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PILATE

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Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Sep 28, 1911

FromReview and Herald, Vol. 88, No. 39.

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PILATE

By Edith Campbell Babbitt

What is Truth? he asked, and lo, The Truth before him stood; He might have touched it with his hands, Have grasped it, if he would. But crushed and torn and crowned with thorns, How might such wonder be? Its form was bent, its face was wan, It seemed not royalty.
Foes without were clamoring hard, Its coward friends were hid; Who dares to say he has not done As that weak Roman did? Judging Truth, we would release Our Prisoner to-day; Like Pilate, fear the multitude, And sadly turn away.
Throughout the passing centuries, The Truth its sentence waits; Its craven friends ignobly hid, The rabble at the gates. Finding no fault, we yield the cross To Satan’s shrieking bands; Our silent God goes out to die,— We, frightened, wash our hands.
— Edith Campbell Babbitt, in Independent.