Page:Anthology of Modern Slavonic Literature in Prose and Verse by Paul Selver.djvu/278

 

Numbered with rogues, he hung upon the cross,
Naked and shorn. Upon his lash-seared body
Clung clots of blood. And on his hands and feet
The red streaks oozed, drops trickled to the earth.
With rigid stare his eyes were turned afar
Across the glittering town, the knolls and groves
To crests of peaceful hills, in whose lap lie
Blue waters of the Galilean lakes.

He bowed his head.
Then to his ear was wafted
The hum of plumage. Not his Father’s angel
With quickening draught for the exhausted soul,
An unclean spirit spread his vampire-wings
And scoured the air and lighted at his side.
He could not flinch, when Satan sat him down
Upon his cross,—yea, squatted at his head,
For his tired spirit was disarmed from strife.

And Satan said: "O hapless sufferer,
Upon this wooden cross we meet again,
To-day, and then no more. To-day 'tis settled,
The fight fought out.
You know, three years have passed,
Since in the wilderness I bore you forth
On to a lofty peak and let you see
Strong kingdoms, all the glory of the world,
And all I promised you, if you would sink
And kneel before me. But you flouted it.