He

pass from me. Once more he endeavors to rise. draws himself up on his knees and clasps his hands together. His face again is lifted pallid and worn to the sky; he cannot speak aloud, his strength is gone. But there is heard the whisper: No, I yield, let not my

will be done.

He thinks now of his companions. The solitude has again overcome him; he shrinks from being alone; he must feel the touch of a hand. To be so alone is more than he can bear. He rises from his knees and slowly follows the same path, back to where he had left the disciples. He speaks; but again there is no What, were they once more asleep? They arouse themselves and rub their eyes to give him reply. But there was no use; they could not understand; their hour had not yet come. It was true, he was all alone. Again he exclaims to them, half in

answer.

The

sorrow, half in tenderness. What, could ye not watch with me one hour? Watch and be firm. spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.

He leaves them now and goes back a third time. It seemed to him as though he had been hours in the garden, although it had been but a few moments. What had he not suffered and endured in that short time!

For the third time he falls upon the ground with his face to the earth. His strength is almost gone. A little longer and he will not be able to think at all. He had not yet quite made up his mind. He is still debating. Yes, it was true; he had made a mistake. He must not yield. He dared not think of giving up. It was the voice of the tempter himself which was summoning him to die. Duty, the great cause for which he was working, the Kingdom of Heaven itself— everything demanded that he should wait and work. It was wrong to yield, it was cowardly to give up;

what right had he to the glory of martyrdom? No, he would not yield, he would flee and escape, he would do battle yet in that great cause to which he had devoted himself.

He draws himself together and rises to his feet. He has made up his mind. Strength has come back to him. It was to him for a moment as though he had taken food and drink; as though new life was given him. He starts; he will go to his disciples; they will leave the garden and fly to the mountains. With him and under his banner they shall still work for the cause of the new idea of the Kingdom of Heaven.

But no, he falls back in agony to the earth. None can know what he went through. It was to be the final struggle. The suffering was terrible. He could not die, he did not want to die, he dared not give up his cause. And yet a voice kept whispering, "You must, you must." It almost seemed to him as though he were being torn to pieces by his thinking. He hardly knew where he was. He put his hand to his forehead and suddenly asked himself, what it was? Could it be the dew of morning? No, it was the cold sweat of agony. No eye seemed to be there to take pity on him; the companions in the sky that shone with their light above, appeared to have no mercy; they could not feel.

Again he hears the sound of his own voice; this time it is not in a whisper; it is loud and clear, the last troubled cry in the stillness of the night. Oh, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me. Yes, it looked as though he would give up and go. The cold dew upon his forehead was gone; in its stead he was now sweating, as it were, great drops of blood; his soul and his body were on fire.

But hark! What was that? Could it be the murmur of the brook, or the breeze in the tree-tops;

could the birds be waking from their slumber? No, as he listened it was the sound of the heavy tread of feet. It was the crowd coming out of the city to seize him. Then he knew where he was; it all came back to him, what he was doing, what he had come there for. Again he raised his face to the sky. All of a sudden there was a change. The agony was gone. The lines of pain smoothed themselves out, the distress all disappeared, the look of doubt passed away; a calm floated down over him, rested on his face and passed into his soul. Had it been a dream, had he actually been in pain; what had he been thinking of during those last hours? He hardly seemed to know, he only whispers to himself: It shall not be. I yield, let not my will be done. And so he conquered.

The change had come, the agony was over, the doubt had gone. There was no pain nor sorrow now. He stood there firm and erect as on the day when he had set out from Nazareth in his youth to become the new messiah. Yes, he was ready; it was worth the while. He will drink the cup; Let not my will be done.

THE BETRAYAL.

Among the twelve disciples there was one who had never been quite loyal and true. He loved his friend and teacher; but he did not love him wholly. He had good feelings, a tender heart; he wanted to be a better man; but he was weak in will. When bad feelings or

dark thoughts would cross his mind, he did not always put them away or stamp them out. He would let them stay and grow, saying to himself: "It does not matter; they are only thoughts."

Did Jesus know all this? Did he ever look that man in the eye, or seem to pierce down in his soul and read his very mind? Yes, surely he must have done so; but he was willing to wait, and hope that the better feelings in the man would conquer.

They had all now been for some time in the great city together. What was going on in the mind of this one disciple, we do not know. Perhaps he had lost heart; it may be that he had been caring more for himself, thinking more of the glory of being one of the twelve disciples, than of what he could do for others by being one of that number. It may be that when he began to see that Jesus was not in favor at Jerusalem, that the leaders there and the mass of the people did not want him and would not receive him it may be at that hour the thought had come to this man that he would give up being one of the disciples. He had no desire to be the follower or the helper of a martyr, or perhaps himself some time in the future be obliged to suffer the pain and death of martyrdom. Was it possible that anger began to stir within him? Had he observed that Jesus had noticed the lurking disloyalty, and so had not been able to show him the same degree of cordial feeling which he displayed toward the others? Must we think that even jealousy as well as anger and selfish disappointment were at work for a time in that weak heart?

Was he ashamed of it? We are sure of that. Jesus would not have chosen that man and have had him with him for months and years, unless there had been much that was good and noble in his nature. Unfortunately, however, when those bad thoughts came to him, the man

had not cut them out as with a knife. Now at last they held him in complete possession.

The leaders of the people had decided that it would be necessary to remove Jesus from their midst; they were going to have him put to death; they said he should be crucified. They hated him; they feared for their own success and influence; they dreaded lest this new teaching should triumph. They did not like the kind of a man who could win people's minds and hearts by first making them love him, rather than by giving them great promises of good things and splendor

to come.

But they did not know just how to go about their task. There were too many friends of this new teacher already in their midst; it would not do for them to seize him publicly. They must find out where he went when he wanted to be alone; then in the darkness and silence of the night they could steal out from the city and take their victim.

At that moment is it possible that some one whispered to one of those leaders, that among the friends of Jesus was one who was not quite loyal? They knew what that meant; they had read the hearts of men too well; they saw at once their chance. They asked his name and was told that it was Judas. They sought him out; they told him that he had been wrong, that he had made a mistake in ever belonging to that group of disciples. Did they suggest to him that perhaps it would be well for his own safety if he stood off and withdrew. They saw his anger; they discovered his jealousy; worse than all, they detected the mean, base spirit of cupidity. They offered him money; they told him that if he would take them to Jesus without noise and disturbance, when the city was asleep, that that would be enough; then he could go and they would give him thirty pieces of silver.