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.
STREET IN JERUSALEM.