By Heyman Wreford
On Tuesday, May 31St, 1892, we pitched our camp upon the Mount of Olives. Our white tents stood upon a level piece of stony ground, near the top of the mountain. Jerusalem was full in view. I gazed upon it lit by the rays of the setting sun. I watched the day’s decline, and saw the lights of the city appear. Then in the quiet skies the stars shone clearly, whilst still the crimson light gleamed on the distant hills. From here the Lord Jesus Christ beheld the city and wept over it, saying, ‘‘If thou hadst known, even thou, at least in this thy day, the things which belong unto thy peace! but now they are hid from thine eyes. “Here, too, the Saviour prayed upon that awful night, when withdrawn a stone’s cast from His disciples, amid the deepest shadows of the olive trees, His sweat became as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.” And here, after His agony of prayer and bloody sweat, the traitor betrayed him with a kiss, while the savage soldiery seize Him and lead Him away to Caiaphas. Here, too, He came upon that glorious day when, with uplifted hands, He ascended into heaven.
Thought after thought of the mighty past went through my mind as alone I walked amid the evening shadows upon that sacred mount. I could hear the beating of my heart amid the silence that reigned around. Yes, this was Olivet; my feet were on the very spot hallowed by ten thousand blessed memories. I seemed to see the Saviour and His disciples come out of the gate of the city and cross the brook Kedron, and ascend the sloping sides. Voices from the distant past seemed to sound in mine ears. Just below me was a garden of olive trees. With a heart full of the deepest emotion I entered the garden, and with uncovered head I walked beneath the shadowing trees. The light of the young moon but dimly lit the scene. All around me were the old majestic trees, whose spreading branches carpeted the ground with shadows. And ‘mid those shadows I knelt to pray. And as I prayed I seemed to hear the deep agony of the prayer breathed forth nineteen centuries ago: “My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from Me.” I prayed that He who agonized for me so long ago would bless me from His heaven today, and that my heart might know more of the love of the heart that broke in its long sorrow over my sins. And I thought, as I mused and prayed, that this might be Gethsemane. I cared not for the claims of the wall-surrounded enclosure further down that superstition had marked out as the place.
Reader, what is Gethsemane to thee? What is the Saviour of the world to thee? Hast thou put thy trust in Him, and known the peace of His forgiveness for thy many sins? Did He sorrow there for thee? And just without on guilty city’s walls did He die, “the Just for the unjust,” to bring thee to God? Think of His love, read its story in the Bible, and may God grant that His peace may fall upon thy heart.