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was the resuscitation of Lazarus, the healing of the paralytic, the sight restored to the man born blind — and but yesterday occurred the wonder of the Transfiguration— miracles so stupendous that they silenced even His enemies, and encouraged His well-wishers to come forth to meet Him crying " Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is He that cometh in the name of the Lord." And yet, of all that throng on Olivet's slope, He alone is sad. His eyes turn from the acclaiming multitude to the city beneath Him and He bursts into tears. Is it the thought of His past wrongs compared to His present triumphs that has touched His heart? No, He was ever cheerful and patient under suffering and wrong. Is it the prevision of the tortures He is soon to endure at the hands of this very people? No, self has no place in His thoughts. Standing there, a figure of sublime, superhuman disinterestedness, such as the world has never since or before seen, He weeps over the city of His enemies, their short-sightedness and approaching destruction. After even His greatest miracles, Peter alone confessed Him to be the Son of the living God. The prodigies attending His death on the cross moved Longinus alone to declare " Verily this was the Son of God," and even at His Resurrection the words " My Lord and my God 99 were uttered by Thomas and Magdalen only. Yet here, merely at seeing Him weep over the city — an action so simple and yet so sublime, so forgetful of self and so full of compassion and forgiveness for others, so intensely human and yet so immeasurably