a whirlwind, this last star has gone
out in the darkness, and Jesus, deserted by man and God, stands there
_alone_.

Alone? No; for undaunted by the cruel mob, fearless in the strength of
mortal anguish, helpless, yet undismayed, stands the one blessed among
women, the royal daughter of a noble line, the priestess to whose care
was intrusted this spotless sacrifice. She and her son, last of a race
of kings, stand there despised, rejected, and disavowed by their nation,
to accomplish dread words of prophecy, which have swept down for far
ages to this hour.

Strange it is, in this dark scene, to see the likeness between mother
and son, deepening in every line of those faces, as they stand thus
thrown out by the dark background of rage and hate, which like a storm
cloud lowers around. The same rapt, absorbed, calm intensity of anguish
in both mother and son, save only that while he gazes upward towards
God, she, with like fervor, gazes on him. What to her is the deriding
mob, the coarse taunt, the brutal abuse? Of it all she hears, she feels
nothing. She sinks not, faints not, weeps not; her whole being
concentrates in the will to suffer by and with him to the last. Other
hearts there are that beat for him; others that press into the doomed
circle, and own him amid the scorn of thousands. There may you see the
clasped hands and upraised eyes of a Magdalen, the pale and steady
resolve of John, the weeping company of women who bewailed and lamented
him; but none dare press so near, or seem so identical with him in his
sufferings, as this mother.

And as we gaze on these two in human form, surrounded by other human
forms, how strange the contrast! How is it possible that human features
and human lineaments essentially alike, can be wrought into such
heaven-wide contrast? MAN is he who stands there, lofty and spotless, in
bleeding patience! _Men_ also are those brutal soldiers, alike stupidly
ready, at the word of command, to drive the nail through quivering flesh
or insensate wood. _Men_ are those scowling priests and infuriate
Pharisees. _Men_, also, the shifting figures of the careless rabble, who
shout and curse without knowing why. No visible glory shines round that
head; yet how, spite of every defilement cast upon him by the vulgar
rabble, seems that form to be glorified! What light is that in those
eyes! What mournful beauty in that face! What solemn, mysterious
sacredness investing the whole form, constraining fro