The Star of Calvary

It is the same infrequent star,— The all-mysterious light, That like a watcher, gazing on The changes of the night, Toward the hill of Bethlehem took Its solitary flight. It is the same infrequent star; Its sameness startleth me, Although the disk is red as blood, And downward silently It looketh on another hill,— The hill of Calvary! Nor noon, nor night; for to the west The heavy sun doth glow; And, like a ship, the lazy mist Is sailing on below,— Between the broad sun and the earth It tacketh to and fro. There is no living wind astir; The bat’s unholy wing Threads through the noiseless olive trees, Like some unquiet thing Which playeth in the darkness, when The leaves are whispering. Mount Calvary! Mount Calvary! All sorrowfully still, That mournful tread, it rends the heart With an unwelcome thrill,— The mournful tread of them that crowd Thy melancholy hill! There is a cross,—not one alone: ’T is even three I count, Like columns on the mossy marge Of some old Grecian fount,— So pale they stand, so drearily, On that mysterious Mount. Behold, O Israel! behold, It is no human One That ye have dared to crucify. What evil hath he done? It is your King, O Israel! The God-begotten Son! A wreath of thorns, a wreath of thorns! Why have ye crowned him so? That brow is bathed in agony,— ’T is veiled in every woe: Ye saw not the immortal trace Of Deity below. It is the foremost of the Three! Resignedly they fall, Those deathlike drooping features, Unbending, blighted all: The Man of Sorrows,—how he bears The agonizing thrall! ’T is fixed on thee, O Israel! His gaze!—how strange to brook; But that there ’s mercy blended deep In each reproachful look, ’T would search thee, till the very heart Its withered home forsook. To God! to God! how eloquent The cry, as if it grew, By those cold lips unuttered, yet All heartfelt rising through,— “Father in heaven! forgive them, for They know not what they do!“