I WAS standing before the window of an art store where a picture of the crucifixion of our Lord was on exhibition; as I gazed, I was conscious of the approach of another, and turning, beheld a little boy gazing intently at the picture also. Noticing that this mite of humanity was a sort of street Arab, I thought I would speak to him; so I asked, pointing to the picture,
“Do you know who it is?”
“Yes,” came the quick response, “that’s our Saviour,” with a mingled look of pity and surprise that I should not know. With an evident desire to enlighten me further, he continued, after a pause, “Them’s the soldiers, the Roman soldiers,” and with a long-drawn sigh, “That woman crying there is His mother.”
He waited, apparently for me to question him further, thrust his hands into his pockets, and with a reverent and subdued voice, added,
“They killed Him, mister. Yes, sir, they killed Him.”
I turned away and resumed my walk, leaving the little boy looking at the picture. I had not walked far when I heard his childish calling,
“Mister, say, mister.”
I turned. He was running toward me, but paused; then up went his little hand, and with triumphant voice he said,
“I wanted to tell you, He rose again. YES, MISTER, HE ROSE AGAIN.”
ML 09/11/1927