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Gerd.
Let me look upon thy hands!
Brand.
On my hands?
Gerd.
They're pierced and torn!
In thy hair the blood-dew stands,
Riven by the fanged thorn
In thy forehead fiercely thrust,
Thou the crucifix didst span!
In my childhood Father told me
'Twas another, long ago,
Far away, that suffer'd so;—
Now I see he only fool'd me;—
Thou art the Redeeming man!
Brand.
Get thee hence!
Gerd.
Shall I not fall
Low before thy feet and pray?
Brand.
Hence!
Gerd.
<g>Thou</g> gavest the blood away
That hath might to save us all!
Brand.
Oh, no saving plank I see,
In my own soul's agony!
Gerd.
Take the rifle Shoot them dead—
