finally an usher had occasion to whisper to me, admonishing me to
retire with her, to which she replied, "I ain't agoing out."

Mortified beyond measure, I let my head sink forward on the back of the
pew in front of me. I soon became oblivious of my surroundings, for _I
was being blest with a wonderful vision._

I saw the Garden of Gethsemane. It was night, and sleeping souls lay
all around. One there was who was not sleeping. He was prostrate in
agony of prayer. As he wrung his hands, the blood started through his
pores, and dripped down upon the ground. Then a light shone around him,
a glorious light. Presently he arose, and the place filled suddenly
with soldiers who led him away, shouting in triumph as they did so.
Quickly the scene changed. Christ was now before the high priests.
Again the scene changed. He was passing by a man who was strenuously,
indignantly denying that he knew or had had anything to do with the man
under arrest. Oh! would that words of mine could picture the suffering,
sorrowful countenance, as Jesus gave poor Peter that parting, yearning
look. Pilate's hall was soon in sight, and the men in charge of Jesus
were mocking and smiting him. It was cold, and scarcely dawn of day.
What a throng, as they crowded into the presence of Pilate.

Again the scene changes. The Christ is being mockingly arrayed in a
once gorgeous, now old, shabby robe. Soon he is wearily pulled and
pushed back to Pilate's hall, where they strip the Son of God in the
presence of that howling mob, and beat him, until the blood streams
down his poor, lacerated back. Surely that is sufficient; but no! they
spit in his face. They press a cruel crown hard down upon his brow. Now
Pilate has washed his hands, and the Savior of the world is led away.
The soldiers are compelling him to bear some heavy wooden beams in the