flesh from the nails that pierced the hands; the strain of outstretched arteries and nerves; the one position that never, never could be changed; the scorching sun beating fierce on eyes and brain, and the maddening thirst; the swollen flesh, the aching back, the smarting seams inflicted by the scourge; the taunts, the insults, the abuse; then the solitude and the silent agony of death. This for a man; and, for a God, the awful load of foulest, unrepented sins. Better, better, to go and pierce Him with his own hands, than to leave Him to that lingering death.
"Oh, what is Truth? Who will explain? Who is He? Whence is He?"
Then life's business intruded itself upon these awful thoughts; a soldier came with tablets in his hand.
"We would know what thou wouldst have placed above the cross," he said.
Yes, there was a possibility of avenging the Nazarene, of insulting the whole Jewish nation, of maddening with fury those two high priests. It was the last sweet moment of Pilate's darkened life; he would make the most of it.
"Write," he said to the grovelling scribe who stood cringingly awaiting his commands "Write,
'JESUS OF NAZARETH THE KING OF THE JEWS.' "
Then, when the emissary of Caiaphas seemed to hesitate, he said: "Dost hear me? In Latin and in Greek and in Hebrew shalt thou write, so that all men and nations can read, ' Jesus of Nazareth the King of the Jews.' "
