Part 17 (1/2)

”Hence, there is no place here for you to rest.”

Ahasuerus! The tortured sufferer looked at him with the gaze of a dying deer--a single mute glance of agony, but the man on whom it fell nevermore found peace on earth, but was driven from every resting-place, from land to land, from one spot to another--hunted on ceaselessly through the centuries--wandering forever.

”He will die on the road”--cried the first executioner, Christ had dragged Himself a few steps forward, and fell for the second time.

”Drive him on with blows!” shrieked the Pharisees and the people.

”Oh! where is the sorrow like unto my sorrow?” moaned Mary, covering her face.

”He is too weak, some one must help him,” said the executioner. He could not be permitted to die there--the people must see Him on the pillory.

His face was covered with sweat and blood--tears flowed from His eyes, but the mute lips uttered no word of complaint. Then His friends ventured to go and render whatever aid was permitted. Veronica offered Him her handkerchief to wipe His face, and when He returned it, it bore in lines of sweat and blood, the portrait which, throughout the ages, has exerted the silent magic of suffering in legend and in art.

Simon of Cyrene took the cross from the sinking form to bear it for Him to Golgotha, and the women of Jerusalem wept. Christ was standing by the roadside exhausted, but when He saw the women with their children, the last words of sorrow for their lost ones rose from His heart to His lips:

”Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves, and your children.”

”For, behold, the days are coming, in the which they shall say: Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that never bare, and the paps which never gave suck!”

”Then shall they begin to say to the mountains, Fall on us; and to the hills. Cover us.”

”For if they do these things in a green tree, what shall be done in the dry?”

”Drive the women away! Spare him no longer--hence to the place of execution!” the priests commanded.

”To Golgotha--Crucify him!” roared the people. The women were driven away; another message from the governor was unheeded, the procession moved steadily on to death.

But Mary did not leave Him. With the few faithful friends she joined her son's march of suffering, for the steadfastness of maternal love was as great as her anguish.

There was a whispering and a murmuring in the air as if the Valkyries and the G.o.ds of Greece were consulting whether they should aid the Son of Man. But they were powerless; the sphere of the Christian's G.o.d was closed against them.

The scene changed. The chorus, robed in sable mourning cloaks, appeared and began the dirge for the dying G.o.d. The simple chant recalled an ancient Anglo-Saxon song of the cross, composed in the seventh century by the skald Caedmon, and which for more than a thousand years lay buried in the mysterious spell of the rune.

[4]Methought I saw a Tree in mid-air hang Of trees the brightest--mantling o'er with light-streaks; A beacon stood it, glittering with gold.

All the angels beheld it, Angel hosts in beauty created.

Yet stood it not a pillory of shame.

Thither turned the gaze Of spirits blessed, And of earthly pilgrims Of n.o.blest nature.

This tree of victory Saw I, the sin-laden one.

Yet 'mid the golden glitter Were traces of honor.

Adown the right side Red drops were trickling.

Startled and shuddering Noted I the hovering vision Suddenly change its hue.

Long lay I pondering Gazing full sadly At the Saviour's Rood.

When lo, on my ear Fell the murmur of speech; These are the words The forest uttered:

”Many a year ago, Yet still my mind holds it, Low was I felled.