WHERE FEET DOTH TREAD
A summer in Israel(note: you can click on the pictures to enlarge them)
On the last day of my trip to Israel, from the site that is in Jordan, Mt. Nebo. Approximately 800 meters high, this mountain towers over the entire Jordan Valley.
Standing atop the mountain looking onto the land of 'milk and honey' from the very place moses must have in his day looked. With the golden disk on my head and the wind competing and essaying to drive away the heat of the scorching rind. looking as clouds pass over what is unmistakably cities and towns. Far off I could almost imagine the Golden Dome in Jerusalem vying with the heavenly orb, could see the limestone of the cities each stone, each structure telling its story of the past 2000 years. The Stretch of the river Jordan itself reflecting back to the heavens its banked tides. Standing there, watching as it were from the eyes of an eagle I saw stretched out before me myth, legend and lore. Watched it come alive and walk beneath that sun. The land part fertile part barren, the dead sea and the river Jordan alive, I saw mighty Jerusalem the Bastion of Jews, Christians and Muslims, I saw humble Bethlehem with it's silent beacon of hope, I saw Nazareth heralding the dawn.
And as my mind took flight, revisiting the places I'd Seen. saying farew
ell to the culture, to the History, to the heritage, taking back with me the very footsteps of Jesus. Of His saints of the prophets. From the very heavens where the angels sang and the cobbled streets where the Saviour bled, I traversed the ages, the very pages from the bible. History and Culture was walking around me, like shadows in the sun flitting from end to end crowding my vision. Like the Jordan flowing across the land, my thoughts gathered to create not a sea dead, but alive. A sea radiant and beautiful. Not just Christian heritage, around me I could see the inheritance of the Muslim nations and the Semitic peoples, the Al-aqsa Mosque and the Dome of the rock where the prophet Muhammad ascended to heaven and returned with edicts that are held in the hearts of The Islamic nations. The Judaic shrine - The Wailing Wall, believed to be the only remaining wall of the Great Temple built by King Solomon. Where the wailing, the cries of the people seem to blend into a mellifluous enigmatic hypnotic trance. All these experiences whir past me, fleeting yet in their detail complete.
Fused withing this like an anagram of history lay the conflicts of this century, the Israeli - Palestinian struggle. The Religious strife that has engulfed the world. As what was a little town of Bethlehem is now transformed into a prison for Palestinians. The Fortified City of Jerusalem that once housed the hosts of a civilization, has become tripartite and factioned into three quarters, one for each religion centered in it. It seems where the walls of the fortified city of Jerusalem kept out one religious invader after the other be it Muslim or Christian, the new walls of Bethlehem, not 40 minutes away now keep in a nation struggling to express its own identity.
The very Walls bring me to yet another history, that of the Roman conquerers when in my minds eye I envision the far off Capernaum, treading the walkways of a derelict city, under the shade
of an enormous tree crunching leaves underfoot, I can envision the people of great Roma, as they set upon the world the first throes of Imperialism. The very throes from which Many places in the world still reel, Israel and Palestine nonetheless. what lacks not far behind though in brief reminiscence is the conquered, those whom history silenced when it handed the crown of olive leaves to the victors. The once mighty Byzantine empire, which in its fall left behind beauty and skill surpassing even modern talent. Who carved their legacy into the mountain sides, into the rock, into the limestone that still stands to reflect the light of a burning sun.
From the pinnacle of Mount Nebo, My senses take flight and with a last farewell bid adieu to the Land where History is enthroned, in a land where the present walks alive with the past, in a land where the milk and honey ever flows.
ell to the culture, to the History, to the heritage, taking back with me the very footsteps of Jesus. Of His saints of the prophets. From the very heavens where the angels sang and the cobbled streets where the Saviour bled, I traversed the ages, the very pages from the bible. History and Culture was walking around me, like shadows in the sun flitting from end to end crowding my vision. Like the Jordan flowing across the land, my thoughts gathered to create not a sea dead, but alive. A sea radiant and beautiful. Not just Christian heritage, around me I could see the inheritance of the Muslim nations and the Semitic peoples, the Al-aqsa Mosque and the Dome of the rock where the prophet Muhammad ascended to heaven and returned with edicts that are held in the hearts of The Islamic nations. The Judaic shrine - The Wailing Wall, believed to be the only remaining wall of the Great Temple built by King Solomon. Where the wailing, the cries of the people seem to blend into a mellifluous enigmatic hypnotic trance. All these experiences whir past me, fleeting yet in their detail complete.
Fused withing this like an anagram of history lay the conflicts of this century, the Israeli - Palestinian struggle. The Religious strife that has engulfed the world. As what was a little town of Bethlehem is now transformed into a prison for Palestinians. The Fortified City of Jerusalem that once housed the hosts of a civilization, has become tripartite and factioned into three quarters, one for each religion centered in it. It seems where the walls of the fortified city of Jerusalem kept out one religious invader after the other be it Muslim or Christian, the new walls of Bethlehem, not 40 minutes away now keep in a nation struggling to express its own identity.The very Walls bring me to yet another history, that of the Roman conquerers when in my minds eye I envision the far off Capernaum, treading the walkways of a derelict city, under the shade
of an enormous tree crunching leaves underfoot, I can envision the people of great Roma, as they set upon the world the first throes of Imperialism. The very throes from which Many places in the world still reel, Israel and Palestine nonetheless. what lacks not far behind though in brief reminiscence is the conquered, those whom history silenced when it handed the crown of olive leaves to the victors. The once mighty Byzantine empire, which in its fall left behind beauty and skill surpassing even modern talent. Who carved their legacy into the mountain sides, into the rock, into the limestone that still stands to reflect the light of a burning sun.From the pinnacle of Mount Nebo, My senses take flight and with a last farewell bid adieu to the Land where History is enthroned, in a land where the present walks alive with the past, in a land where the milk and honey ever flows.
