Until recently, just outside the Lion’s Gate, hugging the eastern wall of the old city of Jerusalem was the last vestige of what was once a thriving sheep market. In Bible times, Jews scattered through the ancient world by various diasporas would make their way home to worship in the City of the Name. But no man ever came to God aright without a substitutionary sacrifice. Of course it was impossible to bring your own lamb on the long journey to Israel. Therefore the need for a supply near at hand.
Just in through the Lion’s Gate and to the right lie the ruins of the double pool called Bethesda (house of mercy). Some of its porticos can still be seen. One pool was for humans but the other was for animals. Being washed here and checked for blemishes, the still living sacrifices were then taken in through the Sheep Gate on the northern wall of the temple enclosure. There, on the elevation of Moriah’s southern peak, “before the Lord” the lamb would die.
Early one morning in May I slipped out of my hotel overlooking the Hinnom Valley. It was still dark. I hailed a taxi and headed for the sheep market. Down into the valley past the Sultan’s Pool. Up the other side and along the edge of Mount Zion. Past the Jaffa Gate and around the northwest corner of the Old City. Along the northern wall past the New, Damascus, and Herod’s Gates. Through these openings I could see that the city was beginning to stir. One last turn at the northeast corner and we were there.
I situated myself just outside the low wall that enclosed the market. I leaned back to wait, doing the best a freckle-faced Canadian could do to look unobtrusive. Not a chance.
Just as the golden rays of the morning sun kissed Olivet’s cheek, the first ancient Volkswagen bus (one of many–it’s the vehicle of choice) sputtered into the market. From the driver’s side unfolded a heavily robed Arab. From the passenger side, usually in blue jeans and tee shirt, would jump a small, energetic representative of the next generation. Then out of the rear compartment would tumble twelve or fifteen bleating sheep, no doubt relieved to be able to breathe again.
It was the little fellows’ task (the scene was repeated eight or ten times) to keep the fathers’ sheep separate and localized, not an easy job. The boys were aided with sticks in each hand, sharp eyes, and boundless agility.
Meanwhile, the men moved about the mini-flocks, bartering for what they considered a fair price. Often the money was in and out of the folds of their garment two or three times before a deal was struck.
Sometimes the buyer wanted the animal killed. The price was the price of blood. For this purpose, there was a raised area in the corner of the enclosure with a ramp leading up to it. That morning I watched a lamb die.
I do not consider myself to be squeamish. There was something, however, about the incarnadine rivulet that ran down against the tawny stones of the street that caused me to gasp. Was it the strangely familiar way in which the lamb went to its slaughter, uncomplaining? Was it the calloused way the killers went about their work?
Or was it that my cheek, tear-wet, lay hard against the cold, unfeeling stones of the walled city outside of which another Lamb died? There, too, the Lamb went ungrudgingly–no, willingly. There, too, they led Him up the rugged incline to Golgotha’s brow. “And sitting down, they watched Him there.”
I do not know how long I stood there looking at the scarlet pool. Long enough, certainly, to travel back two thousand years. My reverie was interrupted by someone hosing away the little lamb’s life into the gutter. My watch told me it would soon be time to make for the hotel, but if I hurried, I could have a few minutes at a spot just outside the Damascus Gate. A broken outcrop, Moriah’s severed northern peak. Is it the place? I think so, but no matter. I stood and looked beyond it anyway. The city swirled around me but I didn’t see them. I watched a Lamb die.