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Traitor!

At age 14 he ran away from home and fought in the French and Indian War. At the outbreak of the Revolutionary War, he joined the American army as a colonel and in 1775 shared a command with Ethan Allen in the capture of Ticonderoga. Later he led 1000 men into Canada where he fought in the battle of Quebec. His courage in battle won him a promotion to Brigadier General. But something went wrong. Thoughts of compromise ate away at his patriotic zeal. Soon the unthinkable happened. He offered his services to the British, and in 1780 devised a plan to surrender West Point to British control. Today, instead of being remembered as a national hero, Benedict Arnold is synonymous with “traitor.”  (Copied).

Thirty pieces of silver for the Lord of life they gave:
Thirty pieces of silver—only the price of a slave,
But it was the priestly value of the holy One of God:
They weighed it out in the temple, the price of the Savior’s blood.

Thirty pieces of silver laid in Iscariot’s hand:
Thirty pieces of silver, and the aid of an armed band,
Like a lamb that is brought to the slaughter, led the Holy Son of God
At midnight from the garden where His sweat had been as blood.

Thirty pieces of silver burned in the traitor’s brain:
Thirty pieces of silver! but oh! it is hellish gain:
`I have sinned and betrayed the guiltless,’ he cried with a fevered breath
And he cast them down in the temple and rushed to a madman’s death.

Thirty pieces of silver lay in the House of God:
Thirty pieces of silver, but oh! ’twas the price of blood.
And so, for a place to bury the stranger in, they gave
The price of their own Messiah Who lay in a borrowed grave.

It may not be for silver: it may not be for gold;
But still by tens of thousands is this precious Savior sold.
Sold for a godless friendship, sold for a selfish aim,
Sold for a fleeting trifle, sold for an empty name!

Sold in the mart of science! sold in the seat of power!
Sold at the Shrine of Fortune! sold in Pleasure’s bower!
Sold, where the awful bargain none but God’s eye can see:
Ponder, my soul, the question, ‘Shall He be sold by thee?’

Sold! O God, what a moment! stifled is con­science voice:
Sold! and a weeping angel records the awful choice:
Sold! but the price of the Savior to a living coal shall turn,
With the pangs of remorse for ever deep in the soul to burn.—William Blane