The procession stopped before a house--Christ sank to the earth.
A man came out and thrust Him from the threshold.
"Hence, there is no place here for you to rest."
Ahasuerus! The tortured sufferer looked at him with the gaze of a dying deer--a single mute glance of agony, but the man on whom it fell nevermore found peace on earth, but was driven from every resting-place, from land to land, from one spot to another--hunted on ceaselessly through the centuries--wandering forever.
"He will die on the road"--cried the first executioner, Christ had dragged Himself a few steps forward, and fell for the second time.
"Drive him on with blows!" shrieked the Pharisees and the people.
"Oh! where is the sorrow like unto my sorrow?" moaned Mary, covering her face.
"He is too weak, some one must help him," said the executioner. He could not be permitted to die there--the people must see Him on the pillory.
His face was covered with sweat and blood--tears flowed from His eyes, but the mute lips uttered no word of complaint. Then His friends ventured to go and render whatever aid was permitted. Veronica offered Him her handkerchief to wipe His face, and when He returned it, it bore in lines of sweat and blood, the portrait which, throughout the ages, has exerted the silent magic of suffering in legend and in art.
Simon of Cyrene took the cross from the sinking form to bear it for Him to Golgotha, and the women of Jerusalem wept. Christ was standing by the roadside exhausted, but when He saw the women with their children, the last words of sorrow for their lost ones rose from His heart to His lips: