They hung him on a Saturday,
and by that ev’ning filled his grave.
In potter’s field his body lay.
For him no tongue a prayer gave.
But in that night new terrors crept.
A troubled sleep, of rest bereft,
with troubled thoughts none would accept,
but waking feared a certain theft.
And gathered all unto the hole,
while yet the darkness had its hold,
to prove their dreams: It was not full.
The grave was empty, so I’m told.
And so I’ve heard, he stalks them still,
and that whole town’s by terror filled.
His crooked form comes out to thrill
those whom his own murder willed.
Tale Told 