What have I done? Oh, my Lord, my Lord! What have I done? Jesus, my Lord, my Master, will die, and I am his murderer! How brightly those pieces of sliver once shone, as I counted them over and over. Thirty pieces of silver! How much I anticipated what it could buy! And respect! Yes, I finally had respect and importance! The chief priests and elders needed me! I was their confidante; they depended on me.
But yet my Lord knew their plans all along. He said I would be guilty of his betrayal. But no—I am guilty of his murder!
I knew those solitary moments in Gethsemane would be the perfect time. No adoring throngs would be there to protest his arrest. It all went so smoothly! I kissed him—but it was the kiss of death for my Lord! The money means nothing now—it is scattered in the temple. The respect and importance—it never existed! I am a murderer! I condemned my Lord and now I must condemn myself. His death is in the elders’ hands—my death will be through my own hands!
© Paula Kirkpatrick, 2015