Classic Poem

I scariot, never more thy stricken name
Sound now the blinded deeps of infamy;
Nor thy poor hurried, faltering sin shall be
The world-worn symbol of an utmost shame.
A thousand years, two thousand, still the same
Red gleam of torches, ever there to see
On the gray darkness of Gethsemane!—
Now, newer lights outflare their simple flame.

For you, half-hearted, must limp back to say—
With but one death of Christ to grieve about!—
‘Lo, I have sinned, in that I did betray …
Innocent blood.’
Now,—weak with no such doubt,
Men write: ‘No hate was here. Our chosen way
They chose to bar.—
And they are blotted out.’