if it be possible, let this cup pass from Me"—and would see in it the proof that He was not the Christ, have ye ever thought that in this cry was all the glory? Very man of very man, a man to hope, a man to fear, a man to pray, a man weighted with the sins, not of Himself, but of the world. To die, not like a warrior on the battle-field, but an ignominious death of abiding torture, a death so undeserved, that it might well wring out the piteous cry that seemed to pierce the heavens and penetrate the radiant hills beyond, and onward to the throne of God. A prayer that the power of sin might be suspended without this awful sacrifice; that the sword of Satan might be sheathed before it slew, before the last foul crime of His death should stamp the world with infamy for ever.
Then, as though His agony were such that prayer could no longer pass His lips, He sought His three disciples.
Asleep, asleep, His own familiar friends. The one, too, who had promised so much—asleep, dreaming contentedly, in calm unconsciousness of the anguished soul-throbs of the Christ who knelt in agony with head bowed to the ground, breathing entreaties in blood-washed murmurs to the sky. Who can even picture to himself such solitude—a man alone—a God deserted!
Yet, at His approach they sprang to their feet, confused still, knowing not whether it was their Lord who called, or that an enemy was near.
"Could ye not watch with Me one hour?" Strange fortitude this, with which to face the world hereafter! "Watch and pray, that ye enter not
