The Man of Sorrows is flogged, and thorn-crowned, and crucified, and pierced afresh, by this other man of sorrows, who has brought greater bitterness and woe on earth than any other of all time. And in his soul—for soul he must have, though small sign of it is evidenced—he knows it. Deceive his dupes as he may—for a time—his own soul must be a very hell of broken hopes, disappointed ambitions, shattered pride, and the hideous knowledge of the holocaust of human life he has deliberately sacrificed to these heathen gods of his. No poorest man on earth would change places with this man-that-might-have-been, for his time draws nigh and his end is perdition.

Let That Other speak:

"Their souls are Mine.
Their lives were in thy hand;—
Of thee I do require them!
"The fetor of thy grim burnt-offerings
Comes up to Me in clouds of bitterness.
Thy fell undoings crucify afresh
Thy Lord—who died alike for these and thee.
Thy works are Death:—thy spear is in My side,—
O man! O man!—was it for this I died?
Was it for this?—
A valiant people harried to the void,—
Their fruitful fields a burnt-out wilderness,—
Their prosperous country ravelled into waste,—
Their smiling land a vast red sepulchre,—
—Thy work!
"Thou art the man! The scales were in thy hand.
For this vast wrong I hold thy soul in fee.
Seek not a scapegoat for thy righteous due,
Nor hope to void thy countability.
Until thou purge thy pride and turn to Me,—
As thou hast done, so be it unto thee!"

JOHN OXENHAM.