Now we are at Nazareth, the place of the Savior's boyhood. We came along the very road that Christ took when he returned from Jerusalem after his interview with the Doctors of the Law. Through the Valley of Esdraelon, the battlefield of nations; and by round-topped, beautiful Tabor, from the edge of which Deborah signaled Barak to open the battle; and near awful Megiddo, and across plains where nine hundred iron chariots rolled their lacerations and crushings; and within sight of where Sisera forsook the chariot and afoot fled until Jael nailed him; and within sight of where "the only son of his mother" was resurrected (and I know if the Lord could afford to make a Resurrection Day for one young man, he can afford to make a Resurrection Day for all our dead); the same road in sight of Endor, where Saul went in the night to consult the witch and came to no good, as those who consult witches never do; and then the road comes to the foot of Mount Nazareth, not ascending by the steep and jagged path which Christ ascended, but by a new way which modern engineering has built, and we go zigzagging up the heights, steep above steep, until we seem to hover over Nazareth, a village of such overpowering interest that all the world has seen or wishes to see it.
How the Omnipotent has scooped out these valleys and molded these hills on which and through which Jesus, the lad, walked, sometimes with His father, sometimes with His mother, sometimes with village contemporaries, and sometimes alone. We halt at the very fountain where Joseph and Mary and Christ used to fill the goat-skins. We stop for the night at a Russian convent, and for the first time in many nights, have a pillow in-doors. Before dark I open my Bible and within sight of the hills to which the young Christ so often looked up, while they looked down, I read the story of Jesus of Nazareth, which appears so vivid and strange and new, it seems as if I had never read it before.
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