But the travellers have a dismal tale to tell.  Affairs in the Holy City are about as bad as it was possible for them to be.

Neh. i. 3:  ’They said unto me, The remnant that are left of the captivity there in the province are in great affliction and reproach:  the wall of Jerusalem also is broken down, and the gates thereof are burned with fire.’

In other words, things are just where they were twelve years ago; the people are miserable and depressed, beset with countless troubles; the city itself is still an utter ruin, just as Nebuchadnezzar left it.  The temple, it is true, is built at last, but nothing more is done; the walls lie just as they were when the city was taken,—­a mass of ruins; the gates are nowhere to be seen, only a few blackened stones mark the place where they used to stand.

The Rab-shakeh’s heart is very heavy as he goes to his rooms in the royal palace.  What terrible news he has heard!  Jerusalem is still, after all Ezra’s efforts to restore it, a desolate ruined city.  Nehemiah is full of sorrow, sick at heart, overwhelmed with disappointment and trouble.

But he remembers his own name and its warning, Nehemiah, The Lord is my Comforter.  At once, without a moment’s delay, he goes to his Comforter.  He weeps, he mourns, he fasts, and he pours out all his sorrow to God.  As a child runs to his mother, and pours into her ear his grief or his disappointment, so Nehemiah hastens to his God.

We walk through a splendid conservatory, the pride and glory of a nobleman’s garden; we admire the flowers of all shades of colour; rare blossoms from all parts of the world, ferns of every variety, palms, and grasses, and mosses, and all manner of natural beauties meet our eye at every turn.  What is that plant standing in a conspicuous place in the conservatory?  It is a beautiful azalea, covered with hundreds of pure white blossoms.  But there is so much else to see in that conservatory that we scarcely notice it as we pass by.  Nor are we at all surprised to see it there; it is just the very place in which we should look for such a plant.  Nor are we astonished to find it so flourishing and so full of bloom, for we know that everything in that conservatory is calculated to improve its growth, the atmosphere is just what it should be, not too dry or too damp, it has exactly the right soil, the proper amount of light, the most carefully regulated heat; it has in fact everything which it ought to have to make it a flourishing and beautiful plant.  Accordingly we are not surprised to find it full of bloom and beauty.

But suppose, on the other hand, that walking through the slums of London we see a similar sight.  In one of the closest, most filthy courts we see, in a garret window, a white azalea full of flowers, pure as the untrodden snow.

Now indeed we are surprised to see it, for it is in the most unlikely place; there is nothing to favour its growth, the air is foul, the light is dim, everything is against it, yet there it stands, a marvel of beauty!  And we look at it and say, ‘Wonderful!’