The air about him shaped a crownOf light, or so it seemed to me,And sweeter than the melodyOf leaves in rain, and far more sad,His voice descended on the mad,Blood-sniffing crowd that sought his life,A voice where grief cut like a knife:"I am he whom you seek, he whomYou will not spare his daily doom.My march is ever to the tomb,But let the innocent go free;This man and woman, let them be,Who loving much have succored me."And then he turned about to speakTo me whose heart was fit to break,"My brother, when this wound has healed,And you reap in some other fieldRoses, and all a spring can yield;Brother (to call me so!) then proveOut of your charity and loveThat I was not unduly slain,That this my death was not in vain.For no life should go to the tombUnless from it a new life bloom,A greater faith, a clearer sight,A wiser groping for the light."He moved to where our mother stood,
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