When I came to the Gospels, and
read again the wonderful story of the Man of Nazareth, my whole soul
gave way. The beauty, the tenderness, the glory of His character
overpowered me. I was ashamed, that I should ever have so fearfully
misconceived it, and done it such grievous injustice. The tears rolled
from my eyes, moistening the book in which I was reading, and the paper
on which I was writing. But I proceeded with my task. I pondered every
word He uttered, and was delighted with His glorious revelations of God,
and truth, and duty. I gazed on all His wondrous works. I marked, I
studied, every trait in his character. I read the sad story of His
trials. I traced him through all His sufferings. I saw the indignities
and cruelties to which He was subjected, and I saw the meekness, the
patience, and the fortitude with which He suffered. I saw Him on the
cross. I heard the prayer which He offered in the midst of His agonies
in behalf of His murderers, 'Father, forgive them; they know not what
they do.' And still I read, and still I gazed, and still I listened. I
was entranced. I had thought to stand at a distance; to look at Jesus
with the eye of a philosopher and moralist only, and calmly and coolly
to take His portrait; but I was overpowered.
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