Those lips prophetic, sealed now for a space,
Those eyes, deep-welled with awful, still content.
The robber paused to marvel at the Man
Whose death should serve for his; nor spoke aloud
The foul jest in his throat. He stayed to scan
Once more that visage calm; then, trembling, bowed
With fear and harsh soul-harrowing grief, he ran
And hid himself, sick-hearted, in the crowd.
(410)
CHRIST’S FACE