In the Steps of the Master
H. V. Morton
A timeless account of a journey through the
(Extract: Garden Gethsemane, Mount of Olives, pp. 42-43)
. . . the warmth in the air, for the sun in
I hear the call to prayer from the nearest minaret. As I turn the corner, I see the muezzin standing in his little railed-in balcony, lit by the first light of the sun, an old blind man who cries in a loud chanting voice: "AIlahu akbar, Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar ; ashadu an la ilaha illa-llah, ashadu anna Muhammedarrasulullah ... hayya 'alas-sala ... Allah is great; testify that there is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his Prophet . . . Come to prayer! "
And as he calls he does not cup his hands to his mouth, as artists always paint him, but he holds them behind his ears, the palms to the front and the fingers up.
I go on over the rough cobbles and, passing through the Gate of St. Stephen, I see ahead of me a blinding sandy road and the
In mountain country there is nothing older than a road.
Cities may come and go, the most splendid buildings may live and die, but the little road that runs between the rocks lives for ever. One is shown all kinds of sites in
The road runs downhill from St. Stephen's Gate into the
The Franciscan friars, who touch everything with beauty, grace and reverence, own the little Garden and, while they have built a church near by, they have not touched the Garden except to make flower-beds among the ancient olive trees.
In a land where the footsteps of Christ, real or imaginary, can be traced by huge churches built over stones and caves and legends, this quiet little Garden on the Mount of Olives stands out as an imperishable memory. Time has not altered this Garden. City has followed city on the hill opposite, but the Garden, so near that in the evening the shadow of
An old monk, who is working in the Garden, unlocks the rate for me and turns again to his weeding basket and his rake.
He is a French monk who has spent many years in the
He points out to me a rock which marks the place where Peter, James and John slept, and not far off is a column in the wall which is the traditional spot on which Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss.
" And is it true," I ask him, " as so many believe, that these nre the actual trees that were growing in the time of Our Lord? "
" They may well be the trees," he replies, " for their age is lost in antiquity. I will tell you a very interesting thing about them. They have never paid the tax which, since the Moslem .on quest, was imposed on newly planted trees. That means that they were not young trees many centuries ago. That, my son, is an historic fact, but whether they sheltered our
rd I cannot say; but, for myself," and here the old man smiled gently and bent towards his rake and basket, " I believe they did."
There is no sound in the
And, as I stand in the shade of the olive trees, I look up and see, through a screen of leaves, the great yellow wall of
It Occurs to me that there could be no greater contrast than the proud, hard, yellow wall and this little garden among trees, where the lizards come out of holes in the stones to stare in the sunlight with their small frogs' heads lifted, listening and watching; where every leaf and every flower achieves an added beauty by reason of the barren harshness and the cruel heat beyond the garden.
"Then cometh Jesus with them unto a place called
I finish the chapter of St. Matthew and close the Book. The monk has weeded to the end of his row. He stoops down, picks a stone from his sandal and bends again to his work. And above us the gaunt, cavernous trunks of the eight olive trees that will not die rise up like the columns of a crypt.
As the Franciscan lets me out of the garden he gives me a little slip of paper, which I place in my pocket as I walk back up the hot road to
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
No comments:
Post a Comment