The Dream of Pilate’s Wife

It was not sleep that bound my sight

Upon that well re­mem­bered night;

It was not fan­cy’s fit­ful pow­er

Beguiled me in that so­lemn hour.

But o’er the vi­sion of my soul

The mys­tic fu­ture seemed to roll;

And in the deep

pro­phet­ic trance

Revealed its trea­sures to my glance.

Before my won­der­ing eyes there stood

A vast

a count­less mul­ti­tude;

The hoa­ry sire

the prat­tling child

The mo­ther

and the maid­en mild

The glad­some youth

and man of care—

All tribes

all ag­es

min­gled there;

And all

wher­e’er I turned to see

In hum­ble si­lence bent the knee.

Still o’er the crowd­ed scene I gazed;

Against the lur­id east­ern sky

I saw the shame­ful cross up­raised

I saw the Suf­fer­er doomed to die.

’Twas He whom late with sor­row­ing mien

In Zi­on’s streets I oft had seen;

And now in blood and ago­ny

He turned a dy­ing look to me.

Then soft­ly from that ga­ther­ing throng

Arose the sound of so­lemn song;

And while I caught the swell­ing lay

The my­ri­ad voices seemed to say—

And we be­lieve in Him that died

By Pon­ti­us Pilate cru­ci­fied—

That He shall come

when time is fled

To judge the liv­ing and the dead.

I woke; thou wast not by my side

I heard a loud ex­ult­ing cry;

I heard the scorn­ful priests de­ride

The eld­ers mur­mur

Cru­ci­fy!

O Pi­late! hadst thou marked my pray­er

That guilt­less blood to shield and spare

That deed of hor­ror would not be

A stain to thine—a curse to thee!

Our scenes of ear­ly love are past;

Our youth­ful spring is wi­thered all;

Afar from Rome our lot is cast

Beneath the sun­ny skies of Gaul;

The thoughts that me­mo­ry trea­sures yet

Of oth­er days

be­gin to flee;

But nev­er shall my heart for­get

The Cru­ci­fied of Ga­li­lee!