 | Sacra Poesis |  |
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THE SCOURGING.
Stop, stop, ye murderers!—lo, the pitiless lashHas struck yon man of sorrows to the earth;
He gasps in speechless agony,—and yet
With fiercer joy ye ply the wiry scourge!
Nay, look upon him. Is it nought to you
That ye so gaze upon his misery,
And, unrelenting still, with horrid laugh
Mock at his bitter—bitter agonies?
Can ye, who look upon him, turn away
Unheeding of his sorrows?—Nay, behold
How from his mangled side the living flesh
Convulsive starts!—he shrinks beneath your scorn,
And yet how meek, how gentle, how resign'd,
How mildly, looks he on his murderers!
What art thou?—for that eye is beaming forth,
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What art thou?—for that lip, convulsed with pain,
Is muttering—blessings on thine enemies!
What art thou? wherefore art thou drunk with sorrows?
Methought the judge proclaim'd thee innocent,
“I find no evil in that Righteous One;”
Yet art thou treated as a guilty wretch
Too vile for aught but scourges and the cross!
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