ulsed by the tension, how painfully His arms stretch, how the wounds
grow wider, and how the exhausted abdomen disappears under the ribs.
The arms stretch more and more, grow thinner and whiter, and become
dislocated from the shoulders, and the wounds of the nails redden and
lengthen gradually--lo! in a moment they will be torn away. No. It
stopped. All stopped. Only the ribs move up and down with the short,
deep breathing.

On the very crown of the hill the cross is raised, and on it is the
crucified Jesus. The horror and the dreams of Judas are realised, he
gets up from his knees on which, for some reason, he has knelt, and
gazes around coldly.

Thus does a stern conqueror look, when he has already determined in his
heart to surrender everything to destruction and death, and for the last
time throws a glance over a rich foreign city, still alive with sound,
but already phantom-like under the cold hand of death. And suddenly,
as clearly as his terrible victory, Iscariot saw its ominous
precariousness. What if they should suddenly understand? It is not yet
too late! Jesus still lives. There He gazes with entreating, sorrowing
eyes.

What can prevent the thin film which covers the eyes of mankind, so thin
that it hardly seems to exist at all, what can prevent it from
rending? What if they should understand? What if suddenly, in all
their threatening mass of men, women and children, they should advance,
silently, without a cry, and wipe out the soldiery, plunging them up to
their ears in their own blood, should tear from the ground the accursed
cross, and by the hands of all who remain alive should lift up the
liberated Jesus above the summit of the hill! Hosanna! Hosanna!

Hosanna? No! Better that Judas should lie on the ground. Better that he
should lie upon the ground, and gnashing his teeth like a dog, should
watch and wait until all these should rise up.

But what has come to Time? Now it almost stands still, so that one would
wish to push it with the hands, to kick it, beat it with a whip like
a lazy ass. Now it rushes madly down some mountain, and catches its
breath, and stretches out its hand in vain to stop itself. There weeps
the mother of Jesus. Let them weep. What avail her tears now? nay, the
tears of all the mothers in the world?

"What are tears?" asks Judas, and madly pushes unyielding Time, beats it
with his fists, curses it like a slave. It belongs to some one else, and
therefore is unamenable to