It is finished.
This is the end of hope.
If only we could go back to yesterday,
surely there would be some way of avoiding this.
We should have recognised the danger;
it was obvious the authorities were against him ever since that business in the Temple.
Yes, of course it was provocative—
overturning the tables,
driving out the stallkeepers—
but who would have guessed it would end like this, with nails driven through his hands and feet,
choking his life out slowly on a pair of tree-trunks?
What could we have done?
We should have silenced Judas;
anyone could see that he was up to something.
Well, he’s silenced now all right,
now that it’s too late.
It was a stupid risk, going into Gethsemane;
you could often find him there—
first place they’d look.
Why didn’t we fight them—
or simply run away?
It was dark;
they’d have had a job to catch us.
What’s the good of talking?
Too late now!
What are we going to do?
Do? There’s nothing we can do.
The future ended at three o’clock on Friday;
all we’ve got left is the past.
Besides, he’s not the only one—
we’re all in danger;
the streets aren’t safe for us now.
That very night they nearly got Peter,
and it will be our turn next.
There’s nothing left to hope for,
but plenty to fear.
Best go under cover—
learn from his mistake—
hide while we still have the chance.
Tenebrae
William Fry