I, slumbering, heard and saw; awake I know, Christ's coming death, and Pilate's life of woe.
I do not weep for Pilate--who could prove Regret for him whose cold and crushing sway No prayer can soften, no appeal can move:
Who tramples hearts as others trample clay, Yet with a faltering, an uncertain tread, That might stir up reprisal in the dead.
Forced to sit by his side and see his deeds;Forced to behold that visage, hour by hour, In whose gaunt lines the abhorrent gazer reads A triple lust of gold, and blood, and power;A soul whom motives fierce, yet abject, urge--
Rome's servile slave, and Judah's tyrant scourge.
How can I love, or mourn, or pity him?
I, who so long my fetter'd hands have wrung;I, who for grief have wept my eyesight dim ;Because, while life for me was bright and young, He robb'd my youth--he quench'd my life's fair ray--
He crush'd my mind, and did my freedom slay.
And at this hour-although I be his wife--
He has no more of tenderness from me Than any other wretch of guilty life ;Less, for I know his household privacy--
I see him as he is--without a screen;And, by the gods, my soul abhors his mien!
Has he not sought my presence, dyed in blood--
Innocent, righteous blood, shed shamelessly?
And have I not his red salute withstood?
Ay, when, as erst, he plunged all Galilee In dark bereavement--in affliction sore, Mingling their very offerings with their gore.
Then came he--in his eyes a serpent-smile, Upon his lips some false, endearing word, And through the streets of Salem clang'd the while His slaughtering, hacking, sacrilegious sword--
And I, to see a man cause men such woe, Trembled with ire--I did not fear to show.
And now, the envious Jewish priests have brought Jesus--whom they in mock'ry call their king--
To have, by this grim power, their vengeance wrought;By this mean reptile, innocence to sting.