Poem July 25, 1953 Issue

ECCE HOMO

John 19:4, 5

E. Lyndon Fairweather

Pilate speaks:

I find no fault in him at all,
No stain of sin, no touch of blame;
Your callous laws ordain his thrall,
Your greed of power demands his shame.
With mocking thorns upon his head,
With purple robes of agony,
My stripes of pity on him laid,
Behold the man you will not free!
I wash my hands, I turn away—
My puppet will dare not deny
The power that binds me to your sway
And blindly cries to crucify.

A practitioner speaks:

I see no fault at all in him,
This man whom God has brought to me;
No shadow of a cross can dim
His still flame of serenity.
His crown of lustrous glory made,
His royal robe a shining white,
Unscarred, unwearied, unafraid,
With scepter of dominion's might—
No law his sacrifice commands,
Nor hatred shrieks with voice malign;
Strong and inviolate he stands.
Behold the man of God's design!

E. Lyndon Fairweather

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