JERUSALEM.
Approaching Jerusalem—Coming Events—Dreams—Light Breaks
In—Serenade—Zion, the City of God—Prayers Answered—Gratitude—A
Vision of Peace—Blighted Fig-Tree—Still a Holy City—Prominence
of Jerusalem—Its Influence among the Nations—A Melted
Heart—Tents Pitched—Walk About Zion—Situation of the City—Its
Walls—Its Gates—Afraid of Christ—Crossing the Kedron—Tomb of
Virgin Mary—Gethsemane—What it Means, What it Is, and How it
Looks—Superstitious Monks—Jerusalem Viewed from the Mount of
Olives—Architecture of the City—Prominent Objects—Entering the
City—Its Streets—Its Population—Jewish Theologues—Remaining
Portion of Solomon’s Temple—“Wailing Place” of the Jews—Kissing the
Wall—Weeping Aloud—Fulfillment of Prophecy—Only One Conclusion.
TO-MORROW the equestrian pilgrims will pitch their tents on the holy
hill of Zion. It will be a time of rejoicing. I think that each one of
the party will put down in his diary. “This is the happiest day of my
life.”
The nearer we come to our journey’s end, the more intense becomes the
excitement. The night before reaching the city, our tents are pitched
in a valley. “Coming events” have already begun to “cast their shadows
before them.” Each one of the company is excited; each one filled
with life, hope, and anticipation. We all sing: “I’m a pilgrim; I’m a
stranger; this world is not my home,” “I seek a city whose builder and
maker is God,” and “Oh, Jerusalem, Jerusalem, my happy, happy home.”
At length, “weariness spreads her ever welcome couch,” and we fall
asleep. Some of us dream that Jerusalem is a “golden city.”
The leaden-footed hours of the night pass by. About five o’clock in the
morning,
“Light breaks in upon my brain.
’Tis the carol of a bird—
The sweetest song ear ever heard.
And mine are so thankful
That my eyes run over with glad surprise.”
It is a nightingale, the queen of songsters. Perched on a swaying limb,
not far away, she flings her merry notes into the sleeper’s tent. The
little warbler sings as if the heart of melody has been broken on her
tuneful tongue. Methinks it is the sweetest song ever wafted to human
ears on the perfumed breezes of the night. It reminds one of the time
when the angel host sang to the shepherds on the plains of Bethlehem.
I can not sleep. The morning star has dropped such a bright light from
the sky that it looks like day.
The pilgrims are up early enough to see the stars, one by one, fade
away. The sun rises clear and bright above the eastern hills, and
flings his rays of light across a cloudless sky.
We are off earlier than usual. At ten o’clock we ascend the brow of a
hill, and “Zion, the city of God,” bursts full upon our vision! Every
horse is stopped. Every head is uncovered. Not a word is spoken. I can
never forget the flood of “sweetly solemn thoughts” that comes to me
during the calm of this holy hour. Oh! the thrill of joy that goes
through the soul of man when he finds his prayers answered; when he
realizes that the toil and sacrifice of years have not been in vain;
when he sees the bud of hope ripen into golden fruit! Only one person
on this earth knows what it cost me to come here. Would you calculate
the cost in money? As well undertake to fathom the ocean with a fishing
cord, or to count the stars of heaven on your fingers and toes! It
cost——!! But I forget all that, when I behold Jerusalem, “The city of
the great King, beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth.”
The Hebrew word, Jerusalem, probably means “vision of peace,” and I
have no doubt but that in olden times the beauty of the city and the
surrounding country fully justified the name. It was then “the joy of
the whole earth;” but the Lord hath covered the daughter of Zion with
a cloud, in his anger, and cast down, from heaven unto the earth, the
beauty of Israel. Jerusalem is withered, like its emblem, the blighted
fig-tree. It was once a monument of the goodness, now of the severity,
of God. The city has been twenty-seven times besieged, often taken,
pillaged, and burnt. Occasionally the very ground has been plowed up!
And yet “it is good to be here”—it is still a holy city. Mount Moriah
has not been removed, Calvary is still on its base, and the Mount
of Olives is now just as it was when from it our blessed Lord “was
received up into heaven.”
[Illustration: JERUSALEM.]
It has been said, and truthfully, too, that Jerusalem has occupied a
more prominent place in history than Athens, with all its arts, or
Rome, with all its arms; than Nineveh, with all its overgrown power, or
Babylon, with all its nameless abominations. Jerusalem has done more to
mould the opinions, to animate the hopes, to decide the creeds, and to
influence the destinies, of humanity than all other cities combined.
Here Solomon reigned. Here David sang, and Isaiah prophesied. Here
Christ the Lord lived, and taught us how to live. Here, too, he was
nailed to the tree, there to die, “the Just for the unjust.”
Mrs. Watson, an earnest, devout, Christian lady from Detroit, is a
member of our party. As we stand upon this hill and look upon Jerusalem
for the first time, she is completely overcome. Her heart has melted
within her, and is flowing freely through her eyes. She weeps like a
child, and her tears do credit to her heart.
We camp in a beautiful olive grove on the north side of the city.
Our mail is soon brought. After devouring letters, newspapers, and a
hearty lunch, I say to the party: “‘Walk about Zion; go round about
her; tell the towers thereof; mark ye well her bulwarks; consider her
palaces,—that ye may tell it to’ your friends in America.” With Bible
in hand, with prayer and praise in our heart, we are now ready to begin
our “walk about Zion.” It takes four eyes or more to see the beauty of
a picture, and four ears or more to extract the melody from music. I
shall therefore ask the reader to join us in this walk about the “city
of the great king.”
[Illustration: HILLS AND WALLS OF JERUSALEM.]
We find the city perched, like an eagles nest, among the hills of
Judea. “As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the Lord is
round about them that fear him.” It stands 2,650 feet above the level
of the Mediterranean, and 3,800 feet above the Dead Sea. Imagine two
ravines, deep and narrow, coming together so that the table-land
between them forms the letter V, the sharp point of the letter being to
the south, while the open part extends northward. Jerusalem is built
on such a V, though it does not run down into the sharp point of the
letter. The ravine, or brook, on the east is Kedron, that on the west
is Hinnom. We find the city surrounded on all sides by massive walls
of stone, rising forty to sixty feet above the ground. The east and
west walls run close along the edge of the chasms, so that, coming up
out of the valley to either one of them, one would find it steep and
difficult. The south wall cuts off the sharp part of the V. The north
wall is much stronger than any of the others, because that part of the
city is not protected by ravines, as are the other three sides.
We have now completed the circuit around the walls of Zion, and in so
doing we have walked two and a half miles, and compassed an area of
two hundred and nine acres of land. These walls, some portions of which
probably date from the time of our Lord, are pierced by four gates; the
Damascus gate, on the north; Stephen’s gate, on the east; on the south
is the Zion, and on the west, the Jaffa gate. Each one of these gates
is guarded day and night by Turkish soldiers.
Until recently there was another entrance to the city—the Golden gate.
This “gateway of glory” entered the sacred enclosure from the east. It
was through this, supposedly, that our blessed Lord made His triumphal
entry into the Holy City. This gate, a work of art, has been closed
up. And why? Because the Mohammedans fear Christ. The Jews say that He
is soon to come out of the East, across the Mount of Olives, through
the Golden gate, into the Mosque of Omar. Then He will overthrow
the Mohammedan government, proclaim himself king of the Jews, and,
subsequently, of the world. These Jewish prophecies have aroused dread
suspicions in the Mohammedan mind, and to keep Christ out of the city,
the devotees of the false prophet have actually barred up the gate with
great stones. These are fastened together with bolts and bars of iron,
steel, and brass. I am told that the Mohammedans, especially during
Jewish feasts, even station guards at the Golden gate to prevent the
Messiah from entering the city.
I am rejoiced to know that I worship a Christ who, when His time is
fulfilled, will come. But, blessed be His name, He will come no more
as the Babe of Bethlehem; no more as the lowly Nazarene; no more as
the despised and rejected of men. He will come as the glorified Son
of God, as Judge of all the earth. He will come crowned and sceptred;
robed in splendor; seated upon the clouds, as a chariot of fire drawn
by angels of light. It was He of whom it was said: “He openeth, and no
man shutteth; he shutteth, and no man openeth.” So, why need they try
to keep your Lord and mine out of His own city?
Before entering the gates, it will be well for us to cross the brook
Kedron, go over to the Mount of Olives, and from there get a bird’s eye
view of the holy city. On the left, just after crossing the Kedron,
we come to the so-called tomb of the Virgin Mary, over which has
been built a Catholic cathedral. In the cathedral, and around this
tomb, many candles and lamps are kept burning day and night. By the
flickering flame of these tapers, turbaned monks constantly count their
beads and swing their censers. A hundred yards down the valley, to the
right, are the tombs of Absalom, James, and Hezekiah.
From base to summit, the Mount of Olives is garnished over with
olive trees. Now, as through past ages, the olives are gathered and
poured into a rock-hewn vat in the mountain side. The vat before me
is well filled. In it are an old, gray-bearded man and a sprightly
young maiden, walking round and round, side by side, treading the
olives with their bare feet, pressing out the oil. This is rather a
homely sight, but it suggests a holy name. A name around which cluster
many tender and sacred associations. The word, Gethsemane, means
_oil-press_. Lifting my eyes from the vat, I behold, about half way up
the mountain side, and a hundred yards to the right of the road, the
garden of Gethsemane, or the garden of the oil-press.
This garden of prayer is at present surrounded by a substantial rock
wall ten or twelve feet high. The entrance is through the upper or
eastern wall. The door, or gate, is scarcely three feet high; but one
is willing to bow and humble himself on entering a garden so filled
with holy memories. Here Christ suffered and agonized and prayed
until “his sweat was, as it were, great drops of blood falling to the
ground.” Here Judas betrayed the Master with a kiss. This garden, which
is 150 by 160 feet, is laid out in six large flower beds, beautifully
designed and well kept. There are a dozen, or more of fir and olive
trees enclosed within these walls.
The superstitious monks, keeping the garden, assure us that these are
the identical trees under which the Lord knelt and prayed. But my
incredulous mind entertains serious doubts on this subject. In the
first place, we are not sure that the present garden is identical with
the one that our Lord frequented. We know, however, if the two are not
identical, they certainly are not far removed from each other. Ever
since the days of Constantine (330, A. D.), the present garden has been
recognized as the place of agony and betrayal.
[Illustration: OLD OLIVE TREES IN GETHSEMANE.]
I grant that our Lord was betrayed in this garden, or another,
probably not a stone’s throw from it. I grant, also, that the olive
trees are remarkably long-lived, and that these within this enclosure
stand like patriarchs of their race, like sentinels of the centuries
past and gone. But Josephus tells us that during the siege of Jerusalem
by Titus (A. D. 70), the Roman soldiers cut down all of the trees
around about Jerusalem. Josephus was present during this siege. He
wrote from personal knowledge. And we can not accept his statements
without discrediting those of the papal priests. But what care I? I
pin my faith to no rock, nor hang it upon the bough of any olive tree.
Somewhere on this mountain side, probably near where I stand, the
blessed Lord drank the bitter cup. That is enough for me.
Bear in mind the fact that we are on the eastern side of Jerusalem. We
find the summit of Olivet crowned with a large Russian convent. We go
up on the top of this convent. With our backs toward Jerusalem, and our
eyes toward the rising sun, we look down upon the Dead Sea, 4,000 feet
below us, and in a straight line, only eighteen miles away. The valley
of the Jordan is plainly seen, but its waters are not visible.
“About face.” We are now looking down on the “City of David.” I say
“down,” because the Mount of Olives is two hundred feet higher than
Jerusalem, and the convent gives us an additional elevation of fifty
feet. Jerusalem is now spread out before us like a map; and, although
it is three-fourths of a mile away, the atmosphere is so pure that we
can see it as plainly as if we were standing on a tower in the midst of
the city. It is built on two hills, Mt. Zion and Mt. Moriah, the former
being a little to the west of, and a few feet higher than, the latter.
The intervening valley, once very deep, is now so nearly filled up that
the two hills are practically one.
There is little variety about the architecture of Jerusalem. The
houses, generally, are built of white stone, and are usually ten or
twelve feet high, with flat, stone roofs. Frequently one roof extends
over many houses. So, when viewed from the Mount of Olives, Jerusalem
has the appearance of a broad sea of low, level, white roofs. The
monotony is relieved by five distinct objects that lift themselves up
above the surface and stand out in bold relief.
These five objects of prominence are, first, the Mosque of Omar on
Mt. Moriah; second, the Jewish Synagogue, beyond Moriah, on Mt. Zion;
third, Pilate’s Judgment Hall, or the Tower of Antonio; fourth, the
Church of the Holy Sepulchre; fifth, the Tower of David, near the
Jaffa gate. These five towers and buildings lift their haughty heads
high above the humble structures around them, and are clearly outlined
against the golden splendors of the evening sky.
The Mosque of Omar, standing on Mt. Moriah, in the southeastern corner
of the city, is by far the most conspicuous of all. This marks the
sight that was occupied by the old Jewish temple. The Mosque is truly
a gem of architecture, but the Christian heart revolts at the idea of
this Mohammedan ensign of bigamy and bloodshed standing where once
stood the splendid temple of Solomon. Alas! it is too true. But more of
the Mosque hereafter.
We came here to see the city; and when we behold the churches and
cathedrals, the mosques and synagogues, the towers and minarets, rising
up here and there above the white stone buildings around them, we
are half inclined to believe “Zion” is yet wreathed round with some
of her ancient glory. But candor compels me to say that here, as at
Constantinople, “distance lends enchantment to the view.” I love a
pretty picture, and am always loath to break the mirror of admiration
into fragments of analysis; but it now becomes us to descend the Mount
of Olives, recross the Kedron, and, entering by the Stephen’s gate, to
begin an inspection of the city.
[Illustration: STREET IN JERUSALEM.]
We find the streets, which are from six to twelve feet wide, paved
with round stones, varying all the way from a goose egg to a man’s
head. These stones are half buried in filth, the other half being left
exposed, and have been trodden over until they are almost as smooth as
glass. No wheeled vehicle can enter the city, for the reasons that the
streets are too narrow to allow a chariot or wagon to pass through; and
if they were wide enough, the stones are too sleek and slippery for
a camel to walk on, and, with safety, draw a vehicle. You can follow
one of these streets, or lanes, only a short distance without facing
every point of the compass. In many places you have to hold your nose,
and carefully pick your way through the dirt and filth. These narrow,
corkscrew streets (?) are lined on either side by a lot of stalls, from
five to ten feet wide, called shops, or bazaars. Traffic seems to be at
a stand-still. The people are mostly idle. They produce nothing, and
consume—very little! Filth, ignorance, and poverty, those emblems of
Mohammedan rule, more unmistakeable than the Star and Crescent itself,
everywhere abound!
The population of Jerusalem is variously estimated, the estimates
ranging anywhere from 25,000 to 45,000. I think the city probably
has 35,000 inhabitants, proportioned as follows: 18,000 Mohammedans,
12,000 Jews, and 5,000 Christians, each occupying separate and distinct
quarters of the city. All the Christians, except a hundred or more,
are Catholics. While there are a few wealthy Jew merchants and bankers
in Jerusalem, most of the Hebrews here are mainly supported by a
systematic benevolence, Jews in all parts of the world contributing to
this object.
There are many synagogues here, but only one worthy of special note.
The Jews have fifteen or twenty theological students who daily assemble
in the chief synagogue, and seat themselves on mats at the feet of
their instructor, who sits on a thick, deep-tufted cushion in the
centre of the circle. But there is no Gamaliel among the teachers, no
Paul among the pupils.
[Illustration: WAILING PLACE OF THE JEWS.]
The Mosque of Omar is surrounded by a wall, some thirty feet high,
which cuts off thirty-five acres, or one-fifth of the city. One part
of this wall has been identified, with more or less certainty, as a
portion of Solomon’s Temple—the only remaining portion. It is believed
that this is the nearest approach to what was once the Holy of Holies.
Every Friday afternoon, at three o’clock, the devout Jews of the city,
old and young, of high and low degree, assemble around these sacred
stones for worship. Here they chant the Psalms of David, and read
aloud from their prayer books and Hebrew Bibles. They kiss, and press
themselves against, these stones for hours. They weep and lament and
pray and cry aloud, as if their hearts would break. Hundreds of these
unfortunate children of Abraham assemble at the “wailing-place.” When
each one has kissed the stones for probably a hundred times or more,
they all seat themselves flat down on the stones in the dirt and filth.
Here they are, all seated in rows on the ground, facing the wall, row
behind row, until the last row is forty or fifty feet from the wall. In
the crowd I see a mother and babe who remind me of Hannah and Samuel.
There, to the right, is a tall, stoop-shouldered, old man, with grey
hair and a wrinkled brow. His long, white beard hangs gracefully over
his breast, and falls in his lap, as he sits with uncovered head and
bowed. That, methinks, is a perfect picture of Abraham as he sat
weeping o’er Sarah’s grave. Here I can pick out a Paul, yonder a John,
an Andrew, and a Peter. Ah! these are the remnants of a race that have
left their imprint upon every page of human history. They sit and pray
and weep, and will not be comforted.
Close to the wall stand six Rabbis eight or ten feet apart. With
their palms upon the wall, they repeatedly bend their elbows and kiss
the stones. And then, in a voice as sad as sadness’s very self, they
in concert cry out: “O Lord God Almighty, thou has smitten us and
scattered us abroad among the heathen nations of earth; yet, O God,
will we praise and adore thee.”
The people, seated on the ground, sway to and fro and cry out:
“A-m-e-n, a-m-e-n.”
The Rabbis, still standing, kiss the wall and exclaim: “Oh! for the
Temple that is no more——”
Swaying to and fro, the people say: “We sit in solitude and mourn.”
Rabbis. “Oh! for the Palace that is torn down——”
People. “We sit in solitude and mourn.”
Rabbis. “Oh! for the walls that are demolished——”
People. “We sit in solitude and mourn.”
Rabbis. “Oh! for the great stones that are burned into dust——”
People. “We sit in solitude and mourn.”
Rabbis. “Oh! for our kings and mighty men that have fallen——”
People. “We sit in solitude and mourn.”
Rabbis. “Oh! for the glory that has departed; oh! for the delay of thy
coming——”
People. “We sit in solitude and mourn.”
Rabbis. “Come, yea, come, O Messiah! come quickly. Enthrone thyself in
Jerusalem. Reign thou over us. Be thou our God. We will be thy people,
and thou shalt subdue the heathen nations of earth.”
These Jews now, as did those in olden times, cling with a death-like
tenacity to the idea of a temporal ruler. They forgot that Christ said,
“My kingdom is not of this world.” He once “came to His own, and His
own received Him not;” and now they “sit in solitude and mourn.”
I have visited this “wailing-place” several times. It is a pitiable
sight. I see men, old men, men patriarchal in appearance, barefooted,
dressed in sackcloth and covered with ashes. They put their mouths in
the dust, and cry aloud unto God in a most distressing manner.
It were enough to wring tears of blood from the heart of a stone, to
see a _nation_ “smitten” and “scattered” and “cursed” of God, as are
the Jews. Verily, they are cursed. They said, “Let His blood be upon
us and our children,” and so it _is_ upon them. They are homeless
wanderers. They have no common country, no flag they can call their
own. Wherever man has gone on land, or ships on sea, the face and
figure of the Jew are seen; and always and everywhere he rests under
the curse of God. The blood is still upon him. Truly, “it is a fearful
thing to fall into the hands of the living God.”
Strange as it may appear, all these visitations of wrath are in direct
fulfillment of prophecy. In his lamentations over the city, Jeremiah
says: “The Lord hath accomplished his fury; He hath poured out His
fierce anger, and hath kindled a fire in Zion, and it hath devoured
the foundations thereof. How doth the city sit solitary! How hath she
become a widow! The Lord hath afflicted her for the multitude of her
transgressions. She weepeth sore in the night, and her tears are on her
cheeks. Jerusalem hath grievously sinned; therefore is she removed. Her
filthiness is in her skirts. Zion spreadeth forth her hands, and there
is none to comfort her. _All her people sigh and seek bread._”
Reader, notice carefully the above sentence, and then hold your breath
as I tell you that every morning, about nine o’clock, hundreds and
hundreds of Jews assemble at one place in the city, and each receives a
loaf of bread gratis; and that bread, with what fruit he can get, keeps
soul and body together until next day. “Yea, they sigh and seek bread.”
The prophet continues: “The Lord hath cast off His Altar; He hath
abhorred His sanctuary; He hath given up into the hand of the enemy
the walls of her palaces. The elders of the daughters of Zion sit on
the ground and keep silence. They have cast dust upon their heads. For
the sins of her prophets and the iniquities of her priests, that have
shed the blood of the Just One in the midst of her, they have polluted
themselves with blood, so that men could not touch their garments.”
We should remember that these prophecies of Jeremiah, and others just
as striking from Isaiah, were uttered hundreds of years before Christ
was born. And yet, as we read this Scripture to-day, it sounds like
history written yesterday. It is literally fulfilled. The Hebrews
_did_ “slay the Just One.” They _did_ “pollute themselves with blood.”
Because of this, God _has_ “poured out His wrath upon them,” their
city, and their country. Jerusalem _has_ been “removed,” and its
“foundations” _have_ been “consumed with fire.” Her “filthiness” _is_
“in her skirts.” God _has_ “cast off His altar, and abhorred His
sanctuary.” He _has_ “given into the hand of the enemy the walls of
the palaces,” and to-day the children of Solomon have to petition the
rulers of a heathen government for permission to approach the remaining
wall of their father’s Temple. To-day the people _actually_ “sit on the
ground” with “tears on their cheeks.” They _do actually_ “sigh and seek
for bread.”
Now I submit the question. Can any man, who has a mind to think and
a heart to feel, read this Scripture, in the light of the present
condition of Jerusalem and of the Jews, without seeing in it an
unanswerable argument in favor of the _inspiration_ of the Bible? If
the Old Testament writers were not inspired, if they wrote as men, and
only as men, how was it that they could write of future events, of
events thousands of years in the future, as though they were present
or past? There is only one rational conclusion to be reached, and
that is, that these men of old wrote as they were moved by the Holy
Spirit—that they climbed high upon the Mt. of Inspiration, and from
there they, with the field-glass of prophecy, scanned the whole horizon
of knowledge.