Though unable at all times to stand with confidence where Jesus stood, and walk where he walked, it is nevertheless a source of unspeakable delight to know that Jerusalem is the city in which he taught; that there are the skies he sat beneath; there the hills and vales he traversed; there the garden of his agony; and that rising above is Olivet, whose flowers were moistened with his tears, whose echoes were awakened by his prayers, and whose summit was the last spot of earth pressed by his adorable feet. Palm Sunday dawned upon the Holy City in all the beauty of a Syrian spring. A sweet repose pervaded earth and sky; the very air was at rest, and a vernal sun shone softly from skies of a purple tint. It was the anniversary of our Lord’s triumphal entry into the city of David, and I was in the spirit to join the imaginary throng on the same highway, and shout, “Blessed is he who cometh in the name of the Lord; Hosanna in the highest.” From early dawn, through all the lanes and streets of the city, pilgrims were hastening to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, thronging the spacious aisles, rotundas, and lateral chapels of that venerable edifice. Differing from the Greeks a moon or a month as to the time of the festival, the Latins were assembled in their Franciscan chapel adjoining the rotunda. The altar was decorated with vases of flowers, and over it were suspended palm-branches, the symbol of the day. The bishop and officiating priests were attired in their elegant robes; a noble organ pealed forth the responses to the intoned service, and in the vast audience were monks and nuns, officers of the state and of the army, and pilgrims and strangers from all lands.