Stand at Broadway and Morris Street, tilt your head back, and let your eyes climb. The Woolworth Building doesn't just rise; it ascends. It pulls your gaze past terra-cotta crockets and flying buttresses, past gargoyles that leer from the 40th floor, up to a crown that once scraped the clouds at 792 feet. When it opened in 1913, it was the tallest building on Earth, a title it held for seventeen years. But the Bull's park—the financial district that would become synonymous with Wall Street—was still young, still finding its footing. The Stock Exchange had only been in its current Corinthian temple for a decade. The Federal Reserve Bank of New York wouldn't open its fortress-like doors for another year. And here, at the gateway to the city's money heart, stood a monument to commerce that looked like a cathedral. Cass Gilbert, the architect, knew exactly what he was doing. He called it a "cathedral of commerce," and the name stuck. The Gothic style wasn't just ornament; it was a statement. In an age of steel frames and elevators, Gilbert wrapped the new technology in the language of medieval faith. The lobby is a breathtaking vault of marble and mosaics, with ceilings that soar like a nave. The stained glass windows? They depict not saints, but the virtues of industry—Thrift, Prudence, Enterprise. The gargoyles? One is a caricature of Frank Woolworth counting his pennies; another shows Gilbert holding a model of the building. This was a temple where the congregation worshipped profit, and the titans of finance were its saints. But the Woolworth was more than a pretty face. It was a feat of engineering. The foundation, sunk 110 feet into bedrock, used a caisson system that allowed construction to proceed without stopping traffic. The steel frame, clad in fireproof terra cotta, was a marvel of efficiency. The building boasted its own power plant, its own water supply, and a swimming pool in the basement—a luxury that would make modern office workers weep. It was a city within a city, a vertical world that housed the five-and-dime empire of Frank Woolworth, who paid for the whole thing in cash. No mortgage. No debt. Just a check for $13.5 million, a sum that would be over $400 million today. From the observation deck, which drew over a million visitors in its first year, you could see the entire harbor. The Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, the Brooklyn Bridge—all laid out below like a promise. The building was a beacon, a symbol of American ambition. It dominated the skyline, a Gothic spire that made the older, squat towers of the financial district look like dwarfs. It was the first building to have its own private subway entrance, a direct line to the City Hall station, so that Woolworth himself could arrive without stepping into the street. Imagine the scene: a tycoon in a top hat, emerging from a marble corridor into the glittering lobby, while outside, the bulls and bears of the young stock exchange began their daily dance. Today, the Woolworth Building has been reborn as luxury residences, but its soul remains. The lobby still gleams, a time capsule of Gilded Age opulence. The spire still catches the first light of dawn. And when you stand at its base, looking up, you can almost hear the echoes of a century ago—the clatter of horse-drawn carriages, the shouts of newsboys, the hum of a city on the rise. The Bull's park is now a global financial powerhouse, but the Cathedral of Commerce stands as its first great monument. It reminds us that before the skyscrapers of glass and steel, there was a building that dared to be both a temple and a tower. So look up. Let the stone and story wash over you. This is where the modern skyline began.