I walk among self-righteous, wicked Pharisees.
They crucify Me and My blood runs red.
There’s truth in wine, but words are full of heresies
At Sunday masses, where My palms are read.
They tear My flesh. I wear the thorny crown.
They spit at Me. I cleanse them with My tears.
I hear My teachings murmured by the crowd.
This murmur echoes for two thousand years.