A picture that may not be all imaginary is given by Margaret Ashmun in
this poem from _The New England Magazine_:
And they released Barabbas, and he went
Forth from his dungeon, joying in the grace
Of life regained; yet, as he passed, a face
Shone out from the dim corridor, and bent
Its gaze upon him; questioning, intent.
He knew that brow where anguish had its place,
Those lips prophetic, sealed now for a space,
Those eyes, deep-welled with awful, still content.
The robber paused to marvel at the Man
Whose death should serve for his; nor spoke aloud
The foul jest in his throat. He stayed to scan
Once more that visage calm; then, trembling, bowed
With fear and harsh soul-harrowing grief, he ran
And hid himself, sick-hearted, in the crowd.
(410)