It is more likely, however, that the legend as we know it came from the second Greek form of the Gospel of Nicodemus, certain MSS. of which contain the following passage: "And when the Jews refused to receive again from Judas the thirty pieces of silver for which he had betrayed his Master, he threw them in their midst and went away. And he came home to make a halter out of a cord to hang himself with. There he found his wife sitting and roasting a cock upon the coals. And he said unto her: 'Rise wife and get a rope ready for me because I mean to hang myself as I deserve.' But his wife said unto him, 'Why speakest thou like that?' And Judas replied, 'Know then that I have unjustly betrayed my master, Jesus, to the evil-doers who have taken him before Pilate to put Him to death; but He will rise again on the third day, and then woe to us.' But his wife said unto him, 'Speak not so, and believe it not. For it is just as likely that this cock roasting on the coals will crow as that Jesus will rise, as thou sayest.' And while she was thus speaking the cock flapped his wings and crew thrice. Then was Judas yet the more convicted, etc." (Tischendorff, p. 289). The legend found its way into Scotland also. It is told in a bald version in Scotch Gaelic of only four verses, recovered by Carmichael ("Carmina Gadelica," vol. II., p. 176): "That cock which you have in the pot pounded as fine as cabbage, the liar shall not leave the tomb until it crows upon the beam." For the original and literal translation, see "Religious Songs of Connacht."
THE STORY.
Virgin gentle, courteous, gracious,
Whose goodness, which my soul embraces,
A shaft of light through time and space is
To lead it into heavenly places.
Thy Holy Son, the King of Angels,
Suffered passion, wounds, estrangement,
In satisfaction for the ailments
Of the sins which here assail us.
He was laid in the tomb at the will of the King,
He died with pains unstinted,
The blood of His heart on the point of the dart,
And death on His cold face printed.
At the door of the tomb was a stone of gloom,
Not a hundred men could heave it,
But an angel came from heaven like flame
To raise it and to leave it.
The Magdalen came, and she came in her haste
To wash His wounds in a minute,
She searched through the gloom of the rock-hewn tomb,—
No trace of the Lord was in it.