it is
in favor that the thing never happened; that the man is mistaken. Now,
I want you to remember it. Here is a man that comes into Jerusalem,
and the first thing he does he cures the blind. He lets the light of
day visit the darkness of blindness. The eyes are opened and the whole
world is again pictured upon the brain. Another man is clothed with
leprosy. He touches him, and the disease falls from him, and he stands
pure, and clean, and whole. Another man is deformed, wrinkled, bent.
He touches him and throws upon him again the garment of youth. A man
is in his grave, and He says, "Come forth!" and he again walks in life,
feeling his heart throb and beat, and his blood going joyously through
his veins. They say that happened. I don't know. There is one
wonderful thing about the dead people that were raised--we don't hear
of them any more. What became of them? Why, if there was a man in
this town that had been raised from the dead, I would go to see him
tonight. I would say, "Where were you when you got the notice to come
back? What kind of country is it? What kind of opening there for a
young man? How did you like it?" But nobody ever paid the slightest
attention to them there. They didn't even excite interest when they
died the second time. Nobody said, "Why, that man isn't afraid. He has
been there." Not a word. They pass away quietly. You see I don't
believe it. There is something wrong somewhere about that business.
And then there is another trouble in my mind. Now, you know I may
suffer eternal punishment for all this.

Here is a man that does all these things, and thereupon they crucify
Him. Now, then, let us be honest. Suppose a man came into Chicago and
he should meet a funeral procession, and he should say, "Who is dead?"
and they should say, "The son of a widow; her only support," and he
should say to the procession, "Halt!" And to the undertaker, "Take out
that coffin, unscrew that lid." "Young man, I say unto thee, arise!"
And the latter should step from the coffin, and in one moment after
hold his mother in his arms. Suppose he should go to your cemetery and
should find some woman holding a little child in each hand, while the
tears fell upon a new-made grave, and he should say to her, "Who lies
buried here?" and she should reply, "My husband," and he should say, "I
say unto thee, oh grave, give up thy dead," and the husband should rise
and in a moment after have his lips upo