his garments; I noted the rattling of dice in the brazen helmet wherein they were casting lots for his seamless robe.

The thieves on either hand joined for a time in the mockery; but presently a change came over the one upon the right, whose name was Dysmas.

This man, like his fellow, had belonged to a notorious band of robbers who infested the road to Jericho. His life had been passed in bloody work; but the patient demeanor of Jesus touched his heart and convinced him that He was indeed the veritable Son of God. The other thief joined in the mockery, but Dysmas remonstrated with him, saying, "Dost thou not even fear God? We indeed are condemned justly, receiving the due reward of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss." Then presently, turning his pain-racked eyes toward Jesus, he entreated, "Lord, remember me when thou comest in thy kingdom!" The Nazarene straightway turned upon him a look of compassionate love, saying, "To-day thou shalt be with me in paradise!"

An hour later this robber's head sank upon his breast; but in death his face wore a look of indescribable peace. The time came when the word of pardon addressed to this man was a message of hope and comfort to other great sinners. He who saved Dysmas in the article of death, plucking him from the edge of the abyss, was thenceforth believed by His followers to be able to save even unto the uttermost all who would come unto Him.

Not far from the cross stood a company of women wringing their hands in helpless grief. Among them was the mother of Jesus. When her infant son had been brought to the Jewish Temple, an old priest took him from his mother's arms and prophesied, "This child is set for the fall and rise of many in Israel"; then looking upon the mother, he said: "A sword shall pass through thine own soul also." At this moment his word was fulfilled; the iron entered her soul. Her dying Son beheld her, and, with his eyes directing her to one who was known as his favorite disciple, he said, "Woman, behold thy Son!" and this disciple thereupon bore her fainting away.

It was now noon, clear, scorching, Syrian noon. But a singular mist was gathering before the sun. Shadows fell from the heights of Moab; and as they deepened more and more the gleam on shield and helmet faded out. Night rose from the ravines, surging upward in dark billows, overwhelming all. A strange pallor rested on all faces.

It was night, an Egyptian night at high noon! What meant it? Manifestly this was no eclipse, for the paschal moon was then at its full. The Jews had ofttimes clamored for a sign, a sign whereby they might test this sufferer's Messianic claim. Had the sign come? Was nature now sympathizing with her Lord? Were these shadows the trappings of a universal woe? Was God manifesting his wrath against sin? Or was this darkness a stupendous figure of the position in which the dying Nazarene stood with respect to the deliverance of the race from sin?

Once in a Jewish synagogue I heard a rabbi read from the scroll of Isaiah a prophecy concerning the Messiah; that he was to be "wounded for our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities; that by his stripes we might be healed." It was predicted that when this Messiah came he should, bearing the world's burden of sin, go into the outer darkness in expiatory pain. Was it at this awful moment that he carried that burden into the region of the lost? Did he just then descend into hell for us?

Hark! a cry from his fever-parched lips, piercing the silence and the darkness, "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?" Save for that terrific cry of anguish the silence was unbroken for three mortal hours.

I have known other victims of the cross to vent their rage in impotent wrath, to spit their hate like asps, to harangue the crowd with helpless protestations, or to beg for the death-stroke; but this Jesus preserved a majestic silence. The people also seemed wrapped in a weird terror. Naught was heard but the rattling of armor as some