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 enter with  your  Son,  but  you  linger  by  the  door  and you try  to  count  the  countless  blows  and  your  maternal heart  sickens  at  the  sounds,  and  half-fainting  you lean against  the  wall,  and  your  hot  tears  fall  and  your loud sobs  reveal  your  unspeakable  woe. Ah! that gentle, loving  boy  that,  as  an  infant,  lay  smiling  in your  arms,  that  played  as  a  child  round  your  knee, that laid  His  boyish  head  on  your  lap  and  called  you Mother; that,  only  the  other  day,  held  you  in  His arms and  kissed  you  good-bye  forever — Ah! look at Him  now  stripped  of  His  garments,  stripped  of  His skin, stripped  of  His  flesh,  with  not  a  friend  in  all  the wide world  but  yourself — standing  in  the  midst  of  His barbarous persecutors,  looking  around,  vainly,  among them for  one  look  or  word  of  sympathy;  sinking down for  a  moment  under  His  load  of  mental  and bodily torture — into  the  dense  darkness  of  misery with not  a  ray  of  consolation. A moment  only,  for they soon  rouse  Him  and  put  on  His  garments  and hurry Him  out  past  His  poor  Mother,  up  to  the  great courtyard again. She cannot  follow  Him  in  there, and, even  if  she  could  she  could  never  get  near  Him with the  crowd. For the  place  is  filled  with  soldiers who seat  Him  on  a  stone  bench  and  place  on  His  head a platted  crown  of  huge  thorns  and  force  them  down and in  until  their  sharp  points  penetrate  the  skin  and grate on  the  bones  of  the  skull. Oh! the anguish  of the  Mother's  heart  as  she  listens  to  those  sounds! She cannot  see  Him,  but  she  knows  He  is  in  the  midst of that  throng,  silent  and  forlorn,  the  blood  streaming down into  His  eyes  and  mouth,  a  scarlet  fool  garment