Explore "The Greatest Story Ever Told" by Fulton Oursler on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
KwowI1nc travelers today, when they go to Jerusalem, spend a thoughtful hour in the Convent of the Sisters of Zion. They turn to the staircase leading from its chapel and go down nineteen centuries. Under the foundations of the chapel are the flagstones of the old Roman street before the palace of Pilate, great flat slabs of limestone and granite, rutted with grooves worn by chariot wheels and lacquered smooth by long-stilled bare feet.
To stand there in the dimmest light and feel the reality of those flagstones is like an exercise in evocation. All of the modern piled-up city of Jerusalem overhead fades out like an unsubstantial vision and in its place stands the gate of the Praetorium. The mob is there, the hired and drummed-up mob whose purchased fists are lifted and whose scurrilous voices snarl in the dark. They follow after the guards making clear the path of a majestic little man with the wisp of white hair over his left eye-Annas, the tireless old boss of Jerusalem.