  A A DIM rich space, a vault of arching gold, A furious, shouting rabble pressing near, A single sentinel to bar and hold With his one spear. I see the Roman ruler careless sit To judge the cause in his accustomed place; I see the coarse, dull, cruel meanings flit Across his face. I see the pitiless priests who urge and rave, Intent to see the victim sacrificed, Fearful that scruple or that plea should save— Where is the Christ? Not that pale shape which stands amid the press, In gentle patience uncomplainingly, Clad in the whiteness of his Teacher’s dress— That is not he! One furious gust of human hate, but one! One chilling breath of treason or of doubt— And it were gone! But thou, O mighty Christ, endurest still; Quenchless thy fire, fed by immortal breath, Lord of the heart, Lord of the erring will, And Lord of Death! King of the world, thou livest to the end, Ruling the nations as no other can; Best comrade, healer, teacher, guide, best friend And help of man. I see thee, not a wan and grieving shape, Facing, like lamb led forth for sacrifice, The destiny from which is no escape, With mild, sad eyes,— But strong and brave and resolute to bear, Knowing that Death, once conquered, was to be Thy willing thrall, thy servant grave and fair, Best help to thee! The vision changes on the pictured scene; The pallid Victim fades, and in his place Comes a victorious, steadfast, glorious mien, The true Christ’s face. |
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