Classic Poem

His sleep was but a brief and fitful thing.
Soon he awakened startled. All about
He felt a strange and tragic atmosphere.
Again he saw the Christ upon the Cross
And the slain Form against the lurid sky.
It was the murder of the Pure and Good
By the world's blinded, understanding not
The motives of His Soul — His gentleness,
His zeal for truth and right, forgiveness sweet,
Close fellowship with God, and sacrifice
Of self for duty, charity supreme
In action and in generous words of grace.
It was the slaughter by the lawless world
Of its best Friend — his very own best Friend,
One whose o'erbrooding Spirit touching his
Had been his daily strength and comforting.

In the night hours beneath the April sky,
With the Good Friday's spell upon his soul,
Somehow he felt as 'twere a present deed,
As though upon the Cross the world's best Friend
Again were being nailed by violent hands,
His life an offering for others' sakes.
And all the lowering of the night increased.
The air was in a tumult. Wave on wave
Of horror and of anguish seemed to ride
Upon the April winds, he could not rest.
He rose and stood beneath the shining stars,
So bright, so still. But all their quietness
Was far above the earth. Forces unseen
But felt, swept past him, as 'twere regiments
Of darkness, powers of evil, gates of Hell
Prevailing against some great shrine of light.
Through changeful years, midst battle hurricanes,
Never had any terror like to this
Struck through his soul with such forboding dire.
He faced the night, gazed on the starry heavens,
Turned tremblingly untowards the April breeze,
And waited as forestalling some wild stroke
Out of the dark upon resistless breast.

At length the air was filled with midnight mist.
Fast-thickening clouds that hid the firmament
Passed o'er him. In mysterious heaviness
Of body and of mind, bewildered, awed,
He strove again to sleep. 'Twas sleep that comes
In intermittent moments towards the dawn,
'Twixt weary watchings round the couch of death.