I THOUGHT I should ask of thee but I dared not the rose wreath thou hadst on thy neck. Thus I waited for the morning, when thou didst depart, to find a few fragments on the bed. And like a beggar I searched in the dawn only for a stray petal or two. Ah me, what is it I find? What token left of thy love? It is no flower, no spices, no vase of perfumed water. It is thy mighty sword, flashing as a flame, heavy as a bolt of thunder. The young light of morning comes through the window and spreads itself upon thy bed. The morning bird twitters and asks, 'Woman, what hast thou got?' No, it is no flower, nor spices, nor vase of perfumed waterit is thy dreadful sword. I sit and muse in wonder, what gift is this of thine. I can find no place where to hide it. I am ashamed to wear it, frail as I am, and it hurts me when I press it to my bosom. Yet shall I bear in my heart this honour of the burden of pain, this gift of thine. From now there shall be no fear left for me in this world, and thou shalt be victorious in all my strife. Thou hast left death for my companion and I shall crown him with my life. Thy sword is with me to cut asunder my bonds, and there shall be no fear left for me in the world. From now I leave off all petty decorations. Lord of my heart, no more shall there be for me waiting and weeping in corners, no more coyness and sweetness of demeanour. Thou hast given me thy sword for adornment. No more doll's decorations for me!
THE PILGRIMS are afraid. The woman begins to cry, the men in an agony of wretchedness shout at them to stop. Dogs break out barking and are cruelly whipped into silence broken by moans. The night seems endless and men and women begin to wrangle as to who among them was to blame. They shriek and shout and as they are ready to unsheathe their knives the darkness pales, the morning light overflows the mountain tops. Suddenly they become still and gasp for breath as they gaze at the figure lying dead. The women sob out loud and men hide their faces in their hands. A few try to slink away unnoticed, but their crime keeps them chained to their victim. They ask each other in bewilderment, 'Who will show us the path?' The old man from the East bends his head and says: 'The Victim.' They sit still and silent. Again speaks the old man, 'We refused him in doubt, we killed him in anger, now we shall accept him in love, for in his death he lives in the life of us all, the great Victim.' And they all stand up and mingle their voices and sing, 'Victory to the Victim.'
