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.