It was very still. The walls of the city shut out its sounds, and it was too early for regular traffic along the road to Bethany. A British Tommy climbed over the wall and sat upon a great rock under a gnarled old tree, his hat in his hand. Pictures of the old masters painted on walls of cathedrals, hanging in great galleries, hymns tender and sweet that had thrilled the souls of thousands, poetry that had comforted man in his deepest hours of need, shadowy forms of Crusaders who had dared the perils of sea and land, hunger and thirst and the swords of the enemy, the monk, the pilgrim, the student searching for truth:—all these passed before us under the olive trees and went out into the mist. Suddenly the day seemed to fade and that night of centuries ago came stealing into the Garden. Kneeling there under the olive trees, we saw Love make its supreme sacrifice and were not ashamed of the overwhelming emotion that stirred our souls to greater depths than ever had been touched before. We read the words softly—“if possible—if possible—nevertheless thy will be done.” The rest of the picture was not so hard to look upon for He had triumphed. He rose from His prayer a _Conqueror_. There was more than one grassy hollow near the sheltering wall where the disciples might have slept in the open, as did many at the time of the Passover. Regretful, He wakened them. The Roman soldiers with staves and smoking torches were coming down over the hill. His doom was sealed. What the law gave them no right to do, misunderstanding, cunning, and craft had done. Judas kissed him. We read the rest of the story from a little book that made it very plain.[1] Then we prayed, but not with words—there were no words. Footnote 1: _By an Unknown Disciple_—Hodder and Stoughton. On the little bridge that crosses over the Kedron to the Bethany road we stood for a long time looking back, loathe to leave. We remembered the white crosses of yesterday standing in long rows over there on the other side of the mount. He was not alone in the Garden! With Him there had gathered through the centuries an understanding multitude, young and loving life as did He, who had met their own Gethsemanes and gone out from them bravely to die.