Twelve bells ring in the center of Jerusalem's capital
A priest, a prophet, a polytheist
They sit at the table
Wondering where is thine holy disciple
The silver cup is filled to the brink with the purest virgin wine
A lash of his mighty tongue holds 20 lacerations

The touch of his lips upon such creamy olive skin
For each crack of the whip
The tighter the noose around his neck
A beg
a plead
a whimper of betrayal from the valley of the shadow of death
A malicious soliloquy from the anti-Christ himself
All leads up to Judas' untimely death

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