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“I find no fault in this man. He has broken
No law of Cæsar's, nor may Cæsar dread
His schemes, or be he Prophet, King, or God.
But you've a custom, good or bad—most part
Bad I should say, or only good for rogues—
To get release of some offender now
At Pascha. There's Barabbas, thief and rebel
And murderer too, him take and crucify;
This Christ I will have scourged, and let him go.”
So I had done my utmost, tried all ways
To save him, though he uttered not a word,
Nor sought for mercy, nor encouraged me
In my endeavours, nor approved my deed.
What happened then? A growl of sullen wrath,
Low murmur of petition unto Cæsar:
“Not this man, but Barabbas! Crucify,
Crucify this one, or”—I saw the old Priest
Writing upon his tablets, with a cold
Clear eye, and half a smile upon the thin
And bloodless lips of him. What could I do?
He knew of last night's frolic, and other things
I need not name, which might look bad in Rome
Even to one's friends, and worse when told by those
Who hungered for my post—they would not be
So eager if they knew it. It was hard
To do, for he had interested me;
But yet if I should free him, they would rend
The man in pieces, such was their fierce temper;
And if he died now, while his dreams had still
The sweet breath of young innocence, better so
Than after that bad schooling he will get
Among his people; like enough at heart
He was a traitor also—all Jews are—
And only got his due; but that thought called
A blush up in my soul, for secretly
I knew it was a lie. At any rate,
If one must die, 'twere better he than I,
And for a little more or less of blood
Upon my hands, that did not trouble me,
Although I washed them there before the mob
In token of my innocence, while they
Cried, “Yea, his blood on us and on our children!”
The thing was done so, not to be undone:
I wish it were to do, and my head cool
As it is now; no matter, it is done.
There was not one to say a word for him;
He was alone, not backed by any man,
And yet he had for years been healing them,
I wot not by what power, only the fact
Was clear, however fancy coloured it.
Their deaf and dumb, their lepers and their blind,
Their fevered and bed-ridden had been cured,
And some averred their very dead been raised
By him; but that, of course, was all a dream
Of fond imagination, or, it may be,
A trick to catch their faith: at any rate,
The land was ringing with his mighty deeds,
And yet there came not one to speak for him.
Had any man stood up, and said to me,
“Lo! I was blind, and now I see,” or “I
Was mad, and am in my right mind again,”
Or “I was cripple, and behold I walk,
And this man did it,” then it would have been
A case to send to Cæsar for decision,
Being past my wits, and needing a divine
Insight like his. But no! these grateful Jews
Said nought but, “Crucify him! Crucify!”