THE NIGHT darkened. Our day's works had been done. We thought that the last guest had arrived for the night and the doors in the village were all shut. Only some said, The king was to come. We laughed and said 'No, it cannot be!'
It seemed there were knocks at the door and we said it was nothing but the wind. We put out the lamps and lay down to sleep. Only some said. It is the messenger!' We laughed and said 'No, it must be the wind!'
There came a sound in the dead of the night We sleepily thought it was the distant thunder. The earth shook, the wails rocked, and it troubled us in our sleep. Only some said, it was the sound of wheels. We said in a drowsy murmur, 'No, it must be the rumbling of clouds!'
The night was still dark when the drum sounded. The voice came 'Wake up! delay not!' We pressed our hands on our hearts and shuddered with fear. Some said, 'Lo, there is the king's flag!' We stood up on our feet and cried 'There is no time for delay!'
The king has come-but where are lights, where are wreaths? Where is the throne to seat him? Oh, shame. Oh utter shame! Where is the hall, the decorations? Some one has said, 'Vain is this cry! Greet him with empty hands, lead him into thy rooms all bare!'
Open the doors, let the conch-shells be sounded! In the depth of the night has come the king of our dark, dreary house. The thunder roars in the sky. The darkness shudders with lightning. Bring out thy tattered piece of mat and spread it in the courtyard. With the storm has come of a sudden our king of the fearful night.

কহিল গভীর রাত্রে সংসারে বিরাগী--
"গৃহ তেয়াগিব আজি ইষ্টদেব লাগি।
কে আমারে ভুলাইয়া রেখেছে এখানে?"
দেবতা কহিলা, "আমি।"--শুনিল না কানে।
সুপ্তিমগ্ন শিশুটিরে আঁকড়িয়া বুকে
প্রেয়সী শয্যার প্রান্তে ঘুমাইছে সুখে।
কহিল, "কে তোরা ওরে মায়ার ছলনা?"
দেবতা কহিলা, "আমি।"--কেহ শুনিল না।
ডাকিল শয়ন ছাড়ি, "তুমি কোথা প্রভু?"
দেবতা কহিলা, "হেথা।"--শুনিল না তবু।
স্বপনে কাঁদিল শিশু জননীরে টানি--
দেবতা কহিলা, "ফির।"--শুনিল না বাণী।
দেবতা নিশ্বাস ছাড়ি কহিলেন, "হায়,
আমারে ছাড়িয়া ভক্ত চলিল কোথায়?"

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.'