I know what you think of my son
but you did not know him
when his eyes first opened.
Sparkling and brown
like the banks of the Jordan
in the morning. He preferred
the honey from bees over dates
and hated barley bread
and skipped stones
in the sea of Galilee
and flirted with girls at the market
and was always late to temple.
His first wages went to a new dress cloth
for his sister. How could I forget
the resting place of his last?
You say that you would never,
but I heard Peter said that too.
He was afraid to face Him again,
to face us. You could understand,
if you tried. Remember
the apology hiding
under your tongue unuttered.
Remember to whom it belongs.
When will you get down
on your knees before them?
When will you speak?
~
“Judas” painted by Anthony Angarola
