The Pawns

Purple-robed, with crownèd hair,
Caesar sits in a golden chair,
And a proud cold Queen beside him there.
Knights in armor, many and tall,
And the holy Bishops throng the hall;
Why trouble your head with pawns at all,
Iscariot?

He sits at the chess and he plays with skill
On a board far flung over river and hill,
And many a pawn works out his will.
At the chess of war to be bold is wise,
And little he recks of sacrifice:
For what are a pawn or two in our eyes,
Iscariot?

Years agone, and a world away
Lived One who did not praise the play,
And He loved the pawns the best, men say.
And He damned the pieces for their pride:
So you sold Him to be crucified,
And bared unto the spear His side,
Iscariot.

You sold Him, and you thought Him slain,
And the old proud game begins again,
And Caesar plays with might and main.
But a hidden Player has the Black,
And craft is foiled and the White attack,
Move by move, is beaten back,
Iscariot.

Knight nor Bishop can resist
The pawns of this Antagonist
Whose countenance is dark with mist.
The game goes on and will not wait,
Caesar is gripped in a deadly strait -
What if the pawns should give checkmate,
Iscariot?