“I held the man for nothing in my arms.”
(James Wright, “Saint Judas”)

I offered my displaced friend
what poets believe
that had he cast despair
with the thirty pieces

of glittering grief, Saint Judas,
as James Wright grew to acclaim him,
the fallen, burst asunder apostle,
could have received that measure

of Grace weighed in the scales
of Mercy, not what the world
or absolute Law makers
balance against faith-entangled

works, compulsive acts, the balm
of sweet oil saved for self,
poured out on wounds of others
left beaten and devout.

Note:

Wright, James. “Saint Judas.” Saint Judas (Wesleyan UP, 1959), p. 56.