Ah, how the Jews looked down upon the Samaritans. There was a great, high partition wall between the Jews and the Samaritans. The Jews would not allow them in the Temple; they would not have any dealings with them; they would not associate with them. I can see him coming along that road, with his good, benevolent face; and as he passes he hears a groan from the poor fellow. He draws in his beast, and pauses to listen. “And he came to where he was.” This is the sweetest thing, to my mind, in the whole story. A good many people would like to help a poor man if he was on the platform--if it cost them no trouble. They want him to come to them. They are afraid to touch the wounded man; he is all over blood, and they will get their hands soiled. And that was just the way with the priest and the Levite. This poor man, perhaps, had paid half of all his means to help the service in the Temple, and might have been a constant worshiper; but they only felt pity for him. This good Samaritan “came to where he was,” and after he saw him he had compassion on him. That word “compassion”--how sweet it sounds! The first thing he did on hearing him cry for water--the hot sun had been pouring down upon his head--was to go and get it from a brook. Then he goes and gets a bag, that he had with him--what we might call a carpet-bag or a saddle-bag in the West--and pours in oil on his wounds. Then he says to himself: “The poor fellow is weak.” So he goes and gets a little wine. He has been lying so long in the burning sun that he is nearly dead now--he had been left half dead--and the wine revives him. The good Samaritan looks him over, and sees all the wounds that need to be bound up. But he has nothing to do this with. I can see him now, tearing the lining out of his coat, and with it binding up his wounds. Then he takes him up and lays him on his bosom until he is revived, and, when the poor fellow gets strength enough, the good Samaritan puts him on his own beast. If the Jew had not been half dead he would never have allowed the Samaritan to put his hands on him. He would have treated him with scorn. But he is half dead, and he can not prevent the good Samaritan treating him kindly and putting him on his beast. Did you ever stop to think what a strong picture it would have been if the Samaritan had not been able himself to get the man on the beast--if he had needed to call any assistance? Perhaps a man would have come along, and he would have asked him to help him with the wounded man. “What are you?” “I am a Samaritan.” “You are a Samaritan, are you? I can not help you--I am a Jew.” There is a good deal of that spirit today--just as strong as it was then. When we are trying to get a poor man on the right way--when we are tugging at him to get his face toward Zion--we ask some one to help us, but he says: “I am a Roman Catholic.” “Well,” you say, “I am a Protestant.” So they give no assistance to one another.