Good Friday Night

At last the bird that sang so long             In twilight circles, hushed his song:             Above the ancient square             The stars came here and there.             Good Friday night! Some hearts were bowed,             But some amid the waiting crowd             Because of too much youth             Felt not that mystic ruth;             And of these hearts my heart was one:             Nor when beneath the arch of stone             With dirge and candle flame             The cross of passion came,             Did my glad spirit feel reproof,             Though on the awful tree aloof,             Unspiritual, dead,             Drooped the ensanguined Head.             To one who stood where myrtles made             A little space of deeper shade             (As I could half descry,             A stranger, even as I),             I said, "These youths who bear along             The symbols of their Saviour's wrong,             The spear, the garment torn,             The flaggel, and the thorn,--             "Why do they make this mummery?             Would not a brave man gladly die             For a much smaller thing             Than to be Christ and king?"             He answered nothing, and I turned.             Throned in its hundred candles burned             The jeweled eidolon             Of her who bore the Son.             The crowd was prostrate; still, I felt             No shame until the stranger knelt;             Then not to kneel, almost             Seemed like a vulgar boast.             I knelt. The doll-face, waxen white,             Flowered out a living dimness; bright             Dawned the dear mortal grace             Of my own mother's face.             When we were risen up, the street             Was vacant; all the air hung sweet             With lemon-flowers; and soon             The sky would hold the moon.             More silently than new-found friends             To whom much silence makes amends             For the much babble vain             While yet their lives were twain,             We walked along the odorous hill.             The light was little yet; his will             I could not see to trace             Upon his form or face.             So when aloft the gold moon broke,             I cried, heart-stung. As one who woke             He turned unto my cries             The anguish of his eyes.             "Friend! Master!" I cried falteringly,             "Thou seest the thing they make of thee.             Oh, by the light divine             My mother shares with thine,             "I beg that I may lay my head             Upon thy shoulder and be fed             With thoughts of brotherhood!"             So through the odorous wood,             More silently than friends new-found             We walked. At the first meadow bound             His figure ashen-stoled             Sank in the moon's broad gold.