I am thousands of years old.
I have heard the bleating of goats as they were prepared to atone for sin. I heard the High Priest’s prayers on behalf of Israel.
I heard a couple’s soft footfalls as they carried a baby up the Temple steps – and the wonder in Simeon’s voice as he received the infant Yeshua (Jesus) in his arms.
I listened as the devil taunted Yeshua to prove He was the Messiah by jumping off the Temple’s highest point.
I heard Yeshua’s zeal as He drove out the money changers from His Father’s house.
I remember the darkened sky on the day He died, and I heard the Temple veil tear in two.
For many years, the Jewish people could not reach me. Then, one day, amid the tumult of war, I heard Israeli paratroopers float down to reclaim control of the Temple Mount – and me – for the Jewish people.
I stand straight and tall as the holiest prayer site in Judaism.
Visitors from all over the world marvel that I still stand. They touch my warm, golden stones and tuck written prayers between my blocks. I hear the tears of unbelieving Jewish brothers and sisters fall as they visit here searching for the God of Israel.