BEFORE THE SOUL'S TRIBUNAL by MARCUS S. C. RICKARDS

THE champion of a lawless crew,
A murderer, a robber, too,
Caught, tried, and sentenced to his due,
He lingers in his cell:
This hour he dies, yet on the eve
Of crucifixion, I receive
An audience, begging his reprieve,
Of senators from Hell.

'Tis festal tide, and one they say
Has ever been released to-day:
Of two lorn prisoners they pray
My grace on him may light.
The other, by their malice bound,
Confronting me, they now surround,
Each baying like a hungry hound
Whose quarry looms in sight.

Decision is my single task,
What evil hath he done? I ask:
Their hoarse accusings plainly mask
Undying bitter hate.
Pure, tender, true, he has but taught
The doom of infamy, and sought
To bring whatever can be brought
To Goodness, soon or late.

Ah! whether of the twain? Decide,
My spirit! say -- shall it be Pride?
He is the culprit who had died
But for this vile appeal
Of lusts and impulses within,
Sworn prompters and supports of Sin,
That throng the Judgment-seat to win
His sentence's repeal.

Is Pride to live, that rebel chief,
Of grace and truth and love the thief,
Who murders hope, and slays belief,
And officers all guile?
Shall not Life's banquet prove a night
Of Passover from Dark to Light --
The Coronation day of Right
Throned all to reconcile?

Ah! bid the faultless Guide be freed,
(I call him Conscience now) whose lead
Obeyed shall satisfy all need,
And purify at length!
Fettered, tho' never breaking laws,
Silent, yet pleading well his cause,
Each Devil's advocate he awes
And makes their claim his strength.

Barabbas, to the Cross! thy doom
Is sealed: this heart, of Pride the womb,
Shall yield it, dying hard, a tomb,
Nor let it rise again!
But thou, the Christ within, all hail!
Thine be the Throne! the chain, the jail,
Be theirs that bound Thee. Live, Prevail,
And o'er my being Reign!

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