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 also intently at this picture. I said, “Do you know who He is?”
“Yes,” came this quick response, “that’s our Saviour,” he said with a look of pity and surprise that I should not know what the picture represented.
With a desire to enlighten me further, he continued, after a pause: “Them’s the soldiers and that woman crying there is His mother.” With a pause he added, “They killed Him.”
“Where did you learn this?” I asked. He replied, “At Sunday School.”
I turned and resumed my walk, leaving the lad still looking at the picture. I had not walked a block when I heard his voice again calling. “Mister, Mister!” He ran toward me, paused and put up his little hand and with a triumphant sound in his voice and a radiant face, he said, “I WANTED TO TELL YOU: HE ROSE AGAIN!”
“Yes,” came this quick response, “that’s our Saviour,” he said with a look of pity and surprise that I should not know what the picture represented.
With a desire to enlighten me further, he continued, after a pause: “Them’s the soldiers and that woman crying there is His mother.” With a pause he added, “They killed Him.”
“Where did you learn this?” I asked. He replied, “At Sunday School.”
I turned and resumed my walk, leaving the lad still looking at the picture. I had not walked a block when I heard his voice again calling. “Mister, Mister!” He ran toward me, paused and put up his little hand and with a triumphant sound in his voice and a radiant face, he said, “I WANTED TO TELL YOU: HE ROSE AGAIN!”
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