Читать книгу On the Cross - Wilhelmine von Hillern - Страница 61

"Sink prostrate, overwhelmed with sacred awe,

Oh, human race, bowed by the curse of God!"

the countess' heart was suddenly stirred by a new emotion and tears filled her eyes.

"Eternal God, Thy stammering children hear,

For children's language, aye, is stammering."

In these words the devout lips expressed the sacred meaning underlying the childish pastime, and those who heard it feel themselves once more children--children of the one omnipresent Father.

The prologue was over. The curtain of the central stage rolled up, and the first tableau, the expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise, was revealed. Countess Madeleine gazed at it with kindly eyes, for Ludwig Gross' refined artistic instinct was visible to her, his firm hand had shaped the rude material into these graceful lines. A second tableau followed--the Adoration of the Cross. An empty cross, steeped in light, stood on a height worshipped by groups of children and angels. The key-note was thus given and the drama began.--The first scene was before the temple at Jerusalem--the Saviour's entry was expected. Madeleine von Wildenau's heart throbbed heavily. She did not herself know the cause of her emotion--it almost robbed her of breath--will it be he whom she expects, to whom she is bound by some incomprehensible, mysterious spell? Will she find him?

Shouts of "Hosanna!" echoed from the distance--an increasing tumult was audible. A crowd of people, rejoicing and singing praises, poured out of the streets of Jerusalem--the first heralds of the procession appeared, breathlessly announcing His approach.

An indescribable fear overpowered the countess--but it now seemed to her as if she did not dread the man whom she expected to see, but Him he was to personate. The audience, too, became restless, a vibrating movement ran like a faint whisper through the multitude: "He is coming!"

The procession now poured upon the stage, a surging mass--passionately excited people waving palms, and in their midst, mounted on a miserable beast of burden--the Master of the World.

The countess scarcely dared to look, she feared the dismounting, which might shock her æsthetic sense. But lightly as a thought, with scarcely a movement, he had already slipped from the animal, not one of the thousands saw how.

"It is he!" Madeleine's brain whirled, an unspeakable joy overwhelmed her: "When shall I behold thee face to face!" her own words, spoken the evening before, rang in her ears and--the realization was standing before her.

"The Christ!"--a thrill of reverence stirred the throng. Aye, it was He, from head to foot! He had not uttered a word, yet all hearts sank conquered at his feet. Aye, that was the glance, the dignity, the calmness of a God! That was the soul which embraced and cherished a world--that was the heart of love which sacrificed itself for man--died upon the cross.

Now the lips parted and, like an airy, winged genius the words soared upward: A voice like an angel's shouting through the universe: "Peace, peace on earth!"--now clear and resonant as Easter bells, now gentle and tender as a mother's soothing song beside the bed of her sick child. "Source of love--thou art He!"

Mute, motionless, as if transfigured, the countess gazed at the miracle--and with her thousands in the same mood. But from her a secret bond stretched to him--from her alone among the thousands--a prophetic, divine bond, woven by their yearning souls on that night after she had beheld the face from which the God so fervently implored now smiled consent.

The drama pursued its course.

Christ looked around and perceived the traders with their wares, and the tables of the money-changers in the court of the temple. As cloud after cloud gradually rises in the blue sky and conceals the sun, noble indignation darkened the mild countenance, and the eyes flashed with a light which reminded Helios, watching above, of the darts of Zeus.

"My House," saith the Lord, "shall be called a house of prayer, but ye have made it a den of thieves!" And as though His wrath was a power, which emanating from Him acted without any movement of His, a hurricane seemed to sweep over the stands of the traders, while not a single vehement motion destroyed the calmness of the majestic figure. The tables were overthrown, the money rolled on the ground, the cages of the doves burst open, and the frightened birds soared with arrowy speed over the heads of the spectators. The traders raged and shrieked, "My doves, my doves! My money!" and rushed to save the silver coins and scattered wares. But He stood motionless amid the tumult, like the stone of which He said: "Whosoever shall fall upon that stone shall be broken; but on whomsoever it shall fall, it will grind him to powder."

Then, with royal dignity. He swung the scourge over the backs bowed to seize their paltry gains. "Take these things hence, make not my Father's house a house of merchandise!" He did not strike, yet it seemed as though the scourge had fallen, for the dealers fled in wild confusion before the uplifted hand, and terror seized the Pharisees. They perceived that He who stood before them was strong enough to crush them all! His breath had the might of the storm, His glance was consuming flame--His lash felled without striking--He need only will, and "in three days" He would build a new temple as He boasted. Roaring like the sea in a tempest, the exulting populace surrounded Him, yielding to His sway as the waves recede before the breath of the mighty ruler.--Aye, this was the potent spirit of the Jehovah of the Jews, the Zeus of the Greeks, the Jupiter of the Romans. This man was the Son of the God who created Heaven and earth, and it would be an easy matter for the Heir of this power to crush the Pharisees without stirring a finger--if He desired, but that was the point; it was not His will, for His mission was a different one! The head once more drooped humbly, the brow, corrugated with anger, smoothed. "I have done my Father's bidding--I have saved the honor of His House!" The storm died away into a whisper, and the mild gaze rested forgivingly upon His foes.

The countess' virile heart almost rebelled against this humility, and would fain have cried out: "Thou art the Son of God, help Thyself!" Her sense of justice, formed according to human ideas, was opposed to this toleration, this sacrifice of the most sacred rights! Like Helios in the vault above, she could not understand the grandeur, the divinity of self humiliation, of suffering truth and purity to be judged by falsehood and hypocrisy--instead of using His own power to destroy them.

As if the personator of Christ suspected her thoughts he suddenly fixed his glance, above the thousands of heads, directly upon her and like a divine message the words fell from his lips: "But in many hearts, day will soon dawn!" Then, turning with indescribable gentleness to His disciples. He added: "Come, let us go into the temple and there worship the Father!" He walked toward it, yet it did not seem as if his feet moved; He vanished from the spectators' eyes noiselessly, gradually, like the fleeting of a happy moment.

The countess covered her eyes with her hand--she felt as if she were dreaming a sadly beautiful dream. The prince watched her silently, but intently. Nods and gestures of greeting came from the boxes on all sides--from the duchess, the diplomatic corps, and numerous acquaintances who happened to be there--but the countess saw nothing.

The drama went on. It was the old story of the warfare of baseness against nobility, falsehood against truth. The Pharisees availed themselves of the injury to the tradesmen's interests to make them their allies. The populace, easily deluded, was incited against the agitator from "Galilee," who wished to rob them of the faith of their fathers and drive the dealers from the temple. So the conspiracy arose and swelled to an avalanche to crush the sacred head! Christ had dealt a rude blow to all that was base in human nature, but baseness was the greater power, to which even God must succumb while He remained a dweller upon earth. But, even in yielding, He conquered--death bestowed the palm of victory!

Between the first and second act was a tableau, "Joseph sold by his Brethren." With thoughtful discrimination every important incident in the Play was suggested by a corresponding event in the Old Testament, represented by a tableau, in order to show the close connection between the Old and the New Testament and verify the words: "that all things which are written may be fulfilled."

At last the curtain rose again and revealed the Sanhedrim assembled for judgment. Here sat the leaders of the people of Israel, and also of Oberammergau. In the midst was Caiaphas, the High-priest, the Chief of the Sanhedrim, the burgomaster of Ammergau and chief manager of the Passion Play. At his right and left sat the oldest members of the community of Ammergau, an old man with a remarkably fine face and long white beard, as Annas, and the sacristan, an impressive figure, as Nathanael. On both sides, in a wide circle, were the principal men in the parish robed as priests and Pharisees. What heads! What figures! The burgomaster, Caiaphas, rose and, with a brief address, opened the discussion. Poor Son of God, how wilt Thou fare in the presence of this mighty one of earth? The burgomaster was the type of the fanatical, ambitious priest, not a blind, dull zealot--nay, he was the representative of the aristocratic hierarchy, the distinguished men of the highest intelligence and culture. A face rigid as though chiselled from stone, yet animated by an intellect of diabolical superiority, which would never confess itself conquered, which no terror could intimidate, no marvel dazzel, no suffering move. Tall and handsome in the very flower of manhood, with eyes whose glances pierced like javelins, a tiara on his haughty head, robed in all the pomp of Oriental priestly dignity, every clanking ornament a symbol of his arrogant, iron nature, every motion of his delicate white hands, every fold of his artistically draped mantle, every hair of his flowing beard a proof of that perfect conscious mastery of outward ceremonial peculiar to those who are accustomed to play a shrewdly planned part before the public. Thus he stood, terrible yet fascinating, repellent yet attractive, nay to the trained eye of an artist who could appreciate this masterly blending of the most contradictory influences, positively enthralling.

This was the effect produced upon Countess Wildenau. The feeling of indication roused by the incomprehensible humiliation of the divine Martyr almost tempted her to side with the resolute foe who manfully defended his own honor with his god's. A noble-hearted woman cannot withstand the influence of genuine intellectual manfulness, and until the martyrdom of Christ became heroism, the firm, unyielding high-priest exerted an irresistible charm over the countess. The conscious mastery, the genius of the performer, the perfection of his acting, roused and riveted the artistic interest of the cultivated woman, and as, with the people of Ammergau, the individual and the actor are not two distinct personages, as among professional artists, she knew that the man before her also possessed a lofty nature, and the nimbus of Ammergau constantly increased, the spirit ruling the whole obtained still greater sway. The sacristan was also an imposing figure as Nathanael, the second high-priest, who, with all the power of Pharisaical superiority and sophistry, appeared as Christ's accuser. The eloquence of these two judges was overpowered, and into the surging waves of passion, Annas, in his venerable dignity, dropped with steady hand the sharp anchor of cold, pitiless resolve. An imposing, sinister assembly was this great Sanhedrim, and every spectator involuntarily felt the dread always inspired by a circle of stern, cruel despots. Poor Lamb, what will be Thy fate?

Destiny pursued its course. In the next act Christ announced His approaching death to the disciples. Now it seemed as though He bore upon His brow an invisible helm of victory, on which the dove of the Holy Spirit rested with outspread wings. Now He was the hero--the hero who chose death. Yet meekness was diffused throughout His whole bearing, was the impress of His being; the meekness which spares others but does not tremble for itself. A new perception dawned upon the countess: to be strong yet gentle was the highest nobility of the soul--and as here also the character and its personator were one, she knew that the men before her possessed these attributes: strength and gentleness. Now her defiant spirit at last melted and she longed to take Him to her heart to atone for the injustice of the human race. She thanked Simon for receiving the condemned man under his hospitable roof.

"Aye, love Him--I, too, love Him?" she longed to cry out to those who were ministering to Him. But when Mary Magdalene touched and anointed Him she averted her eyes, for she grudged her the privilege and thought of her poor, beautiful penitent at home. As He uttered the words: "Rise, Magdalene. Darkness is gathering, and the wintry storms are raging. Yet be comforted! In the early morning, in the Spring garden, thou wilt see me again!" tears streamed form her eyes; "When will the morning dawn that I shall greet Thee--in the Spring garden, redeeming love?" asked a voice in her heart.

But when Mary appeared and Christ took leave of His mother--when the latter sank upon the breast of her divine son and He consoled her with a voice whose sweetness no ear had ever heard equalled, a feeling which she had never experienced took possession of her: it was neither envy nor jealousy--only a sorrowful longing: "If I were only in her place!"

And when Christ said: "My hour is come; now is my soul troubled; and what shall I say? Father, save me from this hour: but for this cause came I unto this hour!" and Mary, remembering Simeon's words, cried: "Simeon, thy prediction--'a sword shall pierce through thy own soul, also'--is now fulfilled!" the countess, for the first time, understood the meaning of the pictures of Mary with the seven swords in her heart; her own was bleeding from the keenness of her anguish. Now, overpowered with emotion, He again extended His arms: "Mother, mother, receive thy son's fervent gratitude for all the love and faith which thou hast bestowed in the thirty-three years of my life: Farewell, dear mother!"

The countess felt as if she would no longer endure it--that she must sink in a sea of grief and yearning.

"My son, where shall I see Thee again?" asked Mary.

"Yonder, dear mother, where the words of the Scripture shall be fulfilled: 'He is brought as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is dumb, so he openeth not his mouth.'" Then, while the others were weeping over the impending calamity, Christ said: "Be not overcome in the first struggle. Trust in me." And, as He spoke, the loving soul knew that it might rest on Him and be secure.

He moved away. Serene, noble, yet humble, He went to meet His death.

The curtain fell--but this time there was no exchange of greetings from the boxes, the faces of their occupants were covered to conceal the tears of which they were ashamed, yet could not restrain.

The countess and her companion remained silent. Madeleine's forehead rested on her hand--the prince was secretly wiping his eyes.

"People of God, lo, thy Saviour is near! The Redeemer, long promised, hath come!" sang the chorus, and the curtain rising, showed Christ and his disciples on the way to Jerusalem. It was the moment that Christ wept over Jerusalem. Tears of the keenest anguish which can pierce the heart of a God, tears for the sins of the world! "Jerusalem, Jerusalem, if thou hadst known, even thou, at least in this thy day, the things which belongs unto thy peace! But now they are hid from thine eyes."

The disciples entreated their Master not to enter the hostile city and thus avoid the crime which it was destined to commit. Or to enter and show Himself in His power, to judge and to reward.

"Children, what ye desire will be done in its time, but my ways are ordered by my Father, and thus saith the Lord: 'My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.'"

And, loyal and obedient, He followed the path of death. Judas alone lingered behind, resolving to leave the fallen greatness which promised no earthly profit and would bring danger and disgrace upon its adherents. In this mood he was met by Dathan, Andreas Gross, who was seeking a tool for the vengeance of the money changers. Finding it in Judas, he took him before the Sanhedrim.

An impressive and touching tableau now introduced a new period, the gathering of manna in the wilderness, which refreshed the starving children of Israel. A second followed: The colossal bunch of grapes from Canaan. "The Lord miraculously fed the multitude in the desert with the manna and rejoiced their hearts with the grapes of Canaan, but Jesus offers us a richer banquet from Heaven. From the mystery of His body and blood flows mercy and salvation!" sang the chorus. The curtain rose again, Christ was at supper with His disciples. He addressed them in words of calm farewell. But they did not yet fully understand, for they asked who would be first in His heavenly kingdom?

His only answer was to lay aside His upper garment, gird, with divine dignity, a cloth about His loins, and kneel to perform for the disciples the humblest service--the washing of their feet.

The human race looked on in breathless wonder--viewless bands of angels soared downward and the demons of pride and defiance in human nature fled and hid themselves in the inmost recesses of their troubled hearts.

Aye, the strong soul of the woman, which had at first rebelled against the patience of the suffering God--now understood it and to her also light came, as He had promised and, by the omnipotent feeling which urged her to the feet of Him who knelt rendering the lowliest service to the least of His disciples, she perceived the divinity of humility!

It was over. He had risen and put on His upper garment; He stood with His figure drawn up to His full height and gazed around the circle: "Now ye are clean, but not all!"--and His glance rested mournfully on Peter, who before the cock crew, would deny Him thrice, and on Judas, who would betray Him for thirty pieces of silver.

Then He again took His seat and, as the presentiment of approaching death transfigures even the most commonplace mortal and illumines the struggling soul at the moment of its separation from the body, so the God transfigured the earthly form of the "Son of Man" and appeared more and more plainly on the pallid face, ere he left the frail husk which He had chosen for His transitory habitation. And as the dying man distributes his property among his heirs, He bequeathed His. But He had nothing to give, save Himself. As the cloud dissolves into millions of raindrops which the thirsting earth drinks, He divided Himself into millions of atoms which, in the course of the ages, were to refresh millions of human beings with the banquet of love. His body and His blood were his legacy. He divided it into countless portions, to distribute it among countless heirs, yet it remained one and the part is to every one the whole. For as an element remains a great unity, no matter into how many atoms it may dissolve--as water is always water whether in single drops or in the ocean--fire always fire in sparks or a conflagration--so Christ is always Christ in the drops of the chalice and the particles of the bread, as well as in His original person, for He, too, is an element, the element of divinity.

As kindred kneel around the bedside of a loved one who is dying, bedew his hand with tears, and utter the last entreaty: "Forgive us, if we have ever wounded you?" the thousands of spectators longed to kneel, and there was not one who did not yearn to press his lips to the wonderful hand which was distributing the bread, and cry: "Forgive us our sins." But as reverence for the dying restrains loud lamentations, the spectators controlled themselves in order not to sob aloud and thus disturb the divine peace throned upon the Conqueror's brow.

Destiny now relentlessly pursued its course. Judas sold his master for thirty pieces of silver, and they were paid to him before the Sanhedrim. The pieces of silver rang on the stone table upon which they were counted out. It seemed as if the clear sound was sharply piercing the world, like the edge of a scythe destined to mow down the holiest things.

The priests exulted, there was joy in the camp of the foes! All that human arrogance and self-conceit could accomplish, raised its head triumphantly in Caiaphas. The regal priest stood so firmly upon the height of his secular power that nothing could overthrow him, and--Jesus of Nazareth must die!

So the evening came when Christ went with the twelve disciples to the Mount of Olives to await His doom.

"Father, the hour is come; glorify thy Son, that thy Son may also glorify thee! I have finished the work which thou gavest me to do--I have manifested thy name unto men! Father, sanctify them through thy truth; that they all may be one, as thou, Father, art in me and I in thee!"

He climbed the lonely mount in the garden of olive trees to pass through the last agony, the agony of death, which seized upon even the Son of God so long as He was still bound by the laws of the human body.

"Father, if thou be willing, let this cup pass from me!"

Here Freyer's acting reached its height; it was no longer semblance, but reality. The sweat fell in burning drops from his brow, and tears streamed from his eyes. "Yet not my will, but Thine be done--Thy sacred will!" Clasping his trembling hands, he flung himself prone on the ground, hiding his tear-stained face, "Father--Thy son--hear Him!"

The throng breathed more and more heavily, the tears flowed faster. The heart of all humanity was touched with the anguished cry: "Oh, sins of humanity, ye crush me--oh, the terrible burden--the bitter cup!"

With this anguish the Son of God first drew near to the human race, in this suffering He first bent down to mortals that they might embrace Him lovingly like a mortal brother. And it was so at this moment, also! They would fain have dragged Him from the threatening cross, defended Him with their own bodies, purchased his release at any cost--too late, this repentance should have come several centuries earlier.

The hour of temptation was over. The disciples had slept and left him alone--but the angel of the Lord had comforted Him, the angel whom God sends to every one who is deserted by men. He was himself again--the Conqueror of the World!

Judas came with the officers and pressed upon the sweet mouth on which the world would fain hang in blissful self-forgetfulness--the traitor's kiss.

"Judas, can you touch those lips and not fall at the feet of Him you have betrayed?" cried a voice in Madeleine von Wildenau's heart. "Can you kiss the lips which so patiently endure the death-dealing caress, and not find your hate transformed to love?" Ah, only the divine can recognize the divine, only sympathetic natures attract one another! Judas is the symbol of the godless world, which would no longer perceive God's presence, even if He came on earth once more. The soldiers, brawny fellows, fell to the ground as He stood before them with the words: "I am Jesus of Nazareth!" and He was forced to say: "Rise! Fear ye not!" that they might accomplish their work--but Judas remained unmoved and delivered Him up.

Christ was a prisoner and descended step by step into the deepest ignominy. But no matter through what mire of baseness and brutality they dragged Him, haling Him from trial to trial--nothing robbed Him of the majesty of the Redeemer! And if His speech had been full of power, so was His silence! Before the Sanhedrim, before Herod, and finally before Pilate, He was the king, and the mighty ones of earth were insignificant in His presence.

"Who knows whether this man is not the son of some god?" murmured the polytheistic Romans--and shrank from the mystery which surrounded the silent One.

The impression here was produced solely by Freyer's imposing calmness and unearthly eyes. The glance he cast at Herod when the latter ordered him to perform a miracle--darken the judgment chamber or transform a roll of papyrus into a serpent--that one glance, full of dignity and gentleness, fixed upon the poor, short-sighted child of the dust was a greater miracle than all the conjuring tricks of the Egyptian Magicians.

But this very silence, this superiority, filled the priest with furious rage and hastened His doom, which He disdained to stay by a single word.

True, Pilate strove to save Him. The humane Roman, with his aristocratic bearing, as Thomas Rendner personated him with masterly skill, formed a striking contrast to the gloomy, fanatical priests, but he was not the man for violent measures, and the furious leaders understood how to present this alternative. The desire to conciliate, the refuge of all weak souls which shrink in terror from catastrophes, had already wrested from him a shameful concession--he had suffered the Innocent One to be delivered to the scourge.

With clenched teeth the spectators beheld the chaste form, bound to the stake and stained with blood, quiver beneath the lashes of the executioner, without a murmur of complaint from the silent lips. And when He had "had enough," as they phrased it, they placed him on a chair, threw a royal mantle about Him, and placed a sceptre of reeds in the hand of the mock-king. But He remained mute. The tormentors grew more and more enraged--they wanted to have satisfaction, to gloat over the moans of the victim--they dealt Him a blow in the face, then a second one. Christ did not move. They thrust Him from the chair so that He fell on the ground--no one ever forgot the beautiful, pathetic figure--but He was still silent! Then one of the executioners brought a crown made of huge thorns; He was raised again and the martyr's diadem was placed upon His brow. The sharp thorns resisted, they would not fit the noble head, so His tormentors took two sticks laid cross-ways, and with them forced the spiked coronals so low on His forehead that drops of blood flowed! Christ quivered under the keen agony--but--He was silent! Then He was dragged out of His blood, a spectacle to the populace.

Again Helios above gave the rein to his radiant coursers--he thought of all the horrors in the history of his divine House, of the Danaides, of the chained Prometheus, and of others also, but he could recall nothing comparable to this, and loathed the human race! Averting his face, he guided his weary steeds slowly downward from the zenith.

The evening breeze blew chill upon the scene of agony.

A furious tumult filled the streets of Jerusalem. The priests were leading the raging mob to the governor's house--fanning their wrath to flame with word and gesture. Caiaphas, Nathanael, the fanatics of Judaism--Annas and Ezekiel, each at the head of a mob, rushed from three streets in an overwhelming concourse. The populace surged like the angry sea, and unchaining yet dominating the elements with word and glance the lofty figure of Caiaphas, the high priest, towered in their midst.

"Shake it off! Cast from you the yoke of the tempter!"

"He has scorned Moses and the prophets--He has blasphemed God--to the cross with the false Messiah!"

"May a curse rest on every one who does not vote for his death--let him be cut off from the hereditary rights of our fathers!"

Thus the four leaders cast their watchword like firebrands among the throngs, and the blaze spread tumultuously.

"The Nazarene must die--we demand judgment," roared the people. New bands constantly flocked in. "Oh, fairest day of Israel! Children, be resolute! Threaten a general insurrection. The governor wished to hear the voice of the people--let him hear it!" shrieked Caiaphas, and his passion stirred the mob to fiercer fury. All pressed forward to the house of Pilate. The doors opened and the governor came out. The handsome, classic countenance of the Roman expressed deep contempt, as he surveyed the frantic mob. Behind him appeared the embodiment of sorrow--the picture of all pictures--the Ecce Homo--which all the artists of the world have striven to represent, yet never exhausted the subject. Here it stood personified--before the eyes of men, and even the governor's voice trembled as he pointed to it.

"Behold, what a man!"

"Crucify him!" was the answer.

Pilate endeavored to give the fury of the mob another victim: the criminal Barabbas was brought forth and confronted with Christ. The basest of human beings and the noblest! But the spectacle did not move them, for the patience and serenity of the Martyr expressed a grandeur which shamed them all, and this was the intolerable offense! The sight of the scourged, bleeding body did not cool their vengeance because they saw that the spirit was unbroken! It must be quelled, that it might not rise in judgment against them, for they had gone too far, the ill-treated victim was a reproach to them--he could not be suffered to live longer.

"Release Barabbas! To death with the Nazarene, crucify him!"

Vainly the governor strove to persuade the people. The cool, circumspect man was too weak to defy these powers of hatred--he would fain save Christ, yet was unwilling to drive the fanatics to extremes. So he yielded, but the grief with which he did so, "to avert a greater misfortune," absolved him from the terrible guilt whose curse he cast upon the leaders' head.

The expression with which he pronounced the sentence, uttered the words: "Then take ye Him and crucify Him!" voices the grief of the man of culture for eternal beauty.

The bloodthirsty mob burst into a yell of exultation when their victim was delivered to them--now they could cool their vengeance on Him! "To Golgotha--hence with him to the place of skulls!"

Christ--and Thy sacrifice is for these. Alas, the day will come, though perchance not for thousands of years, when Thou wilt perceive that they were not worthy of it. But that will be the day of judgment!

A crowd surged though the streets of Jerusalem--in their midst the condemned man, burdened with the instrument of his own martyrdom.

In one corner amid the populace stood Mary, surrounded by a group of friends, and the mother beheld her son urged forward, like a beast which, when it falls, is forced up with lashes and pressed on till it sinks lifeless.

High above in the vaulted heavens, veiled by the gathering dude of evening, the gods whispered to one another with secret horror as they watched the unprecedented sight. Often as they might behold it, they could never believe it.

The procession stopped before a house--Christ sank to the earth.

A man came out and thrust Him from the threshold.

"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 gods of Greece were consulting whether they should aid the Son of Man. But they were powerless; the sphere of the Christian's god was closed against them.

The scene changed. The chorus, robed in sable mourning cloaks, appeared and began the dirge for the dying God. 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 noblest 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.

The dim forest within

Hacked from my roots,

Haled on by rude woodmen

Bracing sinewy shoulders

Up the steep mountain side,

Till aloft on the summit

Firmly they fastened me.

"I spied the Frey^[5] of man with eager haste Approach to mount me; neither bend nor break I durst, for so it was decreed above Though earth about me shook.

"Up-girded him then the young hero,

That was God Almighty,

Strong and steady of mood,

Stept he on the high gallows:

Fearless amongst many beholders

For he would save mankind.

Trembled I when that 'beorn' climbed me,

But I durst not bow to earth."

There hung the Lord of Hosts

Swart clouds veiled the corpse,

The sun's light vanished

'Neath shadows murk.

While in silence drear

All creation wept

The fall of their king.

Christ was on Rood--

Thither from afar

Men came hastening

To aid the noble one.

Everything I saw,

Sorely was I

With sorrows harrowed,

Yet humbly I inclined

To the hands of his servants

Striving much to aid them.

Now from the Rood

The mighty God,

Spear-pierced and blood-besprent,

Gently men lowered;

They laid him down limb-weary,

They stood at the lifeless head,

Gazing at Heaven's Lord,

And he there rests awhile,

Weary after his mickle death-fight.

Such was the paean of Caedmon, mighty among the writers of runes, in the seventh century after the Saviour's death. Now, twelve centuries later, it lived again, and the terrible event was once more enacted, just as the skald had sung, just as it happened nearly two thousand years ago.

What is space, what is time to aught that is rooted in love?

The dirge of the chorus had died away. A strange sound behind the curtain accompanied the last verses--the sound of hammering--could it be? No, it would be too horrible. The audience heard, yet would not hear. A deathlike stillness pervaded the theatre--the blows of the hammer became more and more distinct--the curtain rolled upward--there He lay with His feet toward the spectators, flat upon the cross. And the executioners, with heavy blows, drove nails through His limbs; they pierced the kind hands which had never done harm to any living creature, but wherever they were gently laid, healed all wounds and stilled all griefs; the feet which had borne the divine form so lightly that it seemed to float over the burning sand of the land and the surging waves of the sea, always on a mission of love. Now He lay in suffering on the ground, stretched upon the accursed timbers--half benumbed, like a stricken stag. At the right and left stood the lower crosses of the two criminals. These men merely had their arms thrown over the cross-beams and tied with ropes, only the feet were fastened with nails. Christ alone was nailed by both hands and feet, because the Pharisees were tortured by a foreboding that He could not be wholly killed. Had they dared, they would have torn Him to pieces, and scattered the fragments to the four winds, in order to be sure that He would not rise on the third day, as He had predicted.

The executioners had completed the binding of the thieves. "Now the King of the Jews must be raised."

"Lift the cross! Take hold!" the captain commanded. The spectators held their breath, every heart stood still! The four executioners grasped it with their brawny arms. "Up! Don't let go!"

The cross is ponderous, the men pant, bracing their shoulders against it--their veins swell--another jerk--it sways--"Hold firm! Once more--put forth your strength!" and in a wide sweep it moved upward--all cowered back shuddering at the horrible spectacle.

"It is not, It cannot be!" Yet it is, it can be! Horror thrilled the spectators, their limbs trembled. One grasped another, as if to hold themselves from falling. It was rising, the cross was rising above the world! Higher--nearer! "Brace against it--don't let go!"

It stood erect and was firm.

There hung the divine figure of sorrow, pallid and wan. The nails were driven through the bleeding hands and feet--and the eye which would fain deny was forced to witness it, the heart that would have prevented, was compelled to bear it. But the scene could be endured no longer, the grief restrained with so much difficulty found vent in loud sobs, and the hands trembling with a feverish chill were clasped with the same feeling of adoring love. Unspeakable compassion was poured forth in ceaseless floods of tears, and rose gathering in a cloud of pensive melancholy around the head of the Crucified One to soothe His mortal anguish. By degrees their eyes became accustomed to the scene and gained strength to gaze at it. Divine grace pervaded the slender body, and--as eternal beauty reconciles Heaven and hell and transfigures the most terrible things--horror gradually merged into devout admiration of the perfect human beauty revealed in chaste repose and majesty before their delighted gaze. The countess had clasped her hands over her breast. The world lay beneath her as if she was floating above with Him on the cross. She no longer knew whether he was a man or Christ Himself--she only knew that the universe contained nothing save that form.

Her eyes were fixed upon the superhuman vision, tear after tear trickled down her cheeks. The prince gazed anxiously at her, but she did not notice it--she was entranced. If she could but die now--die at the foot of the cross, let her soul exhale like a cloud of incense, upward to Him.

Darkness was gathering. The murmuring and whispering in the air drew nearer--was it the Valkyries, gathering mournfully around the hero who scorned the aid. Was it the wings of the angel of death? Or was it a flock of the sacred birds which, legend relates, strove to draw out the nails that fastened the Saviour to the cross until their weak bills were crooked and they received the name of "cross-bills."

The sufferer above was calm and silent. Only His lambent eyes spoke, spoke to those invisible powers hovering around Him in the final hour.

Beneath His cross the soldiers were casting lots for His garments--the priests were exulting--the brute cynicism was watching with wolfish greed for the victim to fall into its clutches, while shouting with jeering mocking: If thou be the Son of God, come down from the cross!

He trusted in God; let Him deliver Him now, if He will have Him!--

"Thou that destroyest the temple and buildest it in three days, save thyself. Show thy power, proud King of the Jews!"

The tortured sufferer painfully turned His head.

"Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.--"

Then one of the malefactors, even in his own death agony, almost mocked Him, but the other rebuked him; "We receive the due reward of our deeds: but this man hath done nothing amiss!" Then he added beseechingly: "Lord, remember me when Thou comest into Thy kingdom."

Christ made the noble answer: "Verily I say unto thee, to-day shalt thou be with me in paradise."

There was a fresh roar of mockery from the Pharisees. "He cannot save himself, yet promises the kingdom of heaven to others."

But the Saviour no longer heard, His senses were failing; He bent His head toward Mary and John. "Woman, behold thy son! Son, behold thy mother!"

The signs of approaching death appeared. He grew restless--struggled for breath, His tongue clung to His palate.

"I thirst."

The sponge dipped in vinegar was handed to him on a long spear.

He sipped but was not refreshed. The agony had reached its climax: "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?" He cried from the depths of His breaking heart, a wonderful waving motion ran through the noble form in the last throes of death. Then, with a long sigh, He murmured in the tones of an Æolian harp: "It is finished! Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit!" gently bowed his head and expired.

A crashing reverberation shook the earth. Helios' chariot rolled thundering into the sea. The gods fled, overwhelmed and scattered by the hurrying hosts of heaven. Dust whirled upward from the ground and smoke from the chasms, darkening the air. The graves opened and sent forth their inmates. In the mighty anguish of love, the Father rends the earth as He snatches from it the victim He has too long left to pitiless torture! The false temple was shattered, the veil rent--and amid the flames of Heaven the Father's heart goes forth to meet the maltreated, patient, obedient Son.

"Come, thou poor martyr!" echoed yearningly through the heavens. "Come, thou poor martyr!" repeated every spectator below.

Yet they were still compelled to see the beloved body pierced with a sharp lance till the hot blood gushed forth--and it seemed as if the thrust entered the heart of the entire world! They were still forced to hear the howling of the wolves disputing over the sacred corpse--but at last the tortured soul was permitted to rest.

The governor's hand had protected the lifeless body and delivered it to His followers.

The multitude dispersed, awe-stricken by the terrible portents--the priests, pale with terror, fled to their shattered temple. Golgotha became empty. The jeers and reviling had died away, the tumult in nature had subsided--and the sacred stillness of evening brooded over those who remained. "He has fulfilled His task--He has entered into the rest of the Father." The drops of blood fell noiselessly from the Redeemer's heart upon the sand. Nothing was heard save the low sobbing of the women at the foot of the cross.

Then pitying love approached, and never has a pæan of loyalty been sung like that which the next hour brought. The first blades were now appearing of that love whose seed has spread throughout the world!

Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus came with ladders and tools to take down the body.

Ascending, they wound about the lifeless form long bands of white linen, whose ends they flung down from the cross. These were grasped by the friends below as a counterpoise to lower it gently down. Joseph and Nicodemus now began to draw out the nails with pincers; the cracking and splintering of the wood was heard, so firm was the iron.

Mary sat on a stone, waiting resignedly, with clasped hands, for her son. "Noble men, bring me my child's body soon!" she pleaded softly.

The women spread a winding sheet at her feet to receive it.

At last the nails were drawn out and--