Page:Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë, 1846).djvu/16

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6
PILATE'S WIFE'S DREAM.


I said I had no tears for such as he,
And, lo! my cheek is wet—­mine eyes run o'er;
I weep for mortal suffering, mortal guilt,
I weep the impious deed—­the blood self-spilt.


More I recall not, yet the vision spread
Into a world remote, an age to come—
And still the illumined name of Jesus shed
A light, a clearness, through the enfolding gloom—
And still I saw that sign, which now I see,
That cross on yonder brow of Calvary.


What is this Hebrew Christ? To me unknown,
His lineage—­doctrine—­mission—­yet how clear,
Is God-like goodness, in his actions shewn!
How straight and stainless is his life's career!
The ray of Deity that rests on him,
In my eyes makes Olympian glory dim.


The world advances, Greek, or Roman rite
Suffices not the inquiring mind to stay;
The searching soul demands a purer light
To guide it on its upward, onward way;
Ashamed of sculptured gods—­Religion turns
To where the unseen Jehovah's altar burns.


Our faith is rotten—­all our rites defiled,
Our temples sullied, and methinks, this man,
With his new ordinance, so wise and mild,
Is come, even as he says, the chaff to fan