The Weeping Walls of Constantinople

On May 29, 1453, Sultan Mehmed II's armies breached the legendary walls of Constantinople — walls that had stood for over a thousand years. The city that Emperor Constantine had dedicated to Christ, the jewel of Eastern Christendom, fell in a single terrible day. The historian Doukas recorded that the streets ran with blood and that the great Hagia Sophia, where generations had worshiped the Living God, was stripped of its icons before nightfall.

For centuries, Constantinople had been the crossroads of the world. Kings sought her counsel. Pilgrims traveled months to kneel in her churches. She was, as one Byzantine poet wrote, "the city that sat as a queen among nations."

But in her final years, her allies abandoned her. Venice delayed its fleet. Genoa hedged its commitments. The Western church, divided by old grudges, sent almost no one. When the Ottoman cannons roared, Constantinople faced them nearly alone.

Survivors scattered across Europe carrying nothing but grief and memory. Greek scholars wept in Roman courtyards, reciting psalms for a home that no longer existed.

This is the ache of Lamentations 1. "How lonely sits the city that was full of people." Jerusalem, once teeming with pilgrims and praise, sat desolate — her friends turned traitors, her roads empty, her glory departed. Yet the poet still wrote. Grief spoken before the Almighty is never wasted. It is the first syllable of hope.