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.”

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.