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OUT of the barracks to the castle yard
Those Roman soldiers came, buckling their gear,
The word was passed that they were prison guard,
The sergeant proved their dressing with his spear.
Then, as the prisoner came, a wretch who bled
Holding a cross, those nearest cursed his soul:
He might have died some other time, they said,
Not at high noon: the sergeant called the roll.
Then, sloping spears, the files passed from the court
Into the alleys, thrusting back the crowd,
They cursed the bleeding man for stepping short,
The drums beat time: the sergeant hummed aloud
The rabble closed behind: the soldiers cursed
The prisoner's soul, the flies, their packs, their thirst.
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