Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, Eloi,
Eloi, lama sabachthani? which is, being interpreted,
My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
Mark 15:34
I thought his lips winced with that hollow cry.
It tore my heart, and as a crushing weight
black grief pressed down across the faded sky.
Had all his star-high prayers been stilled by hate?
I thought they had. I did not know—the pain
was overwhelming then. Was there no strength
in love? Was there no help that would remain?
The emptiness was blinding, but at length
the answer came. I could not see it then,
but it was there. The love had never left;
only the dream appeared to die.
And when
he came again, I knew no hairline cleft
had ever come between the Father and
His Son. That awful cry was not my friend's,
but agony's dissolving last demand.
I see the lesson now. The real transcends
the false. Not his—we heard the world's dim doubt;
the Christ can forfeit naught of perfect view.
Above the lies his healing thought reached out:
"Forgive them; for they know not what they do."
