"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.

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 G.o.d 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 n.o.ble 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 G.o.d, 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 compa.s.sion 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 h.e.l.l 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 G.o.d, come down from the cross!

He trusted in G.o.d; 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.--"