He murdered thousands and buried them in unmarked mass graves in the desert. He used chemical weapons on entire Kurd villages. He made war on his neighbors and left more than a million dead. He was a destabilizing force in the region. His country sat on top of rich oil reserves, yet he starved his people and kept them in poverty.

Saddam Hussein went to meet his ultimate judge a few hours ago.

Reactions:

• Celebrations broke out after Hussein was dead, and that there was “dancing around the body.”
• In Deerborn, Michigan, Iraqi-Americans dance in the streets.
• A preacher in a masque in Najaf called the execution, “God’s gift to Iraqis.“
• NBC tried to get a telephone interview with an eye witness, but couldn’t: “This son of a bitch is lying under my feet.… I can’t talk now because of all the cheers!“
• The Guardian calls him A thug who used terror and war to stay in power.

As for me, I remain opposed to the death penalty in all but a few special cases. This is a very special case.

This was a vile creature that begat even more loathsome offspring. He was clearly guilty of the most reprehensible of crimes against humanity. His continued existence brought nothing good. His death gives closure to tens of thousands of those affected by his evil and ends all possibility of his return to power.

So this is a death sentence that I approve of. That I would have executed myself if given that task.

Yet the only things that runs through my mind as I think about this animal is the image of the statue falling, the pictures of him being dragged from a rat hole, and, bizarrely, I keep hearing Patterns, a song by Simon and Garfunkel:

The night sets softly
With the hush of falling leaves,
Casting shivering shadows
On the houses through the trees,
And the light from a street lamp
Paints a pattern on my wall,
Like the pieces of a puzzle
Or a child’s uneven scrawl.

Up a narrow flight of stairs
In a narrow little room,
As I lie upon my bed
In the early evening gloom.
Impaled on my wall
My eyes can dimly see
The pattern of my life
And the puzzle that is me.

From the moment of my birth
To the instant of my death,
There are patterns I must follow
Just as I must breathe each breath.
Like a rat in a maze
The path before me lies,
And the pattern never alters
Until the rat dies.

And the pattern still remains
On the wall where darkness fell,
And it’s fitting that it should,
For in darkness I must dwell.
Like the color of my skin,
Or the day that I grow old,
My life is made of patterns
That can scarcely be controlled.

The rat is dead, but the pattern of darkness still remains. Still, killing the rat is a good beginning.