The world has never forgotten that cry, and never will.  To the very last the world will wonder how it should have come to be raised, and will condemn and pity the crowd of people who gave themselves up to it, for they were making a hero of the vilest stuff, and clamouring for the murder of the world’s one Divine man.  There never was a more brutal and insane shout than that; never again can there be a choice so fatal and so suicidal as the choice they made:  “Away with this man, and release unto us Barabbas.”

If the thing had not happened, we should say it was impossible.  It seems well-nigh incredible that human eyes and human hearts could be so blind.  A story of this kind is food for the bitterest cynic.  He who has the most utter contempt for the race to which he belongs might find here almost a justification of his scorn.  Oh what a satire upon human nature, that a whole city full of people, men, women, mothers and daughters, had come to this pass that they could not discern which was the nobler of these two—­nay, thought that Barabbas was more deserving of their honour.  One the very flower and crown of humanity, the express image of God; and the other a gaol bird, a notorious criminal, whose hands had been dyed red, and whose heart had been hardened by the shedding of blood.  Well might those pitiful lips say, “Father forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

Why did they do it?  Why did they raise their voices for Barabbas?

The main answer is that men make their heroes as the heathen make gods, after their own image.  There is no doubt that Barabbas was more to the taste of this people, more according to their heart, than Christ; or at least they thought he was; not quite their ideal man, perhaps, but certainly nearer to their ideal than the Christ whom they rejected.  It may be that they had had no particular love for him until just now, possibly they had hardly thought of him at all; but now it was a question between this man and Jesus, and Jesus they did not want at any price.  And their very hatred of the one made the other look beautiful.  Barabbas is our man, they said, and the more they said it the more they believed it; and each time the name was repeated it sounded sweeter, until they were all shouting it, nine-tenths of them because the others shouted it, and until they really made themselves believe that in this man they had got a veritable hero and hardly less than a god.

That is always what happens in such cases, the greater part begin shouting for no particular reason because a few others have led the way, and they end by believing that the man whom they are acclaiming is almost divine; yet it is certain that they elected this man on the whole because of the two he had more points in common with them, this poor despicable and very unheroic thing was the person whom they delighted to honour because they themselves were very unheroic and somewhat despicable.  We cannot see the greatness of a truly great man unless there is just a bit of greatness in ourselves; Christ was too big and too divine to be seen and measured by their small and vulgar eyes.  Barabbas was about their size, and they raised their voices for him.