The first place that he came unto
  It was the open wold,
And underneath were prickly whins,
  And a wind that blew so cold.

The next place that he came unto
  It was a stagnant pool,
And when he threw the body in
  It floated, light as wool.

He drew the body on his back
  And it was dripping chill,
And the next place that he came unto
  Was a Cross upon a hill.

A Cross upon the windy hill,
  And a Cross on either side,
Three skeletons that swung thereon,
  Who had been crucified.

And on the middle cross-bar sat
  A white Dove slumbering;
Dim it sat in the dim light,
  With its head beneath its wing.

And underneath the middle Cross
  A grave yawned wide and vast,
But the soul of Judas Iscariot
  Shivered and glided past.

The fourth place that he came unto
  It was the Brig of Dread,
And the great torrents rushing down
  Were deep and swift and red.

He dared not fling the body in
  For fear of faces dim,
And arms were waved in the wild water
  To thrust it back to him.

’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
  Turned from the Brig of Dread,
And the dreadful foam of the wild water
  Had splashed the body red.

For days and nights he wandered on,
  Upon an open plain,
And the days went by like blinding mist,
  And the nights like rushing rain.

For days and nights he wandered on
  All through the Wood of Woe;
And the nights went by like the moaning wind
  And the days like drifting snow.

’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
   Came with a weary face—­
Alone, alone, and all alone,
  Alone in a lonely place!

He wandered east and he wandered west,
  And heard no human sound;
For months and years in grief and tears,
  He wandered round and round.

For months and years, in grief and tears,
  He walked the silent night,
Then the soul of Judas Iscariot
  Perceived a far-off light.

A far-off light across the waste,
  As dim as dim might be,
That came and went like a lighthouse gleam,
  On a black night at sea.

’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot,
  Crawled to the distant gleam,
And the rain came down, and the rain was blown
  Against him with a scream.

For days and nights he wandered on,
  Pushed on by hands unseen,
And the days went by like black, black rain,
  And the nights like rushing rain.

’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot,
  Strange and sad and tall,
Stood all alone at the dead of night,
  Before a lighted hall.

And all the wold was white with snow,
  And his foot-marks black and damp,
And the ghost of the silver Moon arose,
  Holding her yellow lamp.

And the icicles were on the eaves,
   And the walls were deep with white,
And the shadows of the guests within
  Passed on the window-light.