Classic Poem

It is the same infrequent star,—
The all-mysterious light,
That like a watcher, gazing on
The changes of the night,
Toward the hill of Bethlehem took
Its solitary flight.

It is the same infrequent star;
Its sameness startleth me,
Although the disk is red as blood,
And downward silently
It looketh on another hill,—
The hill of Calvary!

Nor noon, nor night; for to the west
The heavy sun doth glow;
And, like a ship, the lazy mist
Is sailing on below,—
Between the broad sun and the earth
It tacketh to and fro.

There is no living wind astir;
The bat's unholy wing
Threads through the noiseless olive trees,
Like some unquiet thing
Which playeth in the darkness, when
The leaves are whispering.

Mount Calvary! Mount Calvary!
All sorrowfully still,
That mournful tread, it rends the heart
With an unwelcome thrill,—
The mournful tread of them that crowd
Thy melancholy hill!

There is a cross,—not one alone:
'T is even three I count,
Like columns on the mossy marge
Of some old Grecian fount,—
So pale they stand, so drearily,
On that mysterious Mount.

Behold, O Israel! behold,
It is no human One
That ye have dared to crucify.
What evil hath he done?
It is your King, O Israel!
The God-begotten Son!

A wreath of thorns, a wreath of thorns!
Why have ye crowned him so?
That brow is bathed in agony,—
'T is veiled in every woe:
Ye saw not the immortal trace
Of Deity below.

It is the foremost of the Three!
Resignedly they fall,
Those deathlike drooping features,
Unbending, blighted all:
The Man of Sorrows,—how he bears
The agonizing thrall!

'T is fixed on thee, O Israel!
His gaze!—how strange to brook;
But that there 's mercy blended deep
In each reproachful look,
'T would search thee, till the very heart
Its withered home forsook.

To God! to God! how eloquent
The cry, as if it grew,
By those cold lips unuttered, yet
All heartfelt rising through,—
“Father in heaven! forgive them, for
They know not what they do!”