dark, sullen, and tangle-haired, dressed in a robe of saffron over dull
yellow, is the only person in the throng out of harmony with the
prevailing joyousness.

[Illustration: Peter Rendl as Saint John.]

Followed by the people, who stand apart in reverence as he passes among
them, Christ approaches the temple. His face is pale, in marked
contrast to his abundant black hair. His expression is serious, or
even care-worn, less mild than in the usual pictures of Jesus, but
certainly in keeping with the scenes of the Passion Play. A fine,
strong, masterful man of great stature and immense physical strength is
the wood-carver, Josef Mayr, who now for three successive decades has
taken this part. A man of attractive presence and lofty bearing, one
whom every eye follows as he goes about the town on the round of his
daily duties, yet simple-hearted and modest, as becomes one who takes
on himself not only the dress but the name and figure of the Saviour.

Essays have been written on "Christus" Mayr and his conception of
Jesus, and I can only assent to the general impression. To me it seems
that Mayr's thought of Christ is one which all must accept. He appears
as "one driven by the Spirit,"--the great mild teacher, the man who can
afford to be silent before kings and before mobs, and to whom the pains
of Calvary are not more deep than the sorrows of Gethsemane, the man
who comes to do the work of his Father, regardless alike of human
praise or of human contempt. The great strength of the presentation is
that it brings to the front the essentials of Christ's life and death.
There is no suggestion of theological subtleties nor of the ceremonies
of any church. It is simply true and terrible.