THEY call the cohort from all sides together....
There is a king, a king of mockery,
His kingdom a pretence,
An actor to be dressed for all to see,
Whose body oozes from the cords or leather
That struck with lashes dense—
There is a king to mock, a make-believe
To be derided, a poor form to grieve
With haughty purple of the robe of state,
And acclamations powerless to elate;
A victim to be tortured and made grand
With clothes whose pomp He cannot understand,
Claiming with slavish brow their heritage:
There is the mocking of a solemn dupe,
With laughter and a jollity of rage.
They call together, like the vultures called
To feast on what is yet a feast forestalled,
The cohort in a troop.

O Martyrs, press together from all regions,
You have a King, a King for whom you died—
His kingdom built on gems—
And ye are dressed in purple from His side;
The stoles of glory, clothing all your legion,
His purple to their hems!
Press round Him whom the Romans mocked that day,
Press round Him, Martyrs; keep His foes at bay!
And let me, though far off from your bright red
Of vestures triumphing in Blood He shed,
Yet wrap my heart in His deep sanguine robe,
Ensanguined from the scourge, and nails that probe,
And spear that cleaves! Wrapt in His Blood, O heart,
We must bear witness that His purple dress
Is not the dressing of an actor’s part,
But of a Royalty no woof of man
Might clothe that Day of Woe, nor ever can—
That is the Martyr’s dress.