He uttered no word when they drove the nails into His hands and feet, nor made He any sound.
And His limbs did not quiver under the hammer.
It seemed as if His hands and feet had died and would only live again when bathed in blood. Yet it seemed also as if He sought the nails as the prince would seek the sceptre; and that He craved to be raised to the heights.
And my heart did not think to pity Him, for I was too filled to wonder.
Now, the man whose cross I carried has become my cross.
Should they say to me again, “Carry the cross of this man,” I would carry it till my road ended at the grave.
But I would beg Him to place His hand upon my shoulder.
This happened many years ago; and still whenever I follow the furrow in the field, and in that drowsy moment before sleep, I think always of that Belovèd Man.
And I feel His wingèd hand, here, on my left shoulder.