| Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Prose Works. 1892. |
| |
| IV. Pieces in Early Youth |
| 12. Blood-Money |
| |
| | “Guilty of the body and the blood of Christ.” |
| |
| I. |
| OF olden time, when it came to pass |
| That the beautiful god, Jesus, should finish his work on earth, |
| Then went Judas, and sold the divine youth, |
| And took pay for his body. |
| |
| Curs’d was the deed, even before the sweat of the clutching hand grew dry; |
| And darkness frown’d upon the seller of the like of God, |
| Where, as though earth lifted her breast to throw him from her, and heaven refused him, |
| He hung in the air, self-slaughter’d. |
| |
| The cycles, with their long shadows, have stalk’d silently forward, |
| Since those ancient days—many a pouch enwrapping meanwhile |
| Its fee, like that paid for the son of Mary. |
| |
| And still goes one, saying, |
| “What will ye give me, and I will deliver this man unto you?” |
| And they make the covenant, and pay the pieces of silver. |
| |
| II. |
| Look forth, deliverer, |
| Look forth, first-born of the dead, |
| Over the tree-tops of Paradise; |
| See thyself in yet-continued bonds, |
| Toilsome and poor, thou bear’st man’s form again, |
| Thou art reviled, scourged, put into prison, |
| Hunted from the arrogant equality of the rest; |
| With staves and swords throng the willing servants of authority, |
| Again they surround thee, mad with devilish spite; |
| Toward thee stretch the hands of a multitude, like vultures’ talons, |
| The meanest spit in thy face, they smite thee with their palms; |
| Bruised, bloody, and pinion’d is thy body, |
| More sorrowful than death is thy soul. |
| |
| Witness of anguish, brother of slaves, |
| Not with thy price closed the price of thine image: |
| And still Iscariot plies his trade. |
| PAUMANOK. |
| April, 1843. |
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