eir price; at the most critical moment they leave him who has
trusted them in the lurch. This was what had happened to Jesus; now at
last the wizard's wand was broken and He could charm no more.

As they thus poured out the gall which had long been accumulating in
their hearts, they did not notice that, in the multitude of their
words, they were using the very terms attributed in the twenty-second
Psalm to the enemies of the holy Sufferer: "He trusted in God; let Him
deliver Him now, if He will have Him; for He said, I am the Son of
God." Cold-blooded historians have doubted whether they could have
made such a slip without noticing it; but, strange to say, there is an
exact modern parallel. When one of the Swiss reformers was pleading
before the papal court, the president interrupted him with the very
words of Caiaphas to the Sanhedrim: "He hath spoken blasphemy: what
further need have we of witnesses? What think ye?" and they all
answered, "He is worthy of death"; without noticing, till he reminded
them, that they were quoting Scripture.[3]

Jesus might have answered the cries of His enemies; because to one
hanging on the cross it was possible not only to hear and see, but also
to speak. However, He answered never a word--"when He was reviled, He
reviled not again," "as a sheep before her shearers is dumb, so He
opened not His mouth." This was not, however, because He did not feel.
More painful than the nails which pierced His body were these missiles
of malice shot at His mind. The human heart laid bare its basest and
blackest depths under His very eyes; and all its foul scum was poured
over Him.

Was it a temptation to Him, one wonders, when so often from every side
the invitation was given Him to come down from the cross? This was
substantially the same temptation as was addressed to Him at the
opening of His career, when Satan urged Him to cast Himself from the
pinnacle of the temple. It had haunted Him in various forms all His
life through. And now it assails Him once more at the crisis of His
fate. They thought His patience was impotence and His silence a
confession of defeat. Why should He not let His glory blaze forth and
confound them? How easily He could have done it! Yet no; He could
not. They were quite right when they said, "He saved others, Himself
He cannot save." Had He saved Himself, He would not have been the
Saviour. Yet the power that kept Him on the cross was a far mightier
one