J. S. Machar
His hands and feet and dripped upon the ground.
His dying eyes gazed out into distance,
Across the white city, hills and woodlands,
And ridges of the peaceful peaks in whose
Lap lie the blue waters of Galilee.
He bowed His head.
A winged rustling reached
His ear. 'Twas not the Father's angel with
Refreshment's chalice for a weary soul—
An unclean spirit with its batlike wings
Outstretched upon the air flew unto Him.
He had to suffer Satan to sit on
His cross, lean toward His head. For faint within
Him was His spirit and weak to resist.
And Satan then said: Woeful Sufferer,
Upon Thy cross of wood we meet again!
To-day the last time. 'Tis settled to-day.
The battle has been fought.
Rememberest Thou
Three years hence, when I carried Thee yon in
The wilderness upon a high mountain
And shewed Thee mighty kingdoms, promised Thee
All of the glory of this world, shouldst Thou
Fall down and worship me? Thou didst refuse.
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