There is a kind of noble extravagance in human love, without which the poet, the hero, the martyr would never reach their goals; for what do these great lovers of truth and of their fellow-men do but break the alabaster vase of life itself that the world may be filled with an immortal perfume? And then, with one heartthrilling touch, Jesus gives the right significance to this act of Mary's. What she does is against His burying, as though she anointed one already dead. When in six short days these captious friends of His see Him hanging slain upon the Cross, will they grudge Him Mary's spikenard, or think that she had loved Him too well? The worst torture of bereavement to many a mourner is the memory of unkindness to the dead, of niggardly returns of tenderness, and grudged and scant emotions; but none has ever yet regretted that the dead have been too lavishly or too well loved. The wasted spikenard will not seem wasted then. What kind of man is he who would seek to alienate to the service of the poor, however worthy or deserving, the last gift of human hands to One who gave His life for men? The poor themselves would disdain such base enrichment, and would count the thought an insult.

To Judas himself the words were of sad significance A little later Jesus employs the very word that Judas used in plausible reproach, and He employs it against Judas himself. Of all those whom God has given Him Jesus has lost but one-"the son of perdition," or the son of waste. He who was so anxious over the waste of Mary's ointment, had no eyes to see that it was he himself who was wasting. And it was through that very incapacity for tender sentiment, the exhibition of which in Mary had so much offended him, that the heart of Judas ran to waste. But Judas had no suspicion of the truth about himself. He found no hint of warning in the

dignified rebuke of Christ. As he and his fellow-disciples left the house of Mary that night, no doubt they renewed the discussion on the midnight road, and each felt that the protest had been merited. Silence settled on the house of Mary; but beneath that roof One slept not. Through the hours of darkness He who had loved these men through all their errors, and would love them to the end, knew the pang of love misunderstood. The lofty nature never is interpreted aright by the nature that is less lofty and magnanimous. One thought alone brought balm to the wounded heart of Jesus, sleep to the wearied eyes: the time was near when all misunderstandings would dissolve, and from these hearts, baptized in grief, the flower of perfect love would spring at last. The day was coming when they would see Him risen from the dead, and in that day they would know Him as He was, and love Him with a deathless adoration. For that day He could afford to wait.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE ENTRY INTO JERUSALEM

WHEN Jesus awoke next morning it was with complete composure. His disciples, refractory as they had been to His teaching the night before, had returned to their allegiance, and manifested no resentment. It is an affecting characteristic of these men that with all the narrowness of their intellectual apprehensions there was joined that peculiar nobility of temper which endures rebuke without cherishing offence. They doubted the wisdom of their Master, they criticised His conduct, but they never failed to follow Him. On this day they were to follow Him through one of the most exciting scenes of His career. It was a scene that seemed in such complete contradiction to the gloomy forecasts of defeat to which Jesus had accustomed them, that they might be excused if now, at last, they thought the kingdom of an outward triumph had already come.

We have already had occasion to note the extraordinary excitement which agitated the whole of Palestine at the period of the annual Passover celebrations. The spirit of patriotic and religious ardour ran like a flame throughout the land. There was no populous city, no remote hamlet, that did not furnish its contingent to what was practically an assembly of the entire nation. These innumerable bands of pilgrims

marched upon Jerusalem from every quarter, singing the ancient Psalms of Israel, encouraging in one another a joyous ecstasy full of eager hopes of some great national deliverance, to which the past history of their race, and especially the history of the Passover itself, gave vigorous sanction. Nor was it only from Palestine itself that this immense concourse was drawn. It included Jews and proselytes of every nation, who made their pilgrimage to the sacred shrine much as Christians of every creed still make an Easter pilgrimage to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, or the followers of Mohammed journey in countless thousands year by year to Mecca. It has been calculated that not fewer than a million strangers thus gathered in Jerusalem at the time of the Passover. Camps sprang up outside the walls of Jerusalem; contiguous villages, like Bethany, were crowded to overflowing; every road leading to the city was thronged with pilgrims, who daily increased in numbers as the solemn day drew near. In these circumstances we find the explanation of what was now to follow in the life of Jesus. His name and fame spread like the broadening ripples of a wave throughout this excited multitude. Bethany no longer afforded Him seclusion; it had become a suburb of Jerusalem. From lip to lip there passed the story of the raising of Lazarus, the rumored marvels of the Galilean ministry, the many proofs of Messiahship which He had given. The interest of the Feast was centred not in the Temple but in Him. The very opposition He had met made Him the more notorious. And it produced, as was natural, a counterfeeling-a strong desire on the part of thousands to do Him some honour, to accord Him some ovation that should be worthy of His fame.

How far Christ Himself was aware of this movement in His favour does not appear with any clearness in the

narratives of the Evangelists. If His previous career may be taken as the index of His thoughts, we should certainly have expected Him to reject any intended ovation, as He had rejected the proffered crown in Galilee. And there was the strongest reason of expediency why He should reject it. The priests, whom He knew to be His deadliest enemies, had hitherto entirely failed to manufacture any charge against Him which would ensure His condemnation. They could not put a man to death for merely doing good. Nor could they charge One with disaffection to the Roman Government-the only really capital offence-who had shown Himself consistently courteous to the Romans and respectful of their authority. Regarded merely as a policy, no policy could have been finer than that which Jesus had hitherto pursued. He had moved at a great altitude above all political contentions, and He was well aware that the scornful tolerance of Rome gave amnesty to every kind of religious or philosophical faith, so long as it did not involve an active interference in politics. But to enter Jerusalem as an acclaimed Messiah was to renounce the privileges of a political non-combatant. It was to play directly into the hands of His enemies. It was to afford them good ground for that capital charge which hitherto they had sought in vain to substantiate. It was, in fact, nothing more nor less than to make His own death a certainty, except upon the quite improbable hypothesis that the whole nation would support Him in a successful revolution against the Roman power.

How did it come to pass, then, that Jesus now permitted Himself to take a step so fatal to Himself, and to the continuance of His mission? We may set aside at once the theory that Jesus in this case permitted Himself to be overborne by the zeal of His friends, for that was a kind of weakness of which He was incapable. We may