Tuesday before Easter

Proudly in his Hall of Judgment,
There to play his fearful part;
Sat the Roman Pontius Pilate,
Clear in head, but cold in heart.

Bound and silent stood before him,
Meek and sad, the Lord of all,
Listening to His false accusers,
In that awful judgment hall:

Listening to His words perverted,
All too gentle to complain;
Tho' one word had struck them speechless,
Yet not answering again.

Thousands round, like storm-toss'd ocean,
Fling their furious rage on high;
Shouting, in their wild commotion,
Crucify Him, crucify!

Wretched man! tho' passing power
Seem thy little soul to please,
Yet thine inner self doth cower
Under conscience, ill at ease.

Thine own fears, and other's dreaming,
Terrible attendants are;
Judge — alone in outward seeming — -
Thine own Judge is at thy bar.

Vain to soothe that troubled conscience
All thy pleading with the throng;
While within the battle rages,
Sense of right, and love of wrong.

Vain to wash thine hands, disclaiming
Part in that accursed day,
Blood is on them, which thy Victim's
Blood alone can wash away.

O my soul! take hence the measure
Of their misery, who can
Sacrifice their sense of duty
To the wretched fear of man.

Play not with those dread convictions
That would wrest its slave from sin,
Sad to see the refuge-city,
See, but never enter in.

Of all men on earth the poorest
They who know what they should do,
But, thro' vain men-pleasing, cannot
To their own belief be true.

Just enough of night, to darken
That pure day in which they live,
Just enough of light, to sadden
All the joys that sin can give.