The Village of God by Vladimir Korolenko

We went together into the little chapel. Its walls were covered with regiments of icons, and at the eastern end was a crucifix also surrounded by icons. Gloomy faces, dark boards, bereft of heads. Oh, so many were lacking heads. As if the vague feeling of the simple offerers had sought thus to express their feeling that the punishments were undeserved.

I was especially surprised by one icon, of a crucifix painted on the cubical base. It was not old or had perhaps been renewed and it might well have been a piece of individual workmanship inspired by the sadness of this place. On a semicircular hill with no attempt at perspective could be seen a severed hand with compressed fingers. Beside it were huge nails. Hammer and saw were hanging in the air. Fragments of chains. A column with a bundle of rods and whips fastened to it were painted against a background of whirling clouds. But a faint light pierced the clouds and penetrated the mists like a faint gleam of hope. And as if to emphasize this idea more clearly, the artist had depicted a cock greeting the sunrise. On the top of the column the bird was standing with vibrating wings and open beak, welcoming the morning.