I watch them lead Jesus away to Caiaphas. Trailing behind, I see Peter. The rest of us have run away.

I sit down under an olive tree centuries old. I lean against it. The moon is bright.

I take out the bag of silver and count the thirty coins. I drop them one by one, making a pile. As each coin hits, it chimes a brief ring.

Along my backbone, I feel the corkscrewed olive trunk.

In the moonlight I see a fallen branch. It has sent a runner, a new root, into the soil. On top of the branch, above the root, an inch-high green shoot sprouts. I study the shoot.

My eyes close. I sleep.

Suddenly, I am awake, freed from a hold that would not let go. I look for the shoot. I touch it.

I jump up. I must see Jesus. I run to Caiaphas' courtyard.

"We heard that Jesus cured ten lepers. A week later, we heard those who watched that cure had leprosy."

"A lie, a complete lie," I say to myself. I witnessed that mira-cle. I was with Jesus long after.

"Recently Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead. A day later, Lazarus's sisters, Mary and Martha, died. Jesus is a false healer."

Another lie. I had lunch with Lazarus, Mary, and Martha two days ago.

"Jesus keeps saying that he will destroy the temple of God and rebuild it in three days."

Jesus told us that many times. None of us understood what he meant.

Caiaphas stands up. "Jesus claims that he is the Messiah. I claim that Jesus is a blasphemer."

I move forward. I must speak. I stop. I started this trial. I am more guilty than any of these false witnesses. I betrayed Jesus. I, no one else.

"Judas, step forward. Ask to be tried. You are guilty."

I don't move. I can't move. I am hunched over, stopped by a paralyzing stomach ache. I clutch the hidden bag of silver coins.

Part of the crowd spits on Jesus, curses him, teases him. A few men strike Jesus. Two women slap him. Jesus doesn't re-taliate. He never says a word, never.

Jesus is led off to Pilate. The crowd scatters.

Caiaphas' courtyard is empty. I try to gain the attention of the chief priests and elders: "I, Judas Iscariot, betrayed Jesus. I am responsible for the events leading up to this trial. We have wrongly condemned this holy man. Jesus is not guilty . . . "

The elders turn their backs on me. They don't want to hear my confession.

I take out the bag of coins. One by one I drop them on the floor. Each coin seems to chime, "Guilty. Guilty. Guilty."

I run from the temple. "Where to go, what to do?"

I stop. "Hang yourself, Judas. Yes, it makes the most . . . But where?"

I remember last night, the old olive tree in the garden. At this early hour of the day, the garden is empty, quiet.

I go to the garden, to the olive tree.

A strong limb grows out of the corkscrew trunk.

As I remove my sash I see the fallen branch, the new root, the inch-long green shoot.

I kneel down. I grasp the branch on either side of the shoot. I begin to cry.

My tears fall on the green shoot.