Pilate didn’t know it but the seed of truth is within us all, says Tony D’Souza
The prisoner stood with his hands bound in front of the governor. He was about thirty-five years old and of medium height. A small drop of blood dribbled out of his right nostril and fell onto the white marble floor. If anyone had noticed (and, of course, nobody did) the drop of blood on the floor resembled a tiny red crown that had been crushed flat by a steam roller.
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