When I went out to kill myself, I caught <br />A pack of hoodlums beating up a man. <br />Running to spare his suffering, I forgot <br />My name, my number, how my day began, <br />How soldiers milled around the garden stone <br />And sang amusing songs; how all that day <br />Their javelins measured crowds; how I alone <br />Bargained the proper coins, and slipped away. <br /> <br />Banished from heaven, I found this victim beaten, <br />Stripped, kneed, and left to cry. Dropping my rope <br />Aside, I ran, ignored the uniforms: <br />Then I remembered bread my flesh had eaten, <br />The kiss that ate my flesh. Flayed without hope, <br />I held the man for nothing in my arms.<br /><br />James Arlington Wright<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/saint-judas/
