They cried out, voices hoarse: "Barabbas!" "Crucify!"—a hundred times in frenzy. Still ahead the bloody drama unfolds… Pilate washes his hands. The supreme court of holy Judea Puts on a black cloak, like an executioner. But what will happen to the soul? Pilate washes his hands.
All around is cold and hostile, No good will come with dawn. "Let this cup pass from me, my God!" Peter warms his hands by the fire.
All the apostle-brothers scattered and fled, Already the rowan berry glows like blood. How pleasant is the warmth of the flames… Peter warms his hands by the fire.
The Most Holy, immaculate—now cursed, Darkened by pain and threats, So that He might be crucified upon the cross, Christ extends His hands.
