New Paths through Old Palestine. Margaret Slattery

the face of coming darkness, we left the great wall and joined the group of Arabs who, with camels and donkeys, were passing in and out of the gate. As we climbed the long stairs to our room, we remembered that tomorrow would be Sunday at home. In thousands of churches all over the world, trusting little children, strong, courageous youth, men and women bearing heavy burdens, the old, the sick, the missionaries would read the story of what He did and said centuries before, in and about Jerusalem—the story that, despite the limitations of those who have told it, has changed the world and that must continue to change it until it shall become what He prayed it might be—the kingdom of God upon the earth. Tomorrow we, like the young soldier in khaki, would begin our journeys to “all the places where He used to go.” And we hoped that for us, too, the sacred spots would “make the story in the Book very plain.”

      In a long procession with torches the worshipers of the Greek church, chanting an evensong for their feast day, passed beneath our balcony. A torch lighted up the cross held high over the heads of the marchers. Out over the hills of Bethlehem, hidden now by the night, bright stars were shining. We fell upon our knees and worshiped Him.

I GO OVER TO BETHLEHEM

       Table of Contents

       There was a baby born in Bethlehem.

       I know they say

       That this and that’s in doubt, and, for the rest

       That learned men who surely should know best

       Explain how myths crept in, and followers’ tales confused the truth.

       I know—but anyway

       There was a baby born in Bethlehem

       Who lived and grew and loved and healed and taught

       And died—but not to me.

       When Christmas comes I see Him still arise,

       The gentle, the compassionate, the wise,

       Wiping Earth’s tears away, stilling her strife;

       Calling, “My path is Peace; My way is Life!”

      —Author Unknown.