Jerusalem occupies a place in the life of the Jewish people that is so utterly unique that it defies description. In a way, describing Jerusalem is like describing a sunset—it can’t be done. All that one can do is hope to convey something of the drama and the awe stirred by the sunset and then stand back and hope that somehow one heart has touched another. So too Jerusalem. You don’t describe it, you emote it …
Jerusalem is a prayer and a dream and a child’s home. Her late-night echoes are the melodies of a hundred generations; of yesterday and eternity. Its stone-hard walls are a soft and aged embrace. Its beauty melts the soldier’s battle-hardened heart: By the thousands. Jerusalem isn’t a place at all—it’s she, it’s us, it’s simplicity. It’s a vessel, a corridor, a light. It is everything. A holy whisper and an unfathomable aching for peace. It’s God’s dew-covered garden path, and it’s something to never be forgotten.
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