Thursday, April 17, 2014


I was a pious priest who wished you dead.
I tendered silver pieces for the coup.
I was a thug who thorny crowned your head.
I was the terrorist who taunted you.
I was the guard who speared your helpless flank.
I gambled drawing lots to steal your clothes.
I wrote the sign that ridiculed your rank.
I called out from the crowd in vulgar prose.
But there was one Simon who bore your cross
And thunderous young John who ran beside.
The contrite thief shared in the grief and loss
While countless faithful women moaned and cried.
Even Judas yielded to sin’s demands,
Yet I avert my eyes and wash my hands.

Note: The picture is a portion of Arthur Boyd's
painting of 'The Mockers'.

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