He who wants to help others and cannot help Himself is a poor sort of Messiah." "Now, Master," exclaimed a Pharisee, "if you would rebuild the shattered Temple, now's the time.

Come down from the cross, and we'll believe in you." The man on the cross looked at the two mockers in deep sadness, and they became silent.

Suddenly a passage in the Scriptures flashed into their minds: "He was wounded for our transgressions!" When they had all drawn back from the cross, and the executioners were preparing to raise up the two desert robbers, the woman who had swooned, supported by the disciple John, tottered up to the tall cross and put her arms round its trunk so that the blood ran down upon her.
So infinite was her pain that it seemed as if seven swords had pierced her heart.

Jesus looked down, and how muffled was the voice in which He said: "John, take care of My mother! Mother, here is John, your son!" A murmur arose in the crowd: "His mother?
Is that His mother?
Oh, poor things! And the handsome young man His brother?
The poor creatures! Look how He turns to them as if He would comfort them." Many a man passed his hand over his eyes, the women sobbed aloud.

And a dull lamentation began to go through the people--the same people who had so angrily demanded His death.