The captain drives the scoffing mob away, bidding the women come
nearer. Then a Roman soldier, sent by Pilate, comes and breaks the
legs of the thieves. We hear their bones crack under the club. Their
heads fall, their muscles shrink, as the breath leaves the body. But
finding that Jesus is already dead, the soldier breaks not his legs,
but thrusts a spear into his side. We can see the spear pierce the
flesh, but we cannot see that the blood flows from the spear-point
itself, and not from the Master's body. The soldiers fall back with a
feeling of awe. Then, one by one, as the darkness falls, we see them
file away on the road to Jerusalem, and the Son of Man is left in
silence.

Then follows the descent from the cross, which suggests comparison with
Rubens' famous painting in the Cathedral at Antwerp, but here shown
with a fineness of touch and delicacy of feeling which that great
painter of muscles and mantles could never attain. We see Nicodemus
climb the ladder leaned against the back of the cross. He takes off
first the crown of thorns. It is laid silently at Mary's feet. He
pulls out the nails one by one. We hear them fall upon the ground.
With the last one falls the wrench with which he has drawn it. Passing
a long roll of white cloth over each arm of the cross, he lets the
Saviour down into the strong arms of Joseph of Arimathea, and, at last,
into the loving embrace of John and Mary. No description can give an
idea of the all-compelling force of this scene. A treatment less
reverent than is given by these peasants would make it an intolerable
blasphemy. As it is, its justification is its perfection.

And this is the justification of the Passion Play itself. It can never
become a show. It can never be carried to other countries. It never
can be given under other circumstances. So long as its players are