Classic Poem

And the son of Simon dreamed that night
How he was counting for his delight
Thirty pieces of silver o'er
And o'er and o'er; but to gouts of gore
Ever they turned as the count was done,
And dripped through his fingers one by one,
That his bloodied hands affrayed his soul
With grisly horror and dread and dole;
Then back to silver they would turn
And Judas could but clutch and yearn
Telling them o'er again, till lo!
Once more in drops of blood they'd flow.
— To rid him of this dream of dread,
Iscariot got him out of bed,
And all in haste a rushlight kindled,
And read until the darkness dwindled,
How David unto hell did fare,
And found that God was even there.
Yet never a single dream had he,
Of the Garden of Gethsemane.