University of Virginia Library

The Roman stood within the judgment-hall,
Impatient, fierce, contemptuous, and proud.
What was this Jewish mob to him, and what
The petty questions of their narrow law?
Their superstitions wearied him; their rites
Of which he heard, religious sacrifice
And ceremony, roused his hate and scorn.
Their God, Jehovah, whom no image carved
In gold or silver, marble or in brass,
Presented to the sense, had not the will,
Or if the will, had not the needful power,
To save them from Rome's iron rule,—Great Rome!
The mistress of the world, whose eagles soared
Above their lofty towers and gleaming roofs,
Their splendid temple, and their palaces.
To show his hatred of fanaticism,
He once, when some wild tumult had broke forth,
Attacked even at the altar where they knelt
Some Galileans, and had mixed their blood
With blood of sacrifices newly slain.
And now, just as the dawn has flushed the east,
A fierce excited crowd, with priests and scribes,
Intrude upon his presence with loud cries
And storm of passion, clamorous for blood—
The blood of Jesus, called the Nazarene.
Him had they ta'en last night beneath the moon
Down in the Garden of Gethsemane
Under the olives. The red glare of torches
And ruddy gleam of lanterns fell upon
The flashing steel, helmet, and shield, and greave,
Of Roman soldiers come to arrest the Christ,
By Judas led, disciple and false friend,
Who kissed his Master's pale pathetic cheek,
And thus betrayed Him to the cruel men
Who thirsted for His death, and in return
Received the thirty silver pieces down,
The bargained price promised for righteous blood.
The priestly council and the surging crowd,
Too scrupulous at Paschal-time to pass
The door which led into the Gentile hall
Of judgment, fearing ceremonial guilt,
Impatient stood like hungry pack of wolves
Without, filled with a bitter scorn and hate,
Beneath the burning sunrise of the morn.
Loud angry cries, hoarse murmurs, curses deep,
Are borne into the Roman's splendid hall,
Where scornful Pilate and his prisoner meet,
Confronted face to face. The judge before
Had caught a passing glance amidst the mob
Of the meek, weary, suffering man who stood
With cord about His neck and hands fast bound,
But with such majesty in His clear eye
As awed the Roman, smote him with a fear
As strange as it was hitherto unknown.
Who, who was this upon whose regal brow
Nature had placed her mark and crowned a king?
Pity and wonder thrilled in every tone
As he addressed his prisoner in the words,
“Art thou the King, then, of the Jews?” And then
The thought came surging through his troubled heart,
“What! thou, thou friendless man, by anguish marked
As all its own, within whose patient eye
Sits sorrow throned,—thou, hunted to the death,—
What thou! art thou King of the Jews indeed?”
Then came the answer, calm, distinct, and clear,
“Sayest thou of thyself this thing, or did
The others tell it thee of me?” With scorn
Disdainful Pilate in contemptuous voice
Replied, “Am I a Jew? 'Twas thine own nation
And the chief priests delivered thee to me.
What hast thou done?” As one who answered from
A height above the tumults of the world,
Its strange confusions, falsities, and wrongs,
And lived in regions pure, serene, and true,
Jesus made answer straight in clear calm tones,
Which, sweet and solemn, fell as falls a voice
From heaven,—“My kingdom is not of this world;
For if My kingdom were of this world, then
My servants all would fight that I should not
Be thus delivered to the Jews; but now
My kingdom is not from hence.”—“Art thou a King?”
With wonder on his lips, awe in his face,
Cried Pilate, startled from his cold disdain.
Then with the voice and bearing of a God,
In words that throbbed and thrilled with truth divine,
And shook the soul as though it were the voice
That shakes the wilderness and breaks the cedars,
Stilling the waves, dividing flames of fire,
Jesus replied, “Thou sayest that I am
A King:—to this end was I born;—for this
Came I into the world, that I should bear
Witness unto the truth, and every one
That loves the truth heareth My voice.” Then Pilate,
Touched to the heart, and strangely moved to pity,
Said in a voice unutterably sad,
As though 'twere nowhere to be found, in heaven,
Or on the earth, or in the deep abyss,
“What,—what is truth?” Then rose another thought,
Bitter, contemptuous, and charged with scorn—
“Truth! truth! what cares this Jewish mob for truth?
They hate and would condemn the innocent,
This man, high-souled and noble, who stands here,
The stamp of goodness on his open brow.
Truth! truth! What boots it now to talk of truth
When at my gates the hell-hounds cry for blood?”

And so, with thoughts that burned and scorched his soul,
He passed out to the surging crowd and said,
“I find no fault in him. Say, will ye then,
That as your custom is at Passover
One prisoner to release, that I release
To you your King?” Then rose tumultuous, wild,
A storm of voices charged with deadly hate,
While shrieks and curses filled the shuddering air;
But one loud cry was heard above the roar,
“Not this man, but Barabbas;—not this man;
We'll have Barabbas!” As there came this cry
Upon his ear, “What shall I do?” he mused—
“Pronounce him innocent and set him free?
Declare he's done no deed deserving death?
And yet,—and yet,—should this seditious mob
Be stirred to sudden rage and mutiny,
Break into insurrection, stain the streets
With Roman blood, what will they say in Rome?
What shall I do to satisfy their hate
Yet save this man? Scourge him and let him go,
This will I do.” So, yielding to the storm
Of savage cruelty that longed for blood,
He to the soldiers gave command that they
Should strip the prisoner, tie him by the hands
Unto a pillar of the barrack-room,
And with a leathern thong sharp at the edge
With serried teeth of bone and lead, deal out
Their brutal blows upon his naked back.

These low, vile men, scum of the provinces,
Ready for any crime, and gloating o'er
Their bloody work, tore with the bitter scourge
His bleeding back, until the tender nerves
Did shrink, quivering beneath the agony.
Then twined they around His brow a wreath
Of thorny spikes, that pierced and drew the blood,
Which fell in big red drops upon His cheek,
And in His hands a reed for sceptre placed,
With spittings in the face and savage blows,
And on His shoulders, furrowed with the thong,
Hung an old scarlet robe in mockery;
And then, with fierce derision, and on knees
Bent in a scoffing homage, raised the cry,
“All hail! King of the Jews! All hail! All hail!”
Then Pilate quickly going forth again,
Hoping to move the pity of the mob,
Exclaimed, “Behold, I bring him forth to you
That ye may know I find no fault in him.”
And now came Jesus forth, sceptred, robed, and crowned,
Blood-stained and weary, even unto death;
And as He stood there in His woe and shame,
And yet with Deity upon His brow,
The governor exclaimed, “Behold the Man!”
And now like thunder breaking overhead
There rose a cry that made the welkin ring
Again, “Crucify him! Crucify him!”
And Pilate said, “Nay, take ye him yourselves
And crucify him, for I find no fault
In him.” But they made answer straight and fierce,
“We have a law, and by our law he ought
To die, because he made himself the Son
Of God.” Pilate was startled; a great fear
Fell darkly on his heart,—“A Son of God!”
So took he Christ again into the hall,
And asked in trembling voice with anxious eye,
“Whence art thou?” Jesus answered not; what need
That He should speak again? He had no more
To say to Pilate or the people. No!
Dumb as a sheep before her shearers stands,
So stood He dumb before His wondering judge.
Impatient, now Pilate the silence broke:
“Speakest thou not to me? Dost thou not know
That mine the power to crucify thee?—mine
The power to set thee free?” Now came the words,
Bearing a tender pity in their tone
For one who kicked against the pricks,—for one
Not brave enough to dare and do the right,—
“Thou couldest have no power against Me, save
'Twere given thee from above; therefore hath he
Who gave Me unto thee the greater sin!”

These solemn words of judgment, awful, calm,
Thrilled wavering Pilate to his inmost soul,
And moved him to one desperate effort more.
So bringing Jesus forth again, he sat
Upon his judgment-seat on Golgotha,
And lo! scarce had he mounted the tribunal
When a slave from Claudia Procula, his wife,
Ran breathless to the throne, and craved at once
An audience of his master, and then spake
These urgent passionate words before them all:
“Thy wife, my mistress, sent me here to say,
Have thou nothing to do with that just man,
For I this day in dreams have many things
Suffered because of him.” Then cried the Jews
Aloud, “If thou let this man go, thou art
Not Cæsar's friend; for whosoever makes
Himself a king against great Cæsar speaks.”
But Pilate, nothing daunted, said once more,
“Behold your King!” And from the surging crowd,
Fierce as the tigress that has tasted blood,
Arose the horrid shout upon the air,
“Away with him! Crucify him!”—“What, sirs!
And shall I crucify your King?” Then came
The cry from Sadducee, and Priest, and Scribe,
“We have no king but Cæsar! None but Cæsar!”
And Pilate, seeing their remorseless hate,
And willing to absolve himself from guilt
While yet he gave up Jesus to their will,
As if he thought that water washed out blood,
For water called, and washed his hands before
The frenzied multitude, and cried aloud
That all might hear, “I,—I am innocent
Of blood of this just man; see ye to it!”
And now a fearful yell as of one voice
Rose on the air and up to the ear of God,
And sudden silence filled the courts of heaven:—
Still'd every harp, and hushed the voice of song,—
“On us and on our children be his blood!”
And Pilate, panic-stricken, all aghast,
Struggling no longer against his better will,
And murdering sweet pity in his breast,
With conscience busy full of scorpion stings,
Delivered Jesus to their savage hate.
O hapless man! Had he but known the Truth,
When Truth before him clearly stood revealed,
And clothed upon with majesty divine;
And had he to his conscience proved but true,
Willing to die rather than give to death
The Innocent and Just, he might have sent
A name to farthest ages honoured, loved,
Enrolled by Christ's own hand amongst the blest,
Instead of name till time shall be no more
A proverb and a hissing and a scorn.