It was a service of song, and every woman seemed to be taking part. After the officiating priest chanted each brief stanza, the loud chorus was taken up by the full volume of sweet soprano voices. As the light died away, and the white-veiled forms of the kneeling worshippers grew indistinct and dreamlike, the music of the oft-repeated chorus sank into our hearts, and we stayed on and on, until our anger against the sham and idolatry in the caves below had all been driven away and there remained only the Bethlehem calm.
None of us knew the name of that evening hymn. It was very simple, yet one of the sweetest melodies we had ever heard. We shall never forget the song, or the calm faces of the women who sang it. I have listened for it since in many cathedrals. Two years later I went back to the Bethlehem church in the hope of hearing it again; but there seemed to be no vespers that evening. We could not understand the words of the song; we could not even tell whether it was in Latin or Arabic, but I like to believe that it was a hymn about the Babe of Bethlehem. And now, when I think of that village among the beautiful hills of far-away Judea, the bigotry and jealousy do not seem so very important. I am even ready to forgive the Moslem guardian of the Silver Star, for the sake of that nameless melody of the women of Bethlehem.
ACROSS THE AGES
XIX
ACROSS THE AGES
Night falls. The stars shine brightly through the clear Judean air. We walk very slowly down the winding road, and often stop to look back to the hilltop where the thick-clustered houses of the little town stand so clear and white against the blue-black sky. Yonder lies Bethlehem, bathed in soft, silvery starlight which cleanses it from every trace of violence and bigotry and crime, and paints only pleasant memories of love and valor and hope.
There the lonely heart of the Moabitess found its haven. There the sweet singer of Israel set to melodious measures the story of the fields and the mountains and the divine Shepherd’s care. There a wondrous Child was born, for whose sake wise men and tender women left home and friends across the sea, that they might dwell near the hallowed, humble spot of His Nativity. Within the vague, dark shadow of that ancient church, the noblest-born of earth have gathered to do homage to the Lord of lords and King of kings. And across the stillness of the night there seem to echo again the sturdy shouts of dauntless warriors who made the mountains ring with their triumphant cry of faith, “God wills it! God wills it!”
Yes, God has willed it all, even in the hardest, darkest hour of Bethlehem’s long history. Before our lingering steps lie the noisy bazaars of Jerusalem and the busy, practical, modern world to which we must so soon return. But we have been to Bethlehem; and across all the troublous ages, bursting from every shining star, and drowning with its sweet music the perplexities of our own weary lives, there rings the glad refrain of the Angel’s Song—
GLORY TO GOD IN THE HIGHEST, AND ON
EARTH PEACE, GOOD WILL TOWARD
MEN.