Or he might say—"You call this act a crime?
What crime was it to say I know this man?
I said no ill of him. If crime there be,
'Twas yours who doomed him unto death, not mine."
A villain was he? So Barabbas was!
But did Barabbas go and hang himself,
Weary of life—the murderer and thief?
This coarse and vulgar way will never do.
Grant him a villain, all his, acts must be
Acts of a villain; if you once admit
Remorse so bitter that it leads to death,
And death so instant on the heels of crime,
You grant a spirit sensitive to shame,
So sensitive that life can yield no joys
To counterbalance one bad act;—but then
A nature such as this, though led astray,
When greatly tempted, is no thorough wretch.
Was the temptation great? could such a bribe
Tempt such a nature to a crime like this?
I say, to me it simply seems absurd.
Peter at least was not so sensitive.
He cursed and swore, denying that he knew
Who the man Christus was; but after all
He only wept—he never hanged himself.
But take the other view that Lysias takes,
All is at once consistent, clear, complete.
Firm in the faith that Christus was his God
The great Messiah sent to save the world,
He, seeking for a sign—not for himself,
But to show proof to all that he was God
Conceived this plan, rash if you will, but grand.
"Thinking him man," he said, "mere mortal man,
They seek to seize him—I will make pretence
To take the public bribe and point him out,
And they shall go, all armed with swords and staves,
Strong with the power of law, to seize on him—
And at their touch he, God himself, shall stand
Revealed before them, and their swords drop,
And prostrate all before him shall adore,
And cry, 'Behold the Lord and King of all!'"
But when the soldiers laid their hands on him
And bound him as they would a prisoner vile,
With taunts, and mockery, and threats of death—
He all the while submitting—then his dream
Burst into fragments with a crash: aghast
The whole world reeled before him; the dread truth
Swooped like a sea upon him, bearing down
His thoughts in wild confusion. He who dreamed
To open the gates of glory to his Lord,
Opened in their stead the prison's jarring door,
And saw above him his dim dream of Love
Change to a Fury stained with blood and crime.
And then a madness seized him, and remorse
With pangs of torture drove him down to death.
Conceive with me that sad and suffering heart
If this be true that Lysias says—Conceive!
Alas! Orestes, not so sad thy fate,
For the Apollo pardoned, purified—
Thy Furies were appeased, thy peace returned,
But Judas perished tortured unto death,
Unpardoned, unappeased, unpurified.
And long as Christus shall be known of men
His name shall bear the brand of infamy,
The curse of generations still unborn.
Thus much of him: I leave the question here,
Touching on naught beyond, for Lucius waits—
I hear him fuming in the court below,
Cursing his servants and Jerusalem,
And giving them to the infernal gods.
The sun is sinking—all the sky's afire—
And vale and mountain glow like molten ore
In the intense full splendor of its rays.
A half-hour hence all will be dull and grey;
And Lucius only waits until the shade
Sweeps down the plain then mounts and makes his way
On through the blinding desert to the sea,
And thence his galley bears him on to Rome.
Salve et vale!—may good fortune wait
On you and all your household! Greet for me
Titus and Livia—in a word, all friends.
End of Project Gutenberg's A Roman Lawyer in Jerusalem, by W. W. Story