloak of sadness that chased it down.
I saw you shudder, then turn and leave the scene
when others forced a thorny crown.

It would all go as you said it should go.
Of that there was never any question.
Later you would recite by rote all the reasons why
and say you had no part in how it went.

You had not torn my clothes.
You had not thrust the spear.
You made the difficult choice, for the best.
You had no part in all the rest.

There was much on your plate
and you would say after it was simply too late.
And so, all entanglements aside,
you simply let the people decide.

In your heart I saw and felt
who you knew yourself to be
but it was only ever the way you washed your hands
that had lived for lifetimes inside of me.