Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882). Complete Poetical Works. 1893.
Christus: A MysteryPart I. The Divine Tragedy. The Third Passover. VII. Barabbas in Prison
Barabbas, the Son of Shame,
Is the meaning I suppose;
I ’m no better than the best,
And whether worse than the rest
Of my fellow-men, who knows?
A highwayman, a robber-chief,
In the open light of day.
So much I am free to confess;
But all men, more or less,
Are robbers in their way.
From my lair of leaves and flags,
I could see, like ants, below,
The camels with their load
Of merchandise, on the road
That leadeth to Jericho.
As an eagle from the air
Drops down upon bird or beast;
And I had my heart’s desire
Of the merchants of Sidon and Tyre
And Damascus and the East.
It is not for that I am here
In these iron fetters bound;
Sedition! that is the word
That Pontius Pilate heard,
And he liketh not the sound.
For a Jew slain here or there,
Or a plundered caravan?
But Cæsar!—ah, that is a crime,
To the uttermost end of time
Shall not be forgiven to man.
With Matthias Margaloth,
And burned him for a show!
Therefore his wrath did smite
Judas the Gaulonite,
And his followers, as ye know.
Am I here, as I said before;
For one unlucky night,
Jucundus, the captain of horse,
Was upon us with all his force,
And I was caught in the fight.
But my dagger was in the breast
Of a Roman equerry;
As we rolled there in the street,
They bound me, hands and feet;
And this is the end of me.
A thousand times I would die,
Rather than suffer wrong!
Already those women of mine
Are mixing the myrrh and the wine
I shall not be with you long.