Ecce Homo!

He strikes his staff to find his way,He feels but may not see the day.The warm sun floods his sightless eyesThat tremble in answer to the skies:Yet oft he stays as if to lookAt memories of the scenes of yore,—The vine and fig-tree at his door,The pleasant places by the brook.

The voice within him sighs aloud,When murmurs of a moving crowdFall on his ear; he breathes the dustBut, with a blind man’s sturdy trust,He grasps his staff, and oft he cries,‘Who cometh here?’ A voice replies,‘O blind man, turn thy step aside,’Tis Christ!’

The name rings in his ears:With flashing hopes and ashen fears,There stands he breathless, startling all.Some stop, some into ranks divide,Their arms outspreading lest he fall.He drops his staff, throws out his hands,His fingers are creeping like things that see:’Mid all the multitude he standsAnd shouts, ‘Have mercy, Lord, on me!’His shaking beard, his tottering frame,His eye-balls in their sockets turning,His lips delirious with that name,—O’er his blind face a look is burningOf dreadful greed, with mouth agape,Crazed for some good that may escape.‘Take my hand, some one; let me feelHis raiment only; it may heal.’

Christ heard the blind man’s cry, and grievedBecause a soul in darkness heaved.He said, ‘What seekest thou of Me?’But in that presence came a fear:The man held earthly blessings dear,Yet more than all was heavenly light.‘Lord, that I may receive my sight,—That I may my Redeemer see!’Christ loved him and his anguish soothed.He took his hand, He gently smoothedThe seams upon his wrinkled brow:‘Tell Me what thou beholdest now.’‘Men, dim as shaking trees, I see:O Lord, I crave to look on Thee!’

Then said the Saviour, ‘Look afar.’The blind man raised his dazèd eyes.‘I see, Lord, above Thee a new-risen star,—And beneath it a babe in a manger lies.Hoary men, kneeling, their gifts prefer:Frankincense, gold, and sacred myrrh.Now a mother, a father, a babe softly sleepingBy waters that dream where the lotus bloom reigns;Shadows of evening over them creeping;The broad moon breaking o’er palm-bearing plains,Where the ibis croaks and the jackal cries,And pyramids point to the purpling skies.’

He pauses, still he looks afar.He still beholds the guiding star,And dreamlight of a sacred riverO’er his lone eyes seems still to quiver.Sudden, as if the distant airStripped the blue curtain from the skies,He sees prophetic nature bare,—When, as with far-off voice, he cries—‘Lo! a face to heaven in agony gleaming,Stained of sorrow, but soil-less of sin,Sweat that is blood breaking and streamingFrom brows that are throbbing of anguish within,—Praying for those that do strip Him and scourge HimAs a cross on His quivering shoulders they place.’Neath its burden He sinks while they mock Him, they urge Him,They crown Him with thorns, they spit in His face.They are lifting Him, bruising Him, piercing Him, nailing HimTo the cross, that is dyed in a crimson flood.See, the sun hides his head, see the vapour enveiling him,Hark, the earth and the skies in the darkness bewailing HimWho dieth for those that are shedding His blood.’

He starts, a hand is on his brow.He looks at Christ in meek surprise,Tears gather in his new-lit eyes;‘’Tis He, the crucified!’ he cries:‘Yes, I behold the Saviour now!’The adoring people kneel around;The healed one sinks on the hallowed ground,Then goes his way in silence and in awe;For his unsullied eyes had seenThe sight that from the first had been,The sight that nature like a prophet saw.