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!“