have been stretched on the rack. They have been flayed alive. They
have been burned alive. They have been sent to sea by thousands as
herded cattle; and they have been sent thither in rotting and
sinking ships. Their wives and daughters have suffered worse than
torture or death. Their children have been mutilated; and when they
failed to bring a full and satisfactory price in the public market,
men, women and children have been given away as worthless slaves,
not worth even the price of a kennel dog.

They have been hunted like wild beasts of the mountain. Like
frightened beasts they have trembled at the sound of approaching
footsteps and the sound of a shaken leaf has caused them to flee.

If their Lord was a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief, truly
may it be said of them that they have been through the centuries a
nation of sorrows and acquainted with grief; but the sorrows were
unlike those of their Lord. He carried the sorrows, the griefs and
woes of others that He might relieve them; they carried their own
sorrows put upon them by the wickedness and cruelty of others until
tears were their meat and drink night and day.

Behold how the prophecies have been fulfilled in respect to their
land.

For centuries it has kept a sabbath of rest.

It has rested from the toil of man; harvests have neither been sown
nor reaped, nor the vintage gathered save here and there as with the
sword in one hand and the sickle in the other.

The land is there as a land just as it was in the days when the man
of Nazareth walked by the shores of blue Galilee or trod the hills
of Judah. The mountains of Moab draw their lines of beauty against
the measureless deeps of an orient sky. The valleys lie between like
fruitful bosoms where wheat and barley may grow. The olive trees
stand dusky in the deepening shade. Pomegranate and apricot stretch
forth their weighted boughs and the grapes in Eschol clusters hang
purple in the slant of westering suns. It is even yet a land of
brooks and fountains of waters and men may still dig iron and brass
from out of its rugged hills.

Yonder in Bashan within the range of your eyes you may count sixty
cities of stone, walls and roofs and windows of stone, great
swinging doors of stone. The centuries have beaten the wind, the
rain, the storms and flying sand upon them. They remain. They have
outworn the centuries. They are silent. No footfall is heard upon
the threshold. The houses are empty save