I see the coarse, dull, cruel meanings flit
Across his face.
I see the pitiless priests who urge and rave,
Intent to see the victim sacrificed,
Fearful that scruple or that plea should save—
Where is the Christ?
Not that pale shape which stands amid the press,
In gentle patience uncomplainingly,
Clad in the whiteness of his Teacher’s dress—
That is not he!