B. Johnson Bent nearly double under the weight of a huge cross, a man, guarded by soldiers and followed by a yelling, mocking mob, struggles up a hill. Sweat and blood are mingled on His white, pain-drawn face, for a crown of sharp thorns has been pressed upon His head with such force that it is piercing the flesh deeply. One needle-like dart is sticking just above one eye, and the blood is running down and partially obscuring His vision. His hands are bound tightly behind His back which, with...





