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 was the  resuscitation  of  Lazarus,  the  healing  of  the paralytic, the  sight  restored  to  the  man  born  blind — and but  yesterday  occurred  the  wonder  of  the  Transfiguration— miracles  so  stupendous  that  they  silenced even  His  enemies,  and  encouraged  His  well-wishers  to  come  forth  to  meet  Him  crying  "  Hosanna to  the  Son  of  David!  Blessed  is  He  that  cometh in  the  name  of  the  Lord." And yet,  of  all  that throng on  Olivet's  slope,  He  alone  is  sad. His eyes turn from  the  acclaiming  multitude  to  the  city beneath Him  and  He  bursts  into  tears. Is it  the thought of  His  past  wrongs  compared  to  His  present triumphs that  has  touched  His  heart? No, He  was ever cheerful  and  patient  under  suffering  and  wrong. Is it  the  prevision  of  the  tortures  He  is  soon  to  endure at  the  hands  of  this  very  people? No, self  has  no place  in  His  thoughts. Standing there,  a  figure  of sublime,  superhuman  disinterestedness,  such  as  the world has  never  since  or  before  seen,  He  weeps  over the city  of  His  enemies,  their  short-sightedness  and approaching destruction. After even  His  greatest miracles, Peter  alone  confessed  Him  to  be  the  Son  of the  living  God. The prodigies  attending  His  death on the  cross  moved  Longinus  alone  to  declare " Verily  this  was  the  Son  of  God,"  and  even  at  His Resurrection the  words  "  My  Lord  and  my  God 99 were  uttered  by  Thomas  and  Magdalen  only.  Yet here,  merely  at  seeing  Him  weep  over  the  city — an action  so  simple  and  yet  so  sublime,  so  forgetful  of self  and  so  full  of  compassion  and  forgiveness  for others,  so  intensely  human  and  yet  so  immeasurably