The leader., 1889-12-14

Sometimes men on the way to the scaffold
have been rescued by the mob. No such at
tempt was made in this case, for the mob
were against Him. From nine in the morn
ing till three in the afternoon, Jesus hung
e-dying in the outskirts of this city 1t was
a scene of blood. We are so constituted that
nothing is so exciting as blood. 1t is not the
child's cry in the street that SO arouses you
as the crimson dripping from its lip. In the
dark hail. seeing the finger marks of
blood on the plastering you cry:
What terrible deed has been done herew'
Looking upon this suspended victim of the
cross, we thrill with the sight of blood
blood dripping from thorn and nail. blood
rushing upon His cheek blood saturating His
garments, blood gathered in pool beneath.
1t is called an honor to have in ones veins
the blood of the house of Stuart, or of the
house of Hapsburg. Is it nothing when
point you to the outpouring blood of the
King of the universe?
In England the name of Henry was SO great
that its honOrS were divided among different
reigns. 1t was Henry the First, and Henry
the Second, and Henry the Third, and Henry
the Fourth and Henry the Fifth. In France
the name of Louis was SO favorably regarded
that it was Louis the First Louis the Second,
Louis the Third, and so on. But the King who
walked these streets was Christ the
Only. He reigned before the Car mounted
the throne of Russia, or the throne of Aus
tria was lifted, king eternal, immortal" /"
Through the indulgences OF the royal family,
the physical life degenerates, and some of
the Kings have been almost imbecile, and
their bodies weak, and their blood thin and
watery: but the crimson life that flowed upon
Calvary had in it the health of immortal
God
Tell it now to all the earth and to all the
heavens-Jesus, our King, is sick with His
last sickness. Let couriers carry the swift
dispatch His pains are worse; He is breath
ing a last groan; through His body quivers
the last anguish; the King is dying; the King
is dead! It is royal blood 1t is said that some
religionists make too much of the humanity
of Christ. 1 respond that we make too lit
Gle. II some Roman surgeon, standing un-
der the cross, had caught one drop of the
blood on his hand and analyzed it, it
would have been found to have the
same plasma, the same disk, the same fibrin,
the same albumen. 1t was unmistakably
human blood. 1t is a man that hangs there.
His bones are of the same material as ours
His nerves are sensitive like ours. If it were
an angel being despoiled l would not feel it
SO much, for it belongs to different order
of beings. But my Saviour is a man.
and my whole sympathy is aroused.
1 can imagine how the spikes felt-how
hot the temples burned-what deathly
sickness seized His heart-how mount
ain, and city, and mob swan away from His
dying vision--something of the meaning of
that cry for help that makes the blood OF all
the ages curdle with horror: MY God! my
God why hast Thou forsaken me2"
Forever with all these scenes of Saviour's
suffering will this city be associated. Here
His unjust trial and here His death. Oh, Je-
rusalem, Jerusalem!
But finally | am thrilled with the fact that
this city is a symbol of heaven which is only
another Jerusalem. "The New jerusalem p
And this thought has kindled the imagina-
ton of all the sacred poets. l am glad that
Horatio Bonar, the Scotch hymnist. rum
mayed among old manuscripts of the British
museum until he found that hymn in ancient
spelling, parts OF which we have in mutilated
form in our modern hymn books, but the
quaint power of which we do not get in our
modern versions:
Hierusaem, my happie home!
When shall come to thee2
When shall my sOrrOwes have end,
Thy joyes when shall see?
Noe dampish mist is scene in thee,
Noe colde nor darksome night
There everie soule shines as the sunne
There God Himselfe gives light
Thy walls are made of precious stones.
Thy bulwarkes damondes square;
Thy gates are of right orient pearle,
Exceedinge richie and rare
Thy turrettes and thy pinnaces
With carbunces doe shine;
Thy verrie streets are paved with gould,
Surprising clear and fine,
Thy houses are of yvorie,
Thy windows crystal cleare;
Thy tyles are made of beaten gould,
o God! that were there.
Our sweete is MKT with bitter gaue,
Our pleasure is but paine;
Our ioyes scarce last the lookeing on,
Our sorrows stille RENAME.
But there they live in such delight,
Such pleasure and such play,
As that to them thousand yeares
Doth seme as yesterday.
Thy gardens 3 thy gallant wakes
Continuall & greene;
There grow such sweete and pleasant flowers
As no where else scene.
There trees forevermore bear fruite
And evermore doe syringe;
There everm0re the angels sit,
And evermore doe SINCE.
Hierusalem! my happie home!
Would God were in thee!
Would Goa my woes were at an end,
Thy ioyes that might see!