We were in Jerusalem. Here Samuel sat; here at the gate was David’s tower; King Solomon once lived over there on the hill in his glittering palace and by his wealth and wisdom made himself famous throughout the world, and here he lost his wisdom as has many another in the courts of the women. Herod and Pilate looked out over these hills; the Crusader stormed the walls and the Turk brought terror and slavery with his sword. Twenty-three times in its history Jerusalem has been captured. It has been pillaged, plundered, burned, utterly destroyed, rebuilt only to be plundered again. Yet here it stood. Upon what unspeakable sorrow the stars of Palestine have looked down! We gazed from our balcony out over the low buildings of solid rock, out through the break in the wall made that the Kaiser, on his visit to the Holy Place, might enter in great pomp and glory with his impressive army of followers, the break redeemed by the simplicity of the entrance of the victorious General Allenby into the city that he had conquered without the destruction of a single building or a foot of wall and accepted, when surrendered, as a sacred trust placed once more in the hands of Christians. It may be that the white crosses in long rows, out on the hillside, guarding the graves of soldiers from every part of the British Empire, young, very young, will continue to remind these latest conquerors of the tremendous cost of the victory that left the city unharmed and help them govern the land with an unselfishness of purpose that will measure up to the high standard of their victory. After lunch we found that dark clouds had gathered low over the hills, and before we could leave our room the rain came. We studied the map of the city, searched out the location of its sacred places, read over again the words of poet and prophet describing the days of its great glory, when from Mount Zion king and shepherd could look over at Mount Moriah where the smoke of the sacrifice from the temple of Jehovah ascended to heaven. Late in the afternoon the rising wind scattered the clouds and the sun set in a blaze of glory. We stood just outside the gate on the city wall looking down across the valley over toward Bethlehem. The hills, deep purple, reached up on every side to touch the sky. Their bare rocky slopes became soft as velvet in the fading light. A young British private, leaning against a part of the parapet, took out a khaki Testament and turned the leaves slowly. He seemed to find what he wanted and read, following the lines with his finger. Then he closed the book, put it back in his pocket and turned, half apologetically to a companion not in uniform. “We fought out there,” he said, “the 53rd division. We fought around the very hills where the angels sang about Peace on earth.” A moment of silence and the other spoke: “Yonder is the road He must have climbed when He came up to Jerusalem.”