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They tell me that my Lord paused across from Jerusalem and sat upon a hill. Twilight had curdled and solitude enveloped him. He saw the houselamps of the hot city gleam. he saw the gates, and men's hearts close upon their privacies.

Evensong died; the night took its own.

His lips knew a sigh and His eyes knew a softness. But in that softness was an anguish, for He felt Himself shut out and His ministries rebuked.

They tell me that He cried as one in torment, "O Jerusalem! Jerusalem! How oft I would have gathered you as a hen gathereth her chicks beneath her wings, but ye would not!"

It is conceivable He wept.

Jerusalem shut her gates and set out the evening lamp before her whoredoms, caring not a sou for the lonely Watcher on the hill. And the Watcher of Eternity shriveled in His spirit and could not be comforted. This they tell me of my Lord.

I refuse to believe it!

Perhaps He came upon Jerusalem, yes. Perhaps the darkness caught Him. Perhaps the gates of the city were shut before His coming. Perhaps He sat upon a hill and pondered on Jerusalem.

But his spirit knew no anguish with the vault of stars above him. He could not feel shut out with the world spread out around Him.

For in His spirit He was King!

No King gives glove to anguish when solitude envelopes him. For solitude is the breath of Kings; it is their armor and their Scripture. They know a great weakness, but they grasp a great valor.

They wait and meet God.

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