Shorter works (a selection)

Dawn at last--the sudden brilliant dawning of an eastern day.

It has been a weary night, a night of restless pacing to and fro; a night of anxious listening to the tramping of the Roman guard outside; a night during which the horror of anticipated agony has grown moment by moment, and become at last a dull frenzy of hopeless terror.

Dawn at last!

But daylight brings no comfort to Barabbas in his prison cell.

He must die, to-day.

This sun, now rising so softly from behind the Mount of Olives, shall, at noon, beat down remorselessly on Golgotha, where he by then shall hang in agony, betwixt earth and heaven, as if by both rejected.

No help; no hope; none to take pity; no, not one.

Oh that the cold, clear Pascal moon, that he cursed it for its pure brightness as it flooded his cell last night, might have shone on forever!

But the long night is over. It is dawn--at last; and the day now dawning is his day of death.

There had been an unusual stir outside during the night. A hurrying crowd went by, with lanterns and flaring torches. He could hear the clashing of swords and staves, and the suppressed excitement of an expected capture, as they passed hurriedly out of the City.

Soon after midnight they returned; and, as they tramped by, beneath his prison grating, he guessed, from the rough jests and tones of triumph, that they had secured their prisoner.

His mind went back to the hour of his own capture, and that of several of his comrades,--two of whom are doomed to die with him in the morning. Again they have been out as against a thief, with swords and staves. No doubt the prisoner is yet another of the robber band led on by him to rapine, revolt, and insurrection in the city. For a moment, in his despairing loneliness, he seemed in touch once more with the outer world; and reaching up to the narrow grating, he seized the iron bars with both his hands, and shook them in a frenzied longing for liberty; shouting aloud the names of various of his comrades. But no voice answered him. The footsteps died away. All again was silent.

And so the long hours passed slowly; and at last a sudden sound broke the stillness; a homely, familiar sound enough, and yet one which thrilled Barabbas with shrinking, nervous dread, for it trumpeted his day of doom. A cock crowed twice, shrill and clear, heralding the dawn.

And now the moon has come; and there is no help; no hope; none to take pity--no, not one.

The morning relief-guard marches up: and he learns, from the loud talk of the sentries outside, the name of the prisoner captured at midnight:--Jesus of Nazareth, the holy teacher from Galilee, taken at last by the malicious contrivance of the chief priests and scribes, and now being tried for His life, before Pilate, on some trumped up charge of treason against Cæsar.

And then dies out the last ray of hope in the poor felon's soul!

Through that long night, though he had scarcely dared to build upon it, he could not but remember that the day on which he was to die, chanced to be that day of the Feast, when his fellow-citizens might demand of the Roman Governor the life and pardon of one prisoner, whomsoever they desired. His past career has been so black; his two comrades, condemned with him, are so far less guilty that he had but little hope of being chosen. Still, he is a notable prisoner. His name is well known. And his dare-devil bravery may have gained him a popularity amongst a section of the common people, which the influence, certain to be brought to bear against him, of the chief priests and elders, and the more respectable members of the community, may not be able to withstand.

It was a forlorn hope; but he had clung to it. Only now he realises how desperately he had clung to it; for now, indeed, he has no chance.

He knows this latest prisoner well. Jesus, the holy young Rabbi, whom the common people hear so gladly, Jesus, who has walked in and out amongst them for three years, bringing blessings with Him everywhere. Jesus, who sits down with publicans and sinners, winning the hardest and the vilest to yield to His holy influence. Jesus, who can afford to reach out a strong hand of forgiving pity to a poor outcast of the city,--and yet can hold His own before all, even with Pharisees and Scribes. The men follow Him. The women worship Him. The little children gather round His knee. Only the other day the city rang with Hosannas, as they gave Him a right royal welcome to the Feast. The world is gone after Him!

What chance has Barabbas now?

Listening breathlessly, he can hear the sound of many feet, hastening to the Judgment Hall; the murmur in the distance of an eager excited crowd. All Jerusalem is coming to the rescue! Voices will now be raised on Christ's behalf which, but for His word of power, had remained dumb for ever. Pilate's question will fall on ears which had never heard mortal voice, but for the mighty Ephphatha of Jesus. Eyes will gaze upon Him as He stands before that Judgment seat, which, but for His tender touch, had never known the light. And surely, strong right arms will be raised in His defence, which, till He spoke the word, were helpless--withered.

What chance has Barabbas? None!

But now a wild shout from the multitude bursts upon his ear:

"BARABBAS! BARABBAS! BARABBAS!"

Why do they shout His name?

A breathless silence; then a yet louder cry; a yell of derisive anger:

"CRUCIFY HIM! CRUCIFY HIM!"

What? Has it come to this? Are the rabble clamouring for his blood?

He rushes round his cell like a hunted beast at bay.

He beats his open palms against the hard stone walls.

Already he seems to feel the nails crush through the quivering flesh.

Hark!

They come.

A surging multitude surrounds his prison. The tramp of Roman soldiers rings on the outer pavement.

A cold sweat breaks out upon his brow. They have come to bring him forth to die.

The prison door is flung wide open. A ray of heavenly sunshine streams in, flooding his cell with golden light.

The Captain of the Guard stands in the entrance.

He speaks.

"Barabbas--thou art free."

"Free?" stammers the robber. "I? Free? Oh, mock me not! How can I be free?"

The Captain of the Guard steps in, and lays his hand roughly, yet kindly, on the robber's trembling shoulder. The full flood of morning sunlight streams through the doorway. Bolts, bars, chains, sentries--all are gone. The Roman soldier lifts his hand, and points to the open door.

"Thou art free, Barabbas. Jesus of Nazareth dies to-day, upon the very cross prepared for thee. Thou canst step out into life and liberty."

Reader--pause here, and see yourself. "Thou art the man." Have you not felt yourself walled in by wrath and sin; helpless, hopeless, condemned; cut off from all chance of a fresh beginning; despairing of ever starting a new and better life?

What Jesus did for Barabbas on that Good Friday, He can do for you, to-day.

To-day your dungeon doors are opened wide. You may step out into life and liberty. For HE has suffered on your cross; HE has borne your sin--the Just for the unjust, that He might bring you to God.

You are free!

Think you Barabbas crouched on in his prison, sighing for liberty, trembling in dread of death? Surely not. Who can doubt that he bounded through the open door, and out into the sunlight, breathing in deeply the sweets of life and liberty.

And, perhaps, later on, drawn thither by a strange and awful attraction, Barabbas found his way to that hill-top,--where many stood 'watching afar off,'--and saw Jesus, hanging where he should have hung; suffering as he should have suffered; dying that he might live. And may we not believe that the sight melted the robber's heart, and that the Just dying for the unjust, brought him indeed to God?

Reader--go and do thou likewise. Use thy first moments of glad liberty to find thy way to Calvary. Kneel on the blood-sprinkled ground, and clasp the cross which should have been thine own. Let thy heart break for love of Him who hangs thereon.

And then the cross shall vanish from thy view. Thy risen crowned King shall stand before thee, and claim thee as His own; for "HE DIED FOR ALL; THAT THEY WHICH LIVE, SHOULD NOT HENCEFORTH LIVE UNTO THEMSELVES, BUT UNTO HIM, WHO DIED FOR THEM, AND ROSE AGAIN."--2 Cor. v. 14-15.

"Were the whole realm of nature mine,
That were an offering far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all."