The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries Volume V Part 30

Whether in prayer the sufferer bowed his head, Or in despairing torment gnashed his teeth, Still on the sculptor's flying fingers sped.

The pale, exhausted victim, nigh to death, As night the third long day of agony Is ending, murmurs with his last weak breath,

"My G.o.d, my G.o.d, hast Thou forsaken me?"

The eyes, half raised, sink down, the writhings cease, The awful crime has reached its term--and see

There, in its glory, stands a masterpiece!

II

"My G.o.d, my G.o.d, hast Thou forsaken me?"

At midnight in the minster rang the wail; Who could have raised it? 'Twas a mystery.

At the high altar, where its radiance pale A tiny lamp threw out, a form was found To move, whence came the faltering accents frail.

And then it dashed itself upon the ground, Its forehead 'gainst the stones, and wildly wept; The vaulted roof reechoed with the sound.

Long was the vigil that dim figure kept That seemed by tears so strangely comforted; None dared its tottering footsteps intercept.

At last the night's mysterious hours were sped And day returned; but all was silent now, And with the dawn the ghostly form had fled.

The faithful came before their G.o.d to bow, The canons to the altar reverently.

There had been placed above it, none knew how,

A crucifix whose like none e'er did see; Thus, only thus had G.o.d His strength put by, Thus had He looked upon the blood-stained tree.

To Him whose suffering brought salvation nigh Came sinners for release, a contrite band-- And "Christ have mercy!" was the general cry.

It seems not like the work of mortal hand hand-- Who can have set the G.o.dlike image there?

Who in the dead of night such offering planned?

It is the master's, who with anxious care Has waited, from the public gaze withdrawn, To show the utmost that his art can dare.

What shall we bring him for his ease foregone And brain o'ertasked? Gold is but sorry meed-- His head a crown of laurel shall put on!--

So soon a great procession was decreed Of priests and laymen; marching in the van Went one who bore the recompense agreed.

They came where dwelt the venerated man-- And found an open door, an empty house; They called his name, and naught but echoes ran.

The drums and cymbals all the neighbors rouse And trumpets shrill their joy; but none appears To see the grateful people pay their vows.

He is not there, the grave a.s.semblage hears; A neighbor, waking early, like a ghost Saw him steal forth, a prey to nameless fears.

From room to room they went--their pains were lost; In all the desolate chambers there was none That answered them, or came to play the host.

They called aloud, let in the cheerful sun Through opened windows--in their anxious round Into the workshop entrance last they won * * *,

Ah, speak not of the horror there they found!

III

They have brought a captive home, and raging told That he is stained with foulest blasphemy, Mocks their false prophet with his insults bold.

It is the pilgrim we were used to see For penance roaming 'neath our palm-trees' shade, Till at the Holy Grave he might be free.

Will he, when comes the hangman, unafraid A Christian's courage show in face of wrong?

G.o.d strengthen him on whom he cries for aid!

Ah yes--though life is sweet, his will is strong, His mind made up; he yields him to their hands, Content to shed his blood in torment long.

Nay, look not yonder, where the savage bands And merciless prepare a hideous deed-- Perchance a like dread fate before us stands!

He comes, a victim led * * * yet will he bleed?

I see a wondrous radiance in his face, As though unlooked-for safety were decreed!

Can he have bought it * * *? No! they stride apace Toward the blood-stained spot--it is to be.

The martyr's palm his confident brow shall grace.

"Weep not! No tears of pity flowed from me When to the cross the tender youth I bound-- My heart of stone ignored his misery."

So, hounded by remorse, the sinner found The path of expiation, firmly trod, Cain's brand upon him, all the dreadful round.

"Thou who didst die for me, all-pitying G.o.d, Wilt Thou vouchsafe my tortures now an end?

I have not asked deliverance from Thy rod,

Nor hoped Thou shouldst to me Thy mercy lend.

'Tis life, not death, that is so hard to bear * * *

Into Thy hands my spirit I commend!"

So when the ruffian captors seized him there And bound him to the cross, he calmly smiled; 'Twas they that watched whose brows were lined with care.

And as his limbs were torn with anguish wild, And he was lifted 'mid the throng on high, White peace came down upon his soul defiled.

In pa.s.sionate prayer the faithful watched him die That stood beneath the cross; his lips were still-- His suffering was one long atoning cry.

The day pa.s.sed, and the night; with dauntless will He yet found strength his torment dire to face.

The third day's sun sank down behind the hill;

And as the glory of its parting rays He strove with glazing eye once more to see, With his last breath he cried in joyful praise

"My G.o.d, my G.o.d, Thou hast not forsaken me!"

THE OLD SINGER[42] (1833)