"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.