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 by honoring  the  whole  race  of  womankind  in  making them His  only  comforters;  by  allowing  Veronica  to wipe  the  blood  and  sweat  from  His  sacred  face,  and stopping to  sympathize  with  the  women  of  Jerusalem. I say,  to  sympathize  with  them,  for  when  they  would have consoled  Him,  He,  with  a  sublime  forgetfulness of self,  said:  "Weep  not  for  Me,  but  for  yourselves and  for  your  children." Aye, and  He  remembered His  fond,  dead  foster-father,  St.  Joseph,  and though no  man  in  all  that  throng  showed  Him  a single  kindness  by  word  or  deed,  yet  did  He  honor the male  sex  by  allowing  Simon  of  Cyrene  to  help Him carry  His  cross. So He  moved  on  to  His  death, tenderly solicitous  about  every  one  but  Himself; thinking of,  and  in  His  heart  weeping  for,  you  and me, His  brothers  and  sisters,  and  for  our  sins. On He goes,  more  dead  than  alive,  stopping  now  and then from  sheer  exhaustion;  on  and  on,  up  to  the  top of Calvary,  where  the  three  holes  are  already  dug. There He  throws  down  His  cross  and  waits  while  the vast throng  struggle  for  the  best  positions  from which to  view  the  scene.

The three  prisoners  are  left  alone  with  the  executioners and  a  small  guard. The condemned  are  now stripped — a small  matter  for  the  two  who  had  not been scourged,  but  for  Our  Lord  a  renewal  of  all  His agony, an  opening  up  of  every  wound  He  bears. Then two  rough  hangmen  seize  on  each  arm,  and  fling) them  rudely  down  upon  their  crosses  and  jumping  on them  with  fierce  haste,  set  the  enormous  nails  and  ply the  ponderous  hammers.   Oh  my  poor  Lord!  my