Following Steps of Jesus Walking Tour (Self Guided), Jerusalem

The Chapel of the Ascension marks the site whose history reflects Jerusalem’s long cycles of faith and change. Over the centuries, it has been a Christian church, a monastery, and later an Islamic mosque. According to Christian tradition, this is the place where Jesus was taken up into heaven 40 days after the Resurrection. Inside the small octagonal shrine, a footprint impressed in the rock—the last physical mark left at the moment of the Ascension—has been venerated ever since, drawing curious eyes and reverent glances.

Before Christianity received imperial support, early believers gathered nearby in a cave on the Mount of Olives to commemorate this event. Such sheltered spaces offered a degree of safety during periods of persecution and became early centers of worship. Around the year 390, a formal chapel was erected here by Poimenia, a wealthy Roman woman known for her patronage of Christian holy sites. The structure visible today, however, dates mainly to the Crusader period.

After Jerusalem was retaken by Muslims in 1187, the building was converted into a mosque under the Kurdish commander Salah ad-Din, and a mihrab indicating the direction of Mecca was added to the south wall. This shared use is less unusual than it may seem, as Islam also honors Jesus as a prophet.

Just next door, a tiny burial crypt adds another layer to the site’s reputation shared by followers of all three Abrahamic religions. Jews say it belongs to the prophetess Huldah from the 7th century BC. Christians link it to Saint Pelagia, a 5th-century figure known for a dramatic turn from worldly life to repentance. Muslims, meanwhile, associate it with Rabiʿa al-Adawiyya, an 8th-century Sufi mystic.

Different names, different centuries—but the same small space. What we do know is that the Christian tradition of Saint Pelagia is the oldest, quietly underscoring the deep and overlapping layers of devotion that define this place...

Beyond a hush of ancient olive trees, an enclosed garden opens onto the church, built above a rocky grotto traditionally associated with Jesus’s teaching on the final struggle between good and evil and the coming end of the world. Medieval tradition also placed here the moment when Jesus taught his disciples the Lord’s Prayer. It was this belief that led the Crusaders to give this church its enduring name, the Pater Noster, meaning “Our Father”, from the opening words of the prayer in Latin.

The history of the site reaches back to the early Christian period. In 326 AD, Emperor Constantine ordered the construction of the Eleona Basilica, known as the “Basilica of Olives,” under the supervision of his mother, Saint Helena. This early sanctuary became an important place of pilgrimage, closely linked to the Mount of Olives and its Gospel associations.

In the early 7th century, during the Persian invasion of Jerusalem, the basilica was destroyed, leaving behind ruins that still mark the outlines of the original structure. Portions of these remains have been partially restored and remain visible today.

The present church dates from the late 19th century and reflects a renewed Christian presence on the Mount of Olives. Its construction was overseen by a community of contemplative Carmelite nuns, who preserved the spiritual character of the site while shaping the modest building and garden seen today. The open courtyard and surrounding cloisters invite quiet reflection, echoing the long tradition of prayer associated with this place.

From the southern side of the courtyard, a short flight of steps descends to the tomb of the Princess of the Auvergne Tower, who acquired the property in 1868. Her legacy is especially visible in the tiled panels that line the entrance and cloister, each bearing the Lord’s Prayer in a different language. Originally displayed in 62 languages, the collection has since expanded to include many more translations and regional dialects, turning the walls themselves into a visual testament to the prayer’s global reach.

Indeed, this is a place where theology meets typography, and where visitors often pause—not to debate doctrine, but to search for a familiar line of text. If your language proves hard to find, the small on-site shop keeps a map of the panels. After all, when a prayer has traveled this far, it helps to know exactly where it landed...

The name Dominus Flevit Church translates from Latin simply as “The Lord Wept,” and it wastes no time explaining the mood. This small Franciscan chapel marks the Gospel moment when Jesus, riding toward Jerusalem on the first Palm Sunday, pauses to look at the city and breaks down—lamenting the fate of Jerusalem, its people, and the Second Temple long before its destruction. No thunder, no miracles here. Just a quiet and somewhat disturbing pause in the story.

The building itself leans fully into that emotion. Designed in the 1950s by Italian architect Antonio Barluzzi, the chapel is shaped like a teardrop, because subtlety was clearly not the goal. It stands on the remains of a 7th-century chapel, with part of the original apse still visible—a reminder that sorrow, just like pilgrimage, tends to return to the same places. The modern structure may be modest in size, but it is heavy with symbolism, both architectural and spiritual.

Then there’s the view, which does most of the talking. Framed perfectly by the altar window, the Dome of the Rock and the Old City spread out below in one of Jerusalem’s most photographed panoramas. From the surrounding gardens, the perspective barely improves—because it already feels complete. For many visitors, this alone would justify the stop.

But Dominus Flevit has a few quieter details waiting just beyond the first glance. Near the entrance, a group of carved stone ossuaries, dating from roughly 100 BC to 300 AD, sits on display, grounding the site firmly in the long arc of burial practices and belief. To the side of the church door, preserved outdoors, is a delicate early Christian mosaic from a 5th-century monastery, still in place where it was found. It’s easy to miss—but then again, this is a site devoted to noticing what others might overlook.

Short, reflective, and unexpectedly sharp, Dominus Flevit doesn’t ask for much time. It just asks you to stop, look, and sit with the moment.

The Garden of Gethsemane, lying at the foot of the Mount of Olives, is a place heavy with meaning and surprisingly calm for a site at the center of one of Christianity’s most dramatic moments. According to all four Gospels, this is where Jesus spent the night wrestling with the knowledge of what lay ahead—his arrest, trial, and death—before soldiers arrived to take him away.

The name Gethsemane comes from Aramaic and means “oil press,” a reminder that this was once a working olive grove long before it became sacred ground. Strip away the theology for a moment, and what you have here is an urban olive orchard—quiet, enclosed, and stubbornly timeless. Eight ancient olive trees dominate the garden, their twisted trunks looking as if they have seen absolutely everything and are still not impressed.

Scientific dating suggests they are over 900 years old, making them among the oldest living olive trees known. What's more, they all descend from the same parent tree, which may itself trace its roots back to the olive trees growing here in Jesus’s time. They still bear fruit, too—though they are carefully fenced off, so unless you plan to charm the gatekeeper with extraordinary elegance, you’ll be admiring them from a respectful distance.

Just beside the garden stands the Church of All Nations, also known as the Basilica of the Agony. Inside, the lighting is intentionally subdued, drawing attention to a section of exposed bedrock believed to mark the spot where Jesus prayed before his arrest.

The atmosphere is solemn, contemplative, and very serious about the dress code. Knees, shoulders, and upper arms must be covered—that is, properly covered, not just “technically hidden by a floating scarf.” Shorts, especially for women, are a firm no, in keeping with the long-standing custom of respect.

Taken together, the garden and the church offer a pause in Jerusalem’s relentless intensity—a moment to slow down, lower your voice, and stand where fear, faith, and history once intersected under the shade of ancient olive trees.

Just beside the olive-heavy slopes of Gethsemane, in the Valley of Jehoshaphat, you will find yourself facing one of Jerusalem’s oldest and most enduring pilgrimage sites: the Tomb of the Virgin Mary. There’s no grand façade here to announce what lies behind it. Instead of rising above ground, the sanctuary unfolds below it. The experience begins with a long descent—nearly 50 stone steps, rebuilt by the Crusaders—pulling you steadily downward, away from daylight and into a space shaped as much by belief as by rock.

Halfway down, the staircase pauses beside a series of side tombs once thought suitable for medieval royalty. One of them, on the right as you descend, carries special weight in Christian tradition: it is identified as the burial place of Mary's parents, Saints Anne and Joachim. The setting is modest, even restrained, but that understatement only sharpens the sense that this is a place meant to be entered slowly, with attention.

The origins of the sanctuary reach back to the first centuries of Christianity, though the structure you see today reflects later Byzantine design. The crypt itself is carved largely from solid stone and laid out in a cruciform plan. At its eastern end, softened by icons, lamps, and centuries of touch, stands the tomb traditionally linked to Mary. It remains a shared place of prayer for Armenian, Greek Orthodox, Coptic, and Syrian Christians—each adding their own visual language to the same small space.

The site’s pull extends beyond Christianity. In Islamic tradition, Mary is also deeply revered, and legend holds that during his Night Journey to Jerusalem, the Prophet Muhammad witnessed a radiant light emerging from this very tomb. Just outside, beside the entrance, is the Cave of Gethsemane—sometimes called the Cave of the Betrayal—where tradition places Judas’s final, infamous act preceding Jesus's arrest.

Indeed, this is not a site that overwhelms through size or ornament. Instead, it works quietly, forming a threshold between memory, devotion, and silence.

This entrance in Jerusalem’s eastern wall answers to several names, which already tells you it has lived a busy life. Most visitors know it as the Lions’ Gate, thanks to the pair of stone beasts guarding the doorway. Christians, meanwhile, often call it Saint Stephen’s Gate, after the first Christian martyr, who was stoned outside the city. His burial place originally lay near Damascus Gate, but was later shifted here, making life a little easier for generations of pilgrims.

Arabic names add more layers to the story. One is Bab al-Ghor, or “Jordan Valley Gate,” pointing east toward the land below. Another links the gate to the Virgin Mary, believed by tradition to have been born nearby. Then there’s Meshikuli, a term best translated as “wicket”—a reminder that gates were once part of a defensive system, not a photo opportunity. Through openings like this, watchful eyes scanned the horizon, ready to respond to anything approaching, sometimes with less-than-hospitable methods, involving boiling oil.

The animals themselves come with their own debate. Officially, they’re lions, though some insist they’re panthers. One tradition connects them to the Mamluk sultan Baybars I, whose emblem they resemble. According to legend, Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent ordered them placed here to celebrate driving the Crusaders from the region. Another story claims the decision followed a dream in which Suleiman was threatened by lions if he failed to rebuild Jerusalem’s walls—a reminder that urban planning has always had its anxieties...

What’s remarkable is how little the gate has changed. Unlike much of the Old City, it has never been restored. It still does its job quietly, funneling crowds in and out—especially on Fridays, when worshipers stream toward the nearby Al-Aqsa Mosque. Stand here for a moment, and you’ll see exactly what this gate has always done best: connect names, beliefs, and centuries of history in one narrow opening.

Just inside Lions' Gate, tucked within a quiet walled compound, you’ll find not one but two Churches of Saint Anne—both dedicated to Anne, traditionally known as the mother of the Virgin Mary. Closest to the gate stands the Greek Orthodox church. It is modest in scale and gently atmospheric, with a small cave-like chapel that tradition associates with Mary’s birth. Below, a stairway leads to the tombs attributed to her parents, Saints Anne and Joachim. The doors open at set hours, and a small donation is the customary way of saying thanks.

Right next door is the 12th-century Greek Catholic church, a Crusader-era building that proves simplicity can be quietly impressive. Its architecture mixes Romanesque clarity with Middle Eastern details—pointed arches and a fluted window frame that would later travel west with the Crusaders. Inside, the space is spare and luminous, with smooth columns and clean vaults that draw the eye upward. Then there’s the sound: the acoustics are so precise that the pilgrim groups often come here to sing rather than to look, letting hymns linger in the air long after the final note.

A set of steps descends to an older crypt, where Byzantine columns and mosaic fragments hint at even earlier layers of worship. Catholic tradition places Mary’s birth here, though today the site is presented with thoughtful restraint rather than firm claims—history speaking softly instead of shouting...

Before you move on, pause for two small pleasures. First, notice the building’s asymmetry—count the steps on either side, and you’ll see it. Second, step into the adjoining garden, a calm pocket of green that feels almost unreal this close to the Old City’s busiest paths. It’s a gentle reminder that in Jerusalem, even the quiet corners carry centuries of stories—and sometimes, they whisper them.

Just beside the serene Saint Anne’s Church, history takes a sharp turn underground. Here lie the Pools of Bethesda, built around 200 BC to supply water to the Temple—practical infrastructure with a spiritual reputation. According to the Gospel of Saint John, these waters were believed to heal, and it’s here that Jesus is said to have cured a man who had been ill for 38 years. Not bad credentials for a water system...

Archaeology fills in the background details. Excavations uncovered the remains of five porticoes, matching the biblical description, along with nearby caves that the Romans converted into bathing areas. In Roman times, this was less a quiet sanctuary and more a full-scale healing complex, crowded with people hoping the waters might change their fortunes. The Romans later added their own layer, constructing a 3rd-century temple dedicated to Serapis (the god of the underworld, healing, fertility, and the heavens), which was eventually replaced by a Byzantine basilica—because in Jerusalem, even sacred real estate gets reused.

Today, a raised walkway lets you circle the pools and peer down into centuries of engineering, ritual, and belief. You can descend into a Roman cistern, trace the outlines of walls and arches, and see how one site absorbed pagan worship, Christian tradition, and urban infrastructure without ever fully pressing reset. A detailed plan helps keep the centuries straight.

There’s also a small on-site museum displaying finds from the excavations—quiet, modest, and usually open only by appointment. But even without it, the Pools of Bethesda tell their story clearly enough: a place where water, faith, and history have been flowing together for more than two thousand years.

Stretching across the Via Dolorosa, this arch looks quietly theatrical—and it has earned the role. Its story begins in 70 AD, when the Romans threw it up as part of a military ramp aimed at the Antonia Fortress, where Jewish rebels were holding out. A few decades later, after crushing the Second Jewish War, the Romans rebuilt Jerusalem in 135 AD and gave the arch a victory makeover: one large central opening flanked by two smaller arches. The main bay still spans the street here, just west of the entrance to the Lithostratos, better known as the “Pavement of Justice.”

One of those side arches didn’t vanish—it simply changed address. Today, it survives indoors, folded neatly into the Convent of the Sisters of Zion, built in the 1860s. Beneath the convent lies the Struthion Pool, an ancient reservoir designed to catch rainwater from the surrounding rooftops. Christian tradition places a dramatic moment here: the stone pavement above the pool is said to be where Pontius Pilate presented Jesus to the crowd with the words “Ecce homo”—“Behold the man.” Archaeology, however, plays the spoiler. The pavement dates to the 2nd century AD, from the reign of Emperor Hadrian, making it a later Roman addition rather than a firsthand witness to the trial.

Looking closely at the stone within the railed section, you will spot etched markings—circles and lines that historians believe were scratched by bored Roman guards, possibly for games played while on duty. It’s a small, human detail amid the heavy symbolism.

Just nearby, beside the Third Station, a building belonging to the Greek Orthodox Patriarchate bears a plaque identifying it as the Prison of Jesus and Barabbas. That label only appeared in 1911, and scholars are unconvinced. More likely, this was once a stable tied to the Antonia Fortress—less drama, more logistics. Indeed, in Jerusalem, even the stones argue back...

Via Dolorosa—literally the “Way of Sorrow”—is the route traditionally associated with the final walk of Jesus Christ, from the judgment of Pontius Pilate to Golgotha. Today, this short but intense stretch of street threads its way through the Muslim Quarter of Jerusalem’s Old City, beginning near the Madrasa al-Omariya, not far from the Lions' Gate, and ending inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. In total, the route runs for roughly half a kilometer—compact in distance, immense in meaning...

Along the way are the 14 Stations of the Cross, each marking a moment from the Gospel narrative. While the tradition they represent is ancient, many of the stations themselves were formalized only in the 18th and 19th centuries. Look for the understated black iron plaques with Roman numerals: they are easy to miss amid shopfronts, doorways, and everyday street life. That contrast is part of the experience—sacred memory unfolding in the middle of a living city.

On Fridays, the route takes on a more solemn rhythm when Franciscan friars retrace the path in procession, continuing a tradition they have maintained as custodians of key Christian holy sites since the 14th century. The timing is deliberate, echoing the hour associated with the Crucifixion, and the atmosphere shifts noticeably, as prayers replace street noise, even if only briefly.

A practical note for your feet and focus: the stone paving can be slick, especially after rain, and the route includes steps and uneven slopes. Crowds ebb and flow without warning. So, keep your balance, keep your awareness, and keep your eyes up.

Beyond its religious importance, the Via Dolorosa offers fragments of architecture, artwork, and street life that reward close attention. This is not a corridor sealed in time—it’s a passage where devotion, history, and daily routine overlap, step by step.

Known to many as the Church of the Resurrection, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre is where Christianity compresses its most intense chapters into one dimly lit, yet often crowded, site. This is the traditional endpoint of the Via Dolorosa—though technically, the final steps spill out into the broad courtyard just outside. Inside, four stations of the Way of the Cross are packed under one roof, which explains the steady flow of pilgrims here, moving with purpose, patience, and very little personal space...

Pass through the entrance, and things get serious pretty fast. The Chapel of the Franks greets you first, a brief threshold before the space opens upward toward the crucifixion altar. The Greek Orthodox altar rises above what is believed to be the very spot of the Crucifixion itself.

Just nearby lies the Stone of Unction, smooth and worn, marking where Jesus’s body was prepared for burial—still touched, kissed, and quietly circled by pilgrims every day. Move deeper inside, past the Chapel of the Angel, and you reach the marble-clad tomb traditionally identified as Jesus’s burial place. Above it all, a great dome pulls daylight down into the gloom, as if reminding everyone where this story is headed.

The building itself has lived several lives. Commissioned in the 4th century by Emperor Constantine after his conversion to Christianity, the church has endured fires, invasions, neglect, and repeated rebuilding as Jerusalem changed hands. What stands today is the result of survival rather than design—a layered mix of Byzantine foundations, Crusader additions, medieval repairs, and modern reinforcements. A major restoration in 1959, carried out jointly by Latin, Greek, and Armenian Christian communities, stabilized what could still be saved.

Sharing the space, however, has never been simple. Control of the church is divided with almost ceremonial precision among several Christian denominations. Even tasks as basic as cleaning steps or moving furniture are governed by centuries-old agreements—proof that, here, theology and logistics are equally sacred.

A word of advice: arrive early, dress respectfully, and don’t expect much guidance. This church explains itself slowly, through stone, shadow, and the steady movement of those who came here long before you.

Set just beyond the bustle, with the city walls still in sight, the Garden Tomb offers a different kind of sacred experience. For many Protestant visitors, it feels closer to the Gospel picture than the more elaborate Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

The Anglican custodians managing the site are careful not to assert dogmatic claims that this is, indeed, the very tomb associated with Jesus’s resurrection. Instead, they offer something subtler: a place that looks right, feels right, and lines up well enough with the biblical accounts to let imagination and reflection do the rest. And, of course, it quietly delivers the line that matters most—“He is not here, for He is Risen!”

What strikes many visitors first is the calm. Jerusalem can be intense, noisy, and endlessly alive, but here, the pace drops almost instantly. The garden softens the city’s edges, and the rock-cut tomb sits quietly in the background, not demanding belief, just attention.

You leave having seen a burial chamber that closely resembles what a first-century tomb would have looked like, and that alone gives the story a new sense of scale and reality. Stay a little longer, and you may hear voices rising in song—groups from different countries, each singing in their own language, sharing the same space without a shared accent or hymnbook. For believers, this moment can be deeply moving. For skeptics, it can still be hard to ignore the atmosphere: something about an empty tomb, surrounded by silence and song, has a way of lingering longer than expected.

If you choose to listen to one of the short explanations offered on the site, you’ll find they leave plenty of room for personal thought. This is not a place that rushes you or overwhelms you with claims. Instead, it invites you to pause, reflect, and decide for yourself what an empty tomb means—then carry that question back with you into the city beyond the walls...