He had been thinking of bygone days, of his early childhood, of his father and mother. He remembered the light of early morning as the sun rose over the Sea of Galilee. He recalled the soft glow of twilight when he had been watching the flocks on the hill, and thinking how all the great world was so much without a shepherd.

He remembered again the saying which had come down into the family, as connected with the dreams of his mother at the time of his birth. Glory in the highest! Peace on earth, good-will to men! He asked himself, had it come, was peace now abroad among men?

He thought of the time when he stood in the waters of the Jordan and felt the hand of his friend on his shoulders, while he had seen in his vision the figure of a dove hovering over his head. It too had told him of peace.

He remembered the walks from city to city, from village to village. He thought of the sick and the worn, the tired and the suffering to whom he had given a helping hand. He asked himself where are they

now?

There came to him the time when he stood before the thousands of people all around him, and gave them his Sermon on the Mount. He was mindful of the hours when he stood by the sea-side, and told the people gathered around him those stories and parables which should illustrate the teaching which he came to give.

He thought of the time when he had uttered this great lesson and said: "The Kingdom of Heaven is not of the world, not something of power and outward glory; it is a condition of the heart. Within yourselves is the Kingdom of Heaven."

He thought of the Last Supper and of the chosen

friends. He remembered the awful hour at Gethsemane. Where now were the twelve disciples; where now were those suffering ones whom he had helped on his journey from city to city; where now were the crowd that had come out to listen to him and had accepted his teaching; where now were the thousands that had listened to the great Sermon? Not one of all those people were there. Gone, scattered, they had left him alone to die. Friendless and defeated, he had worked in vain. What wonder that for a moment there came a cry in the silence and stillness of Calvary: I am forsaken.

But hark! What was that? A voice below at the foot of the cross. He listened? Could it be? He did not know. It was broken by sobs, but it almost seemed to him as though it was the loved voice of his mother.

The pain was forgotten; he thought no more of those nails riveting him to those beams of wood. It was to him as though some one were clinging to the foot of the cross. A tremor seemed to pass up to him from below. It was as though he felt the touch of those fingers, the pain of that suffering soul. The voice was speaking, at times in a whisper and then aloud. Where had he heard those words?

He was despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief: And as one from whom men hide their faces he was looked down upon and we esteemed him not.

The voice broke; it was shaken with tears, while the arms of the woman below clung wildly to the cross. Yes, he remembered; he had heard those words. They had been said over to him in his childhood from the lips of his mother. It told of the sufferings that all men had to endure, who wanted to do great and good work for the world.

Hark! again the voice is speaking; he listens hoping to catch the words. Certainly somewhere he has heard them before.

He was oppressed and afflicted; yet he opened not his mouth. As a lamb that is led to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is dumb, so he opened not his mouth. He was cut off out of the land of the living; for the transgression of the people was he stricken.

Again the voice broke down; it was choked with tears. Still up there with his arms outstretched, Jesus seemed to feel the hands of the friend below clinging to the cross. What did those words mean? Could it be that he was of that number, that it was for him also to suffer and endure, and so in this way to help his fellows? Perhaps he was not forsaken. What right

had he at that moment to think of himself at all?

But hark again: The voice begins once more. It is full of tears, the sentences are broken. But as he listens there floats up to him the words:

Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows. He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities. All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and on him was laid the iniquity of us all.

Then there was a silence. No further word was Said. Yet still he could feel the presence of that mother clinging to the foot of the cross. He did not speak; he could not do so. But he had listened and understood what it meant.

Yes, he was to be of that number. All this had to be. Only as he went through this agony, would men believe what he said. He had to suffer, if he were to prove to men that there was something else worse than pain and suffering. When he was gone they would believe and understand. The teaching had been

given; it could never be taken back or forgotten. It was now in other hands than his.

Whenever the world should turn to the new teacher and say: "Prove to us now that any man has ever tried this and found it true. Show to us that any man believed it and had such faith in it that he was ready to die for its cause," then people could always look back and say: "Remember Jesus."

No, he was not forsaken. The men below did not understand. The crowd which had treated him so unkindly would not have done it, if they had known better and been told in their childhood of this other teaching. It was all well as it was. He was glad and ready, as he thinks, "My work is over; all is well."

In the stillness below, the watchers at the foot of the cross heard the words from above: It is finished. They looked up, the eyes were closed. Jesus was at rest. They had caught his last words. It is finished.

THE CONCLUSION.

Where now were the friends and disciples who were to carry on the teachings? Their leader was gone; they were left all to themselves. They had been scattered all over the country, having fled in terror lest they should suffer a like doom on the cross.

But now at last when the end had come, they hastened back once more to the city. Sorrow had overcome them; they were broken in spirit and bowed down in shame to think they had not had the courage to go and suffer with their master. They had sup

posed themselves so firm and brave; they fancied they had loved him so truly; they had never doubted their own loyalty. Yet not one of them had come to his help.

It was now too late to repent. Their sorrow would do no good; they could not take back what they had done. But there was left to them now the task of carrying on the work which he had laid down.

They come together quietly in a room by themselves where they could talk and decide what to do. There was no use accusing one another; it was now time for them to act.

This time they were not afraid. They had failed in loyalty once; but it would not happen again. They could hear the voices of the people on the streets below; they knew perfectly well that the crowd outside, if it could find them, would seize them too and put them to death. But it did not matter; though late in their willingness, now at last they were ready.

They talked long together; they recalled to one another the events of the last two years. They remembered what he had said to them: Whoever would come after me, let him deny himself, take up his cross and follow me. They had not understood him then; but it was all clear to them now.

They told one another how he had called them, saying to each: Come now and I will make you fishers of men.

They were reminded how they had leaned on him for support; they remembered his final charge: He that would be greatest among you, let him be as one that would serve.

They recalled their long journeys with him from city to city; how they had been with him at the bedside of the sick and dying. They could hear him saying