Treach’rous deeds compelled by thy black hand!

The congregation steeped in foulest crime,

Incited to assault the god’s elect

And tear him down from Caesar’s throne.

For should that blade betwixt my ribs

Be wrenched by any other palm,

My crimson blood to stain the traitor’s hand,

So should I meet demise in sweet release.

The knowledge of my better graces

Enough to satisfy the gods above,

So usher in my soul eternal.

But soft! Thy kindred hand rebukes me thus,

And for what blacker crimes I cannot tell.

Was my benevolence so vain and false –

My state devoid of righteousness –

That to my friend I played the tyrant?

Paragon of brothers to betray me thus

And damn my nobler self to hell.

Wherefore do I turn to dust,

When all I ever meant was well?

~j.d.schofield