The sticky blood covered my pale hands,
And though I washed them time and again,
The stains of what I had done remained.
Echoes of our cries, the mob so frenzied,
Determined for blood to be spilled,
Though we did not quite understand why,
Oh, I can’t stop hearing my own voice.
That night is forever burned into my mind,
Torches, dogs skulking among our feet
And the rising hunger of our dark hearts,
All now bringing me to my knees, in tears.
His words ring in my mind now, cutting
Deeply, for the love and gentleness in them
Puts my previous anger to utter shame.
But that shame has come too late,
And my endless tears won’t revive him.
I will always be haunted by my sin,
Having slaughtered the purest lamb,
My ears and heart having been stone cold
But not now; now broken and so sorry.
Can there be any way for a murderer
To be forgiven, blood scrubbed away?
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