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Yet [*/+/^] : 27.225 MHz, Some Final Measures; When That Disciple Walked Across Jerusalem
When that disciple walked across Jerusalem,
just as the sky was pinkening in bright spring dawn,
we thought he must have been the very best of them---
better than those eleven that Jesus had drawn
to Himself. That disciple was a well-read man:
he knew the Laws of Moses and all prophecy
and he explained them better than most rabbis can---
the way he spoke of them sounded like Poetry.
Yet, at that hour, he somehow seemed---to us, at least---
almost despondent, even glum, and sorrowful:
not in a festive mood despite the Holy Feast;
as if something in him had shattered, no more whole.
He, whom I had known (long ago, and always glad
to see) now seemed like someone who had sprung a jilt
on some beloved, a friendship soured and gone bad
through his own fault---his face revealed that sort of guilt.
I watched him spend a silver coin to buy a rope---
best quality, kept high upon the merchant's shelf;
then he, our dear friend Judas, who had lost all hope,
sought a tall tree, noosed his own neck, and hung himself.
Starward
[*/+/^]
