I SAW that procession walking on the hard, dusty road up the hill of Golgotha; the conglomeration of faces and their varied emotions; the rabble, some like beasts thirsting for blood; some, vengeful pride and power dominant; some bewildered, pitiful, lost. Here was He, to Whom they had looked for so much; He Who had smiled so gently and lovingly, had laid on them such tender hands, spoke such simple, understanding words, gave hope and promise of surcease from strife and pain, had fed them and healed them—He, at the mercy of the rabble, walking the dusty road, dragging the heavy cross, sweat mixed with dust streaming down that gentle face; prodded by the Soldiers of Rome, mocked by the Jews!

Oh! Merciful Father, how could this be!

Then I saw Him hanging from the cross; and as I looked an overwhelming sense of the hopelessness and futility of giving up all for an ideal—of suffering for others.

When suddenly, the cross and the figure faded slowly, slowly; and before it stood a great and glorious Form in long flowing robes, hands outstretched, face upraised and shining, an expression too angelic for words—the whole surrounded with a great white light Whose glory made my very breath cease.

As I watched, the cross grew fainter back of the Form, then was gone. But the Form stood forth, radiant, transcendant, undying. And I knew, deep in my consciousness, that the cross was the least part of the Glorious Plan!