Despair of Judas I will rest here, awhile. His face! His face! Not comely now.

There is no beauty in it. It is scarred into my heart. It is burned into my soul and never will it lift from me until I die. Die? Will death quench the flames which consume me? Traitor, not endless years in hell can even pay the crime of murdering the son of God. And last night, he dealt with me so gently. He washed my feet. He bade me to put my hand into the cup with his, while in my purse there jingled the coins which bought his blood. It was better for that man that he had never been born. Who? Who but I, who but I, I who betrayed him! What you do, do it quickly. He knew, and kept my sin a secret. Friend, where unto have you come, Judas, Judas, do you betray the Son of God with a kiss? Friend! Friend! He called me his friend. The man I betrayed called me his friend. How hell must have laughed. Why did not the mountains fall on me? Why did not the earth gape and swallow me up? Why did not the sea overwhelm me? Friend. Ha! Ha! Friend. Ha! Ha! Ha! The world will know Judas as the friend. The world will point to Judas as a by word, and as a pledge of broken faith! Do you think Judas you can hide from the father of your friend Jesus? Not even in hell can I escape. Not in the grave for the earth will spurn my corpse. Not in the heavens for Jesus the friend is there. What hope for Judas? What hope for Judas? Not even in hell can I escape for he called me devil, and devils cried out: torment us not, Jesus, Judas, faithless friend, devil, one of whom it would have been better not to have been born. There is no hope for you, no hope, no hope

Dirty Hands by John P. Delaney S.J.

Im proud of my dirty hands. Yes, they are dirty. And they are rough and knobby and calloused. And Im proud of the dirt and the knobs and the callouses. I didnt get them that way by playing bridge or drinking afternoon tea out of dainty cups, or playing the well-advertised Good Samaritan at charity balls. I got them that way by working with them, and Im proud of the work and the dirt. Why shouldnt I feel proud od the work they do these dirty hands of mine? My hands are the hands of plumbers, of truckdrivers and street cleaners; of carpenters; engineers, machinists and workers in steel. They are not pretty hands, they are dirty and knobby and calloused. But they are strong hands, hands that make so much that the world must have or die. Someday, I think, the world should go down on its knees and kiss all the dirty hands of the working world, as in the days long past, armored knights would kiss the hands of ladies fair. Im proud of my dirty hands. The world has kissed such hands. The world will always kiss such hands. Men and women put reverent lips to the hands of Him who held the hammer and the saw and the plane. His werent pretty hands either when they chopped trees, dragged rough lumber, and wielded carpenters tools. They were workingmans hands strong, capable proud hands. And werent pretty hands when the executioners got through them. They were torn right clean through by ugly nails, and the blood was running from them, and the edges of the wounds were raw and dirty and swollen; and the joints were crooked and the fingers were horribly bent in a mute appeal for love. They werent pretty hands then, but, O God, they were beautiful those hands of the Savior. Im proud of those dirty hands, hands of my Savior, hands of God. And Im proud of my hands too, dirty hands, like the hands of my Savior, the Hands of my God!