University of Virginia Library

Well! the escape was narrow. Seven long weeks
I lay expecting death, for Pilate's wrath
Was kindled into frenzy. I had dared,
When that proud tyrant 'gainst the Lord of Hosts
Had raised his banners, and with hands profane
To build his stately tower by Siloam's pool,
Had seized our sacred Corban,—I had dared,
I say, to head the Zealots in their fight.
They chose me for their leader; found in me,
Robber and outlaw though I be, the man
They needed for their struggle. But the spears
Of Rome's strong legions smote us, and we fled;
And I, with some few others of our band,
Was seized, and marked for death. Do thou, O Lord!
For this my zeal forgive me all my sins;
And when I die receive me to Thyself
In Abraham's bosom, where the heroes old
Who fought against the Syrian rest in peace.
I need make some atonement. With these hands
I have made women childless, burnt the huts
Of peasants, seized the traveller on his way,
And left him stript and wounded: this I own;
Yet am I not so base as others are;
For never have I bowed the knee in prayer
To any heathen god, and still have kept
The creed my Rabbi father taught my youth;
And ever, when the solemn seasons came,
We went in pilgrim-guise to keep the feast,
And thronged the Temple courts. A double gain
Those journeys brought: we worshipped, and we robbed.
The pilgrims coming with their gifts and gold,
From North and South, from furthest East and West,
But chiefly the rich proselytes of Rome—
We marked them for our prey. But most we loved
To glut at once our rapine and our hate,
And, laying hold of some centurion proud,
To bind him hand and foot, to seize his gold,
And mocking all his cries, by fear of death
To make him curse his gods, and, bending low,
Proclaim himself a convert. 'Twas a life
Of hair-breadth 'scapes, and ventures strange and wild,
Now starved and naked, now with wine and mirth
Filled to our heart's content. And so we lived,
A band of brothers, not without the ties
Of equal risks and hopes, until that hour
When, as I said, the Roman soldiers seized
Our struggling troop, and we were doomed to death.
There lay I in my dungeon, bound with chains,
And soldiers keeping guard. No friends might come
To give the robber-chief one kindly look,
Or tell him how the world went on without;
And, those rough Romans speaking scarce a word
Of our old Hebrew, little reached my ears
Of what was passing, till the Paschal feast
Drew crowds of pilgrims. Then I heard the tramp
Of constant feet below my dungeon walls;
And once a shout, the cry of eager boys
And Galilean peasants, and the throng
Of dwellers in our city. Loud they raised
Their clear Hosannas, blessing One they owned
As Son of David—Israel's longed-for king.
And he passed by me, in that pageant strange,
Not riding in his chariot, or reclined
In stately litter, but as those of old,
Our judges, rode on asses, so did he;
And, as he came, they shouted, and with palms
Fresh cut bestrewed the way. I heard the cry,
And said within myself, “This will not last;
I have seen many such. Rome's mighty arm
Will crush these rebel-kings out, one by one;
And he who now rides on, whoe'er he be,
Will die as I shall die. Who knows? Perchance
The self-same hour may witness both our deaths.”
Then came a silence. For some nights and days
I nothing heard, but still expecting death,
Lay there in darkness; when at last a voice
Was heard, in foreign accents, at my cell:
“Bar-Abbas, Pilate calls thee.” “Now,” I thought,
“My hour is come at last.” I said my creed,—
“Hear, Israel, hear, the Lord thy God is One,”—
In haste, that I might die as Abraham's son,
And claim my place in Eden. Then I went,
Close following the centurion who had called;
And as I drew toward the opening gate,
The wild, fierce murmur of the people smote
Upon my ears. I thought I heard my name
Mingled with cries and curses. Then I stood
Before great Pilate, in his purple robes,
Upon his pavement seated. And his voice,
As one half-choked with anger, shame, and grief,
Making me wonder, told me, “Thou art free;
The people claim thee: go thy way and live.”
So strange it all appeared, I stood amazed,
As one who, waking from a dream, half doubts
Whether he still be sleeping; but ere long
They told me all the story. “That poor king,”
They said, “had roused the wrath of all our priests,
And all the hostile schools of rival Scribes,
Baffling their art, and laying low their pride,
And speaking still of judgments sharp and swift
As hanging o'er their heads. Among the Twelve,
His chosen friends and followers, one they found
A traitor; and by night he led them forth
Across the Kedron to Gethsemane,
Just on the slope of Olivet. All hushed,
The city slept in moonlight. Every house
Had had its Paschal feast, when that armed band,
With lights and torches, followed on the track
By which the traitor led them. Then they seized
Their prisoner; and in haste, at dead of night,
They summoned the great Council of our land
And found him guilty. Then to Pilate's hall
They led him (for they durst not, of themselves,
Pilate being present, put the man to death),
And clamouring loud, with charges swarming thick,
Pressed eager for his life. But Pilate's heart
Misgave him, and he would not. Well he knew
Their malice and their envy. And the hours
Passed on in wavering counsels: now he spake
In secret with the prisoner, half-inclined
To pity one so weak; now sent him bound
To Herod for his trial; then perplexed
And fearing, thought to win the people's heart
By offering them a prisoner, whom they would,
For freedom on the instant, doubting not
That they would choose the king whose pageant proud
A few days since had swept along the streets.
When lo! wild shouts of frenzy rent the air,
‘Not this man, but Bar-Abbas!’ So our priests,
Wily and wise, had planned their scheme before,
Knowing the people loved me for my zeal;
And, seeing in me still a Rabbi's son,
They plotted for their order. So it was,
We stood there in the presence of the crowd,
That Galilean prisoner-king, and I,
Jesus Bar-Abbas,—I, in pride of strength,
Towering above the people by a head,
As Saul above the hosts of Israel;
And he, that other Jesus, standing there,
Pale, worn, and crowned with thorns. I, free at last,
The robber and the murderer, shouts of praise
Still ringing in my ears, and he, the just,
(So Pilate owned him, and his silent calm
Bore the same witness), scourged, condemned to die,
Mocks, taunts, revilings adding stings to death.

At first the crowd received me, bore me on
As in a car of triumph; then, half wild
With joy and wonder, following where they led,
I joined the crowd that, streaming through the gate,
Passed on to Golgotha. I stood and watched
The three led forth to death. All faint and weak,
And sinking 'neath the burden of his cross,
The prophet-teacher came. The other two
Were sharers with me in my outlaw life,
With me had plundered, revelled, dwelt in caves;
Or in the forest-depths of Gilead's hills,
With me had dared defy our Roman lords,
With me were taken prisoners. Now their hour
Was come, yet still they quailed not. Hard and bold,
They drank the spicèd wine-cup, which benumbs
The nerves of sense, and through the reeling brain
Sends snatches of old songs, forgotten jests,
And mirth that mounts to madness. So they met
The torture of that hour: no cry of pain
Came from their lips when through the quivering flesh
They drove the torturing nails. With brow compressed
And look defiant, they endured the shame,
And hanging there, beneath the sultry sun,
Naked and bleeding, speechless bore it all.
And he was speechless too, the third, whose cross
Between them stood, but oh! how wide the gulf
That lay between his silence, meek and calm,
Eyes lifted up to Heaven, and murmured prayer,
When those rough soldiers nailed them to the cross,
‘Father, forgive them’ (so I caught the words),
‘They know not what they do;’ and that dumb wrath,
The fiercer for repression, which in them
Crushed out all pity. Soon the contrast grew
More wondrous still. A love that conquered pain,
The joy of one who sees his work achieved,
The full compassion going forth to all,
These brightened all the furrows of that face
With glory from the Throne. But they, my friends,
When the first throbs were over, waxing bold,
(That well-drugged wine-draught rushing through their veins)
With jest as rough, and laugh as loud and free,
As when of old our comrades met to feast
After the day's marauding, turned on him,
That silent sufferer, with reproach and scoff,
Re-echoing taunts that came from worthier lips,
From priests and scribes who stood in pride of place,
Exulting o'er their victim; ‘Hail, O king!
Thou Son of David on thy father's throne,’
(So spake they with mock homage) ‘prove thy strength,
Put forth thy might to vanquish all thy foes;
If thou be Christ, Anointed of the Lord,
Come down unbleeding from the accursèd tree,
And claim us as thine own.’ I could not join
Those mockers in their taunts. ‘He fills my place;’
So thought I with myself. ‘He dies for me;
And but for Him I too were hanging there,
My sins upon my head. From me at least
He claims some pity.’ So I silent stood:
But those, the other two, upon their trees,
Caught up the scoff, and with the keener zest
That torment gives to outrage, raised the cry,
‘O Son of David, Lord of Abraham's seed,
O King of Israel, save thyself and us!’
He heard, but answered not. One pitying look
He turned to those who mocked, one upward glance
Of love and prayer unspoken, and there fell
On him and them a silence. O'er the sky
A darkness stole, as when the sun's eclipse
Affrights the nations, and the mocks were hushed,
Till yet once more, as if to cheat his pain,
From one poor sufferer came the words of scorn,
‘Thou Son of David, save thyself and us!’
But now a change had come. No echoing voice
Spake from that other cross. In days of old,
I well remember, Dysmas had a touch
Of woman's softness in him, shrank from blood
Save when the fight was hot, and sometimes turned
To help the stript and plundered as they lay.
I call to mind some thirty summers back,
When first he came among us, brave and tall,
Half-joying in our freedom, half-afraid
Of our wild, lawless life, there came our way
A mother and her child, and one who seemed
To both a fostering father. Poor they were,
But that we heeded not; unarmed and weak;
That only drew us on. If small the prize,
Small, too, the danger. So we seized the three,
And soon had robbed them of their scanty all;
But Dysmas, then some eighteen winters old,
Begged hard for mercy. Something touched his heart;
The mother's grief, that spake to him of home,
The blameless child that smiling stretched his hand,
As pardoning those who wronged him; and he asked
One favour only, giving up his share
That day of all our plunder, that the three,
The husband, and the mother, and the child,
By his right hand defended from all foes,
Might journey to the city where they dwelt.
So was it then: and such a change of mood
Passed o'er him now. I know not if he traced
In that pale, weeping mother, bowed with grief,
And faint, as though a sword had pierced her heart,
The grace and beauty that had swayed his soul;
Or if, perchance, that pitying look of love,
That brow all bleeding with the crown of thorns,
Recalled the smiling child, with outstretched hands,
Rejoicing, loving, trusting. This I know,
That when the taunting words were heard again,
A righteous anger flushing all his frame,
He spake the stern rebuke: ‘And fear'st thou not?
Is this a time for mock and scoff and jest,
When thou, too, standest face to face with death?
We in our guilt, deserving all the shame,
Reaping the harvest sown through many a year,
While he whom thou revilest, righteous, true,
Obedient, gentle, hath done nought amiss.’
Then, turning with a new-born trust, he looked
To that poor sufferer dying on his cross,
As if he were indeed great David's Son,
Anointed of the Lord: ‘Remember me,
O Lord, when thou shalt come in glorious pomp
To claim thy kingdom; Oh, remember me!’
He spake as one whose heart was pouring forth
The fulness of its craving, all its life
Depending on the answer, all its joy
Wrapt up in that one word, its deepest woe
The thought of being forgotten. Oft of old,
Like others of our band, he had his dreams
Of that great kingdom of the Christ to come,
The armies conquering at their chief's command,
The arrows sharp to drink the foeman's blood,
The chariot sweeping o'er the prostrate ranks,
The kingly throne on Zion's height restored,
Jerusalem once more a pride and joy.
Such dreams, it may be, floated o'er his soul
In that last prayer. If so, one single word
Dispersed them. When the answer came, it spake
Of no proud pageant of the pomps of earth,
But gave the promise of a night of peace
After that noon of torture; cooling streams
After that fevered thirst; for writhing limbs,
And naked shame, and taunts of mocking crowds,
The land as Eden fair, where gales of balm
O'er soft, green meadows murmur evermore.
‘Fear not; thou shalt be with me;’ so the words,
Like low, soft music, sounded in mine ears,
‘With me, within the Paradise of God.’
I heard it, and before my soul there rose
A vision of the past, when I, a child,
Guiltless as yet, my hands unstained with blood,
Heard from a mother's lips of that blest home,
And God, and His good angels. And I looked
At Dysmas, and beheld the languid eye
Kindle with hope, the furrowed brow expand,
The closed lips move in blessing. More and more,
Unless my sight played false, those features grew
Into another's likeness, imaged back
The calmness of that sufferer on His cross:
The hardness and the stains of many years
Dropt off as in a moment, and disclosed
The nobler nature of the new-born man.
'Twas strange; I could but marvel as I gazed,
And stranger thoughts stirred in me. Who was this
That, lifted on the cross, had power to draw
The hearts of all men to him? Who might tell
The secret of his life? Was this the end,
This shame and torture, this prevailing love,
This hour of darkness, this triumphant joy?

As yet these things are hidden from mine eyes;
They lie behind the veil. But through my soul,
With lightning force, there flashes the new thought
That not for all the wealth of Rome's great lords,
Nor all the state that dazzled Sheba's queen,
Would I against that Holy One stir hand
Or foot, speak word, or in my thoughts
Plan aught of evil. This I know, that I,
If by a wish I might undo the past,
Would fain live o'er again my term of years,
Win back the vanished past, and, as of old
I clutched the traveller's gold with eager grasp,
Would seize that kingdom, pressing on in haste,
That none might get before me, owning him
As king, content to follow in his path,
Bearing my cross for him, as now for me
He has borne his. And when my death-time comes,
May that all-pitying look be with me still,
Those tones of mercy lull my soul to rest,
That dream of Paradise enwrap me round!

What followed then I saw not. Gathering thoughts
Made my eyes dim with strange, unwonted tears,
And full of very shame lest priests and scribes,
Soldiers and people, should detect the change,
‘The wild Bar-Abbas in a melting mood!’
I crept away, as thick the shadows fell,
And saw and heard no more. But I will find,
Soon as the Sabbath sun has run his course,
Some who shall tell me all my heart's desire,
Disciples of the Master whom I too
Am fain to follow. I will ask of them
What drew them to Him, how they won his love:
And so, perchance, this day shall be to me
As to our fathers was that Paschal feast,
When Israel came from Egypt, leading on
To life and freedom, making all things new.”