It was a costly nap, on that account, but otherwise it was a paying investment because it brought unconsciousness of the dreary minutes and put us in a somewhat fitter mood for a first glimpse of the sacred river.
With the first suspicion of dawn, every pilgrim took off his clothes and waded into the dark torrent, singing: "On Jordan's stormy banks I stand, And cast a wistful eye To Canaan's fair and happy land, Where my possessions lie." But they did not sing long.

The water was so fearfully cold that they were obliged to stop singing and scamper out again.

Then they stood on the bank shivering, and so chagrined and so grieved, that they merited holiest compassion.

Because another dream, another cherished hope, had failed.

They had promised themselves all along that they would cross the Jordan where the Israelites crossed it when they entered Canaan from their long pilgrimage in the desert.