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 "Not Barabbas — let  him  go  free — but  let  the  Christ be  crucified." Look at  our  poor  innocent  Brother, as He  stands  there  on  that  balcony  before  that  immense throng — stands  handcuffed  to  a  highway  robber, a  red-handed  murderer — stands  there  in  mute appeal to  the  people  for  His  life. Oh! His heart sickens, and  His  soul  seems  to  die  within  Him,  and  a livid  hue  spreads  over  His  already  pale  and  ghastly countenance as  He  hears  them  cry:  "  Long  live  Barabbas; death  to  the  Christ."

The solemn  death-sentence  has  fallen  from  the judge's lips;  the  guilty  judge  washes  his  hands  as though  he  would,  thereby,  remove  the  stain  from  his conscience— our poor  Brother  is  hurried  off  to  suffer unheard-of sufferings  and  to  die  a  felon's  death. He is hurried  down  into  a  cold,  dismal  dungeon  in  the midst of  which  stands  a  column  three  feet  high  with a ring  at  the  top  like  a  hitching-post,  and,  being stripped of  His  garments,  He  is  bound  thereto  in  a stooping  position,  and  scourged. One by  one  each brawny savage  grasps  the  leather  thong,  with  its leaded ends,  as  it  falls  from  the  hand  of  his  exhausted predecessor, and  rains  blows  on  the  tender  back  and quivering sides  and  heaving  breast  of  our  poor Saviour. Oh! the horrible  echo  of  those  blows,  and the panting  of  the  executioner,  and  the  shower  of flesh  and  blood  that  strewed  the  ground,  and  the bones laid  bare,  and  the  convulsive  writhing  of  that body, and  the  mute  agony  of  those  streaming  eyes and that  quivering  countenance! Ah! Mary, the soldiers turned  you  roughly  away  when  you  tried  to