The shapely form was buffeted with the blows of those who guarded Him, the divine face spat upon; those eyes that held in them the rays of eternal sunlight were blindfolded, for Him to be the sport of the lowest of earth's creatures.
"Prophesy who it was that smote Thee?"
Blasphemy after blasphemy fell upon ears that quivered in their purity. Taunt and oath and curse echoed round the prison walls; but the Nazarene neither spoke nor moved, nor asked even for a glass of water in His thirst and faintness. The dregs of the cup were thickening, slowly the drops were being swallowed. It would soon be finished now. The grey streaks of His last dawn on earth—before His resurrection,—the few bands of white on the walls of the filthy cell lighted the pale face of the Nazarene. A little more pain, a few more taunts, what mattered they? A little more strength only needed to go through twelve hours more. Ere that same sun should sink blood-red behind the hills, the agony would be over; the earth be bathed in the blood that would surge for ever over men's sins in a tide of endless patience till the Judgment Day; and the stupendous gift of the world's salvation would be offered, for men to take or leave.
