"It is all over; they have condemned Him to be crucified," wailed Lazarus; and great, strong man though he was, his voice broke and tears rose to his eyes. "I can scarce tell ye," he added, crying like a woman. "They scourged Him, scourged our Lord; Pontius Pilate with his own hands scourged Him, and Caiaphas did laugh, they say, with joy; but of that I know not; for I could not stay and not cry out; and, maybe, for every cry of mine they had scourged Him yet again." At his words the Saviour's mother, with a slight groan and a cry, fell fainting to the ground. "I wot not she was here," said Lazarus. "It seemeth to me that my heart and brain have given way. Hearken unto them."
And in the distance, like the bellowing of furious bulls, or the thunder of a torrent that has broken loose and sweeps everything before it, came the dull roar of men with souls so dead as to be lost to all conception of the majesty, the mercy, or the truth of God.
"Crucify Him! Crucify Him!" rose the cry; and strident laughter, and the gibing voices of men, and the shrill shrieks of women combined to form the delirious clamour that rose beneath the midday sun.
Then Mary Magdalene, no longer able to contain herself, threw herself into the arms of Mary, and cried out bitterly: "And all this for my sins, my sins!" Then, with hearts bursting with such grief as those who live in these later days can scarce conceive—a grief peculiar to those few to whom it was given to know and love the Saviour when on earth—they discussed what should they do.
