Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXIV, No. 3, March 1849

by Various

There had been much confusion in the city in consequence of reports brought to the principal ecclesiastical and civic officers, of the unusual proceedings of citizens at a short distance beyond the place, where palm branches had been strewn in the highway, and garments spread out, upon which the hoofs of the rider’s animal were to tread—tokens of remarkable respect, which seemed to look treasonable to the foreign power, that directed the political affairs, and to the native priests who directed the spiritual concerns—the forum and the temple were agitated; the viceroy and the high-priest each started at such evidences of neglect of fealty. Rome and Jerusalem both felt that there was an antagonistic power operating, if not directly against, at least incidentally hostile to them; and Rome and Jerusalem—the conqueror and the conquered—joined in efforts to suppress the evil. Each would have crushed the power of the other, but both would unite to repel a power that was hostile to both. Each would have bruised the mailed arm of the other, but both trembled at what would have healed the breast of each.

There had been a scene of triumph—but He who had been the object of the huzzas of the multitude that thronged his way with tokens of obedience—head obedience, with little of heart in the offering—he had sat unmoved by outward demonstration of feeling for the acclamations of those who thronged his path. Another mission was his—another triumph was desired—another evidence of popular feeling was to be experienced, and in a little time he separated from the multitude, and ascending the mount, at whose base he had stood, he sat down with the four or five that were with him, and gazed abroad upon the outstretched scene below them.

It was a beautiful evening. Behind them the dust which had not yet subsided since the people had thronged the roads with songs of triumph, was reflecting the light of the declining sun. Beneath them was the Valley of Jehoshaphat, the terrible seat of judgment and dread; and beyond was the beloved city, stretched out in the repose of the evening sun, which was reflected by numerous gorgeous domes; and the busy hum of business came up to the quiet summit of Olivet, as if to bear to those who rested here the story of man’s heedlessness of his life’s great end.

They were Jews that thus looked out, the leader and the followers, Hebrews of Hebrews, and they loved the land of their birth and the city of their nation’s boast. Every affection of the human heart was enlisted for the beautiful towns and sacred edifices, and all the outspread loveliness of the country’s hills and valleys; and as the sun seemed to pour surpassing splendor upon the place, and as youth and beauty went forth to seek their pleasures, and age toiled upward toward the temple for the evening sacrifice, and all that was seen, and all that the heart suggested, appealed to the patriotic affection of the four—they looked to see whether the loveliness of the scene would not light up an unwonted smile upon the face of their Master, who was looking intently upon the city.

But there was no smile. The deep thought that rested on his brow, and the tear that glistened in his eye, showed that the past and the future were with him. That all the blessings which had been pronounced upon Jerusalem, and all the promises made in her behalf, all the sins which she had committed, and which God had pardoned, and all the negligence against which she had been warned, and for which pardon had been presented; all her thoughtlessness now, and all the uncomprehended miseries which were in her path, were in one group in his mind—and the sound of the destroyer and the desolation of the conquered stood before him—the famine that wasted the people and the fire that destroyed the temple were there, and as he remembered how He would have sheltered them from the consequences of their own follies, and how they despised his love; how he would have shielded and comforted the sons and daughters of that city of his love, but they refused, He wept—wept human tears—wept tears of earthly fondness, that came bursting up from his heart—deep agony marked his face when gathering the recollection of all the promises which had accompanied their probation, the glories by which they had been invited to goodness—he exclaimed, “But now they are forever hidden from thine eyes.”

What a mission was that the Master assumed—what an experience was that of his intimate followers. The many listened to his heavenly doctrine and love—many were astonished at the miracles that marked his public ministry, that made the temple and the wayside clinics where his divine skill was exhibited, and drew the people from their synagogues and altars, to offer at the street corners the sacrifice of enlightened hearts and the homage of soul admiration. But these, the favored few, the elders and chosen ones of his little flock stood with him in the terrible moments, when the office of his mission was not exercised on others, but came to be ministered on himself—three of them witnessed the tears at the grave of a friend—they saw with trembling awe the glory of his transfiguration with Moses and Elias—and now these stood there solemn, trembling witnesses of an agony of affliction that wrung tears for others from Him who could look down upon the garden that was to be the scene of a trial which human eyes could not witness and live—who could look forward to the hall of infamy that was to witness his mockery, to the winding way of sorrow in which he was to bear his cross, and upward to the eminence where the work was to be consummated. The tears were not for himself. He wept for the misery of those who should procure the agonizing passion.

The artist has chosen this moment for his picture. It was a bold thought—but it was a good one—what the pen records may not the pencil illustrate, and is not the lesson of that most instructive hour brought closer home to the heart by the representation of the scene which the sacred historian describes? How well the artist has executed his task is not for us to say. Indeed such a picture is in its conception so full of suggestion, that we may safely leave to the painter’s professional pride the finishing of his work according to the canons of his art. The moment that we recognize the subject, the moment we catch the time, the place and the office, we lose sight of all that the pen has written or the pencil attempted to delineate, and acknowledge that our hearts, our fancy have taken hold of all and borne us back to the awful hour—we do not pause to look at features or position on the canvas, but at once we kneel in imagination at a distance from the consecrated group, and as Olivet and Sinai and Calvary meet the eye, and the temple gleams in the light of the setting sun, we inquire what is the thought, the high, mighty thought that swells upward in the heart of the Master there? Alas! who shall know? Who could conceive? Eternities are in his mind, and all the vast concerns of angels and of men are before him; and yet for one city, one erring city, one little spot upon the great map of the universe, he fixes his eyes, and over its fate he weeps tears of earthly sorrow—weeps not that one stone of the temple shall not be left upon the other—weeps not that all the monuments of his nation’s glory shall be wasted, and that the ploughshare of the infidel shall upturn the sacred soil. Not for these did he weep—but that those children of the Father, whom he “would have gathered as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings,” should be destroyed by the sword, and the virtue of the daughters of his people should be the derision and spoil of the conqueror. They were human tears—but divine sympathies!

And in that scene of wounded love, when the foreseeing, or the foredwelling of his higher nature made the present of his human exposure terrible—in that hour of sympathy and sorrow, the favored and the intimate were his companions. Theirs was not yet the gift of foreknowledge—they lived only in the present, and knew only of the past. Little indeed could they comprehend the agony of the Master, as they could not foresee the cause. Their highest gift was faith—they could believe—they could confide—they could listen with silent assurance—and however contradictory might appear the words of the Teacher and the circumstances of the times, they had learned from rebukes and experience to trust to the former. And as they follow with their eyes the mournful bend of the Master’s gaze, as they melted before the weeping of the sinless and loving, they bowed in meek assent to the terrible anathema foretold, and, not being authorized to give, or to proclaim it, they meekly sighed the maranatha, and left the work to God.

You see some of the multitude pressing up toward the Master, but not upon him. You see, too, in the distance, woman with her face set toward Him to whom her heart is given. Woman following but not approaching. The first evidence of personal suffering would have brought her to his side—the first chance of offering homage would have taken her to his feet. It is woman, too, in her beautiful office—her heart is with the Master—it is good for her to stand where she may be called. He may not indeed speak to her, but virtue might go forth from him and bless her—and so she had brought with her a little child. It seemed not meet to her that she should seek Jesus and her child not be led to him. She had indeed heard the Master say, in regard to some others, “suffer little children to come unto me,” and how did she know, standing afar off though she might be—standing in awe and reverence—how did she know but when his moment of bitter sorrow had passed away, the Master might turn and smile on her—and take her little child in his arms and bless him—so had he done to others—and so she was willing to await, willing to stand and see what the Lord would do.

But in the immediate scene of tears and solemn wailing woman is not found. Where are those that followed his steps? Where are those who ministered to his wants? Alas! the scene was not for such hearts. It was the last sacrifice of national feeling; humanity acknowledges the claim—for mental mortal agony at events to come there was no consolation.