Thou knowest Pilate, Claudia—a vain man, 
     
     Too weak to govern such a howling horde 
     
    

    
     As those same Jews. This man they crucified. 
     
    

    
     I knew nought of him—had not heard his name 
     
     Until the day they dragged him to his death; 
     
     Then all tongues wagged about him and his deeds; 
     
     Some said that he had claimed to be their King, 
     
     Some that he had blasphemed their deity; 
     
    

    
     ’Twas certain he was poor and meanly born, 
     
     No warrior he, nor hero; and he taught 
     
     Doctrines that surely would upset the world; 
     
     And so they killed him to be rid of him— 
     
    

    
     Wise, very wise, if he were only man, 
     
    

    
     Not quite so wise if he were half a god! 
     
    
   
   
    
     I know that strange things happened when he died— 
     
     There was a darkness and an agony, 
     
    

    
     And some were vastly frightened—not so I! 
     
    

    
     What cared I if that mob of reeking Jews 
     
    

    
     Had brought a nameless curse upon their heads? 
     
    

    
     I had no part in that blood-guiltiness. 
     
    

    
     At least he died; and some few friends of his— 
     
    

    
     I think he had not very many friends—— 
     
    

    
     Took him and laid him in a garden tomb. 
     
    

    
     A watch was set about the sepulchre, 
     
    

    
     Lest these, his friends, should hide him and proclaim 
     
     That he had risen as he had fore-told. 
     
    

    
     Laugh not, my Claudia. I laughed when I heard 
     
     The prophecy. I would I had not laughed! 
     
    
   
   
    
     4