Selling the Field

Money was short. We never had enough.
I took a pride in making perfect pots,
My fingers working on the spinning clay.
But people did npt want to pay the price.
They looked for cheapness. Never mind the flaws.
We managed, just about, until the time
My daughter was to marry. I must pay
For clothes, for food, for presents and for wine.
My wife said, "Now's the time to sell the field.
We never use it since the donkey died."
I hesitated, hating the idea
Of others growing crops on my small patch.
But word spread. Someone from the temple came,
Offering to purchase at a handsome price.
The field was wanted as a cemetery
For strangers who had died here far from home.
That seemed a worthy cause, so I agreed.
The silver paid the wedding costs, and more.
About this time, a man was crucified,
And rumour said another hanged himself.
But I was too preoccupied to care.
I wonder, though, why people changed the name.
It always was The Potter's Field before,
But now they always say, The Field of Blood.