Aceldama*
In Potter’s field the grasses grow.
The winds of time still blow and blow.
The Master’s friend—happened like this:
Betrayed the Son of Man—with kiss! A trusted friend—sold as a foe.
We breathe a sigh—so long ago.
The mob approached—by torchlight glow!
Could they have heard the serpent’s hiss In Potter’s Field? Eons have passed. We here below,
Who know the Lord, pray our faith glows—
Will we sell out, perform a kiss
And backslide down the dark abyss? We won’t forget—the past we know
In Potter’s Field.
*Aramaic, field of blood (ah cell-da-mah).
