“Where are the parents of these children,” we asked.
“Poor,” he said slowly, “very, very poor. Always poor and the war has made it very hard. It will be better now, but they have learned bad habits.”
A turn in the road and the village was entirely out of sight. We overtook a flock of sheep and for a time walked slowly behind them. The bleating of the lambs who seemed weary sounded like the voices of the children. The shepherd turned into a narrow path between the hills, called in clear, urging cadences, and the sheep followed him. We climbed up from the road and sat on the rocks under gnarled old trees. A tower on the mount of Olives stood out clear against the sky. We read aloud of the Holy City from the words of the prophets and the Psalms of David.
Night would soon steal down over the valleys, so reluctantly we moved on past a cluster of tiny stone houses, past the cemetery of the Hebrews, when, flying up the hill at reckless speed, shaking us rudely back from the past into the present, came a motor rushing toward Bethany. Bethany that seemed to be out of the world of motors! It was the doctor’s car from the hospital, they told us when we described it. Just before the road drops abruptly into the valley we stopped to look again at the City. There was always something strangely gripping in the sight. The words of Jesus wrung from Him as, in deep compassion that was agony, He looked at the City, feeling the weight of its sin, its pain, its need, came back to us—“O, Jerusalem, Jerusalem, that killeth the prophets and stoneth them that are sent unto her! how often would I have gathered thy children together even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!” We hurried on through St. Stephen’s Gate.
On the hills it was light but in the narrow streets with their gateways and buttresses it was quite dark. We took out our faithful flashlights, and with our canes to help over the shadowed steps went rapidly up to the hotel that stood as a strong and sheltering friend in the faint glow that still lingered in the western sky.
“Not much in Bethany,” they said to us at the desk as they had said of Bethlehem. “Too far to walk for the few stone houses and the ruins.”
How could they know what we saw in Bethany? How could they know the overwhelming sympathy that surged in upon us as we stood on the walls of “the house of Mary and Martha,” looked upon the hills and valleys He saw in their purpling shadows, thought how much harder the friendship and fellowship of that home must have made it to remain true to the message that was to take Him to Jerusalem to die, thought of the short day of triumph, waving palms and lavish praise, thought of his youth and his glorious undaunted soul!
No, they did not know what we saw in Bethany.
I GO OUT TO THE MOUNT OF OLIVES
He turneth a wilderness into a pool of water,