On the Cross: A Romance of the Passion Play at Oberammergau
of blood flowed! Christ quivered under the keen agony--but--He was
silent! Then He was dragged out of His blood, a spectacle to the
populace.
Again Helios above gave the rein to his radiant coursers--he thought of
all the horrors in the history of his divine House, of the Danaides, of
the chained Prometheus, and of others also, but he could recall nothing
comparable to _this_, and _loathed the human race_! Averting his face,
he guided his weary steeds slowly downward from the zenith.
The evening breeze blew chill upon the scene of agony.
A furious tumult filled the streets of Jerusalem. The priests were
leading the raging mob to the governor's house--fanning their wrath to
flame with word and gesture. Caiaphas, Nathanael, the fanatics of
Judaism--Annas and Ezekiel, each at the head of a mob, rushed from
three streets in an overwhelming concourse. The populace surged like
the angry sea, and unchaining yet dominating the elements with word and
glance the lofty figure of Caiaphas, the high priest, towered in their
midst.
"Shake it off! Cast from you the yoke of the tempter!"
"He has scorned Moses and the prophets--He has blasphemed God--to the
cross with the false Messiah!"
"May a curse rest on every one who does not vote for his death--let him
be cut off from the hereditary rights of our fathers!"
Thus the four leaders cast their watchword like firebrands among the
throngs, and the blaze spread tumultuously.
"The Nazarene must die--we demand judgment," roared the people. New
bands constantly flocked in. "Oh, fairest day of Israel! Children, be
resolute! Threaten a general insurrection. The governor wished to hear
the voice of the people--let him hear it!" shrieked Caiaphas, and his
passion stirred the mob to fiercer fury. All pressed forward to the
house of Pilate. The doors opened and the governor came out. The
handsome, classic countenance of the Roman expressed deep contempt, as
he surveyed the frantic mob. Behind him appeared the embodiment of
sorrow--the picture of all pictures--the Ecce Homo--which all the
artists of the world have striven to represent, yet never exhausted the
subject. Here it stood personified--before the eyes of men, and even
the governor's voice trembled as he pointed to it.
"Behold, _what_ a man!"
"Crucify him!" was the answer.
Pilate endeavored to give the fury of the mob another victim: the
criminal Barabbas was brought forth and confronted with Christ. The
basest of human beings and the noblest! But the spectacle did not move
them, for the patience and serenity of the Martyr expressed a grandeur
which shamed them all, and _this_ was the intolerable offense! The
sight of the scourged, bleeding body did not cool their vengeance
because they saw that the spirit was unbroken! It _must_ be quelled,
that it might not rise in judgment against them, for they had gone too
far, the ill-treated victim was a reproach to them--he could not be
suffered to live longer.
"Release Barabbas! To death with the Nazarene, crucify him!"
Vainly the governor strove to persuade the people. The cool,
circumspect man was too weak to defy these powers of hatred--he would
fain save Christ, yet was unwilling to drive the fanatics to extremes.
So he yielded, but the grief with which he did so, "to avert a greater
misfortune," absolved him from the terrible guilt whose curse he cast
upon the leaders' head.
The expression with which he pronounced the sentence, uttered the
words: "Then take ye Him and crucify Him!" voices the grief of the man
of culture for eternal beauty.
The bloodthirsty mob burst into a yell of exultation when their victim
was delivered to them--now they could cool their vengeance on Him! "To
Golgotha--hence with him to the place of skulls!"
Christ--and Thy sacrifice is for _these_. Alas, the day will come,
though perchance not for thousands of years, when Thou wilt perceive
that they were not _worthy_ of it. But that will be the day of
judgment!
A crowd surged though the streets of Jerusalem--in their midst the
condemned man, burdened with the instrument of his own martyrdom.
In one corner amid the populace stood Mary, surrounded by a group of
friends, and the mother beheld her son urged forward, like a beast
which, when it falls, is forced up with lashes and pressed on till it
sinks lifeless.
High above in the vaulted heavens, veiled by the gathering dude of
evening, the gods whispered to one another with secret horror as they
watched the unprecedented sight. Often as they might behold it, they
could never believe it.
The procession stopped before a house--Christ sank to the earth.
A man came out and thrust Him from the threshold.
"Hence, there is no place here for you to rest."
Ahasuerus! The tortured sufferer looked at him with the gaze of
a dying deer--a single mute glance of agony, but the man on whom
it fell nevermore found peace on earth, but was driven from every
resting-place, from land to land, from one spot to another--hunted on
ceaselessly through the centuries--wandering forever.
"He will die on the road"--cried the first executioner, Christ had
dragged Himself a few steps forward, and fell for the second time.
"Drive him on with blows!" shrieked the Pharisees and the people.
"Oh! where is the sorrow like unto my sorrow?" moaned Mary, covering
her face.
"He is too weak, some one must help him," said the executioner. He
could not be permitted to die there--the people must see Him on the
pillory.
His face was covered with sweat and blood--tears flowed from His eyes,
but the mute lips uttered no word of complaint. Then His friends
ventured to go and render whatever aid was permitted. Veronica offered
Him her handkerchief to wipe His face, and when He returned it, it bore
in lines of sweat and blood, the portrait which, throughout the ages,
has exerted the silent magic of suffering in legend and in art.
Simon of Cyrene took the cross from the sinking form to bear it for Him
to Golgotha, and the women of Jerusalem wept. Christ was standing by
the roadside exhausted, but when He saw the women with their children,
the last words of sorrow for their lost ones rose from His heart to His
lips:
"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.
All the angels beheld it,
Angel hosts in beauty created.
Yet stood it not a pillory of shame.
Thither turned the gaze
Of spirits blessed,
And of earthly pilgrims
Of noblest nature.
This tree of victory
Saw I, the sin-laden one.
Yet 'mid the golden glitter
Were traces of honor.
Adown the right side
Red drops were trickling.
Startled and shuddering
Noted I the hovering vision
Suddenly change its hue.
Long lay I pondering
Gazing full sadly
At the Saviour's Rood.
When lo, on my ear
Fell the murmur of speech;
These are the words
The forest uttered:
"Many a year ago,
Yet still my mind holds it,
Low was I felled.
The dim forest within
Hacked from my roots,
Haled on by rude woodmen
Bracing sinewy shoulders
Up the steep mountain side,
Till aloft on the summit
Firmly they fastened me.
"I spied the Frey[5] of man with eager haste
Approach to mount me; neither bend nor break
I durst, for so it was decreed above
Though earth about me shook.
"Up-girded him then the young hero,
That was God Almighty,
Strong and steady of mood,
Stept he on the high gallows:
Fearless amongst many beholders
For he would save mankind.
Trembled I when that 'beorn' climbed me,
But I durst not bow to earth."
There hung the Lord of Hosts
Swart clouds veiled the corpse,
The sun's light vanished
'Neath shadows murk.
While in silence drear
All creation wept
The fall of their king.
Christ was on Rood--
Thither from afar
Men came hastening
To aid the noble one.
Everything I saw,
Sorely was I
With sorrows harrowed,
Yet humbly I inclined
To the hands of his servants
Striving much to aid them.
Now from the Rood
The mighty God,
Spear-pierced and blood-besprent,
Gently men lowered;
They laid him down limb-weary,
They stood at the lifeless head,
Gazing at Heaven's Lord,
And he there rests awhile,
Weary after his mickle death-fight.
Such was the paean of Caedmon, mighty among the writers of runes, in
the seventh century after the Saviour's death. Now, twelve centuries
later, it lived again, and the terrible event was once more enacted,
just as the skald had sung, just as it happened nearly two thousand
years ago.
What is space, what is time to aught that is rooted in love?
The dirge of the chorus had died away. A strange sound behind the
curtain accompanied the last verses--the sound of hammering--could it
be? No, it would be too horrible. The audience heard, yet _would_ not
hear. A deathlike stillness pervaded the theatre--the blows of the
hammer became more and more distinct--the curtain rolled upward--there
He lay with His feet toward the spectators, flat upon the cross. And
the executioners, with heavy blows, drove nails through His limbs; they
pierced the kind hands which had never done harm to any living
creature, but wherever they were gently laid, healed all wounds and
stilled all griefs; the feet which had borne the divine form so lightly
that it seemed to float over the burning sand of the land and the
surging waves of the sea, always on a mission of love. Now He lay in
suffering on the ground, stretched upon the accursed timbers--half
benumbed, like a stricken stag. At the right and left stood the lower