A Pilgrimage to the Birthplace of Christ

      Now we are back again in Jerusalem, and must make an excursion to our Lord's birthplace. At nine o'clock this crisp December morning, for there was a sharp frost last night, I am afoot on the road from Jerusalem to Bethlehem; I have just crossed the valley of Hinnom. It is deep and impressive, a wall of rock on one side and a steep hill on the other, mounting toward the Holy City, a few olive trees on the way up as though they had climbed as far as they could, and then halted. I pass the plain where Absalom marshaled troops against his father David, and the hill of Evil Council, where Judas planned for the capture of Christ. I am on the road where the wise men went to find Christ at the order of Herod, men wise enough not to make report to the cruel monster. It is the road that marks the distance between the birthplace and the deathplace of Him who made the world and will yet redeem it. Christ made long journeys, but after all, died within five miles of His early home. In all the region through which this road runs, the Davidic, Solomonic and Herodic histories overlap each other. I meet on the road many camels with heavy burdens on their way to Jerusalem. These animals set one thinking as does no other creature, and I enjoy meeting them on foot better than I enjoyed riding upon their backs. But now Bethlehem is in sight, and we are toiling up the hills which Joseph and Mary ascended in this same month of December, long, long years ago. The town of Bethlehem, to my surprise, is in the shape of a horseshoe, the houses extending clear on to the prongs of the horseshoe, between which I look and see the fields where Ruth gleaned and Boaz was fascinated with her charms, and about which is garlanded the immortal pastoral which, in the Bible, lies peacefully between the war-lyrics of Judges and Samuel. Though David was a "man of war," his great-grandmother, Ruth, was a farmer's wife and a woman of peace. Near one end of the semicircle of rocks on which Bethlehem stands is David's well, now a wide, (hep basin of stone, almost dry, but at certain seasons almost full. No wonder that when David was hounded of persecution and thirsty, he wanted a cool draught out of it, crying: "Oh that one would give me to drink of the water of the well of Bethlehem which is by the gate." The mouth of the well cut out of the eternal rock is about four feet across from edge to edge, and a wet goat-skin bottle was lying near by. But we must not dwell too long on the topography of Bethlehem. Hills, hills, hills! Rocks, rocks, rocks! From the village, looking down, the backs of the mountains appear like the backs of the mountains of New Hampshire from the top of Mount Washington. The whole scene, more rough and rude than can be imagined. Verily Christ did not choose a soft and genial place in which to be born. But the scenery, though rough, is sublime, and the hills for width and precipitation are displays omnipotent. The gate through which our Lord entered this world was a gate of rock, a hard, cold gate, as the gate through which He departed was a swing-gate of sharpened spears.

• The Christian Life as Pilgrimage
• Where Jesus Walked

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