The Strength of His Hand (13 page)
“Bring me some parchment and something to write with,” he said after the servants cleared away the food. Words of praise to Yahweh were racing through his mind, along with vivid images of his ordeal, and he wanted to get them down in writing before they vanished. He held the quill stiffly, and his writing looked cramped and sloppy, but he composed his psalm quickly as if trying to capture water from an overflowing spring.
First he wrote of his fear of death and the anguish he’d suffered when he thought God had abandoned him. Eliakim had told him that difficult experiences deepened our relationship with God, and Hezekiah knew it was true.
Lord, by such things men live… . Surely it was for my benefit that I
suffered such anguish
.
Then came words of praise and thanksgiving. Hezekiah wanted to write a magnificent hymn to God, thanking Him for saving his life once again. But even as he scribbled the words, they seemed inadequate. He envied King David—his soaring songs of thanksgiving seemed to praise God so much better than his own.
When he finished, Hezekiah laid the page aside and slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed, groping for the floor. He flexed his right foot and felt the painful tightness in the new skin that had begun to grow back, replacing his burned flesh. The muscles of his legs trembled, and he wasn’t convinced they would hold his weight. But this was the morning of the third day, and, as Isaiah had promised, Hezekiah would worship in Yahweh’s Temple. He stood for the first time in weeks, leaning against the bed for support. His servants helped him dress. He was about to take his first step when Isaiah walked through the door.
“Good morning, Your Majesty. May I join you in worship?” He smiled his familiar, fleeting half-smile and offered his arm for Hezekiah to lean on.
Hezekiah took a step, then another and another. He felt dizzy, weightless, and grateful for Isaiah’s rocklike strength. He leaned on him heavily. Hezekiah took two more steps, leaving his bedchamber for the first time in more than two weeks, and entered his sitting room. Shebna bolted to his feet in surprise.
“You are up!”
“Yes, Shebna, and I’m going to the Temple.”
Hezekiah’s valet followed them from the bedroom, carrying the parchment with the psalm he’d written. “What about this, Your Majesty?” Hezekiah looked at it for a moment, then rolled it up and handed it to Isaiah. “Keep this for me, Rabbi.”
The shofar sounded from the Temple wall above them. “We’d better start walking,” Hezekiah said. “I don’t want to be late.”
He left the palace and hobbled up the royal walkway to the Temple, gradually gaining his balance after lying in bed for so long. He relied on Isaiah less and less as he climbed stiffly up the hill. His leg tugged painfully with each step he took, but at least the pain remained in his leg instead of spreading through his body. The new skin seemed too tightly stretched, forcing him to favor his left leg. He would probably walk with a limp for the rest of his life. Like his ancestor Jacob, who walked with a limp, Hezekiah had also wrestled with God.
As he hobbled through the gate and took his place on the royal dais, an immense cheer erupted from the crowd in the courtyard. The deafening sound continued for several minutes, and Hezekiah thought it probably could be heard for miles around.
“Praise the Lord,” he murmured aloud, unashamed as tears rolled silently down his face. “The grave cannot praise you, O God. Only the living can praise you, as I am doing today. And I will sing your praise in the Temple of Yahweh every day of my life!”
Isaiah sat at the table in his tiny one-room home and reread the words of the king’s psalm. Like his ancestor King David, Hezekiah had a gift for writing songs of praise to God. Isaiah dipped his pen into the pot of ink and wrote across the top of the parchment,
A
writing of Hezekiah king of Judah after his illness and recovery:
I said, “In the prime of my life
must I go through the gates of death
and be robbed of the rest of my years?”
I said, “I will not again see the Lord,
the Lord, in the land of the living;
no longer will I look on mankind,
or be with those who now dwell in this world.
Like a shepherd’s tent my house
has been pulled down and taken from me.
Like a weaver I have rolled up my life,
and he has cut me off from the loom;
day and night you made an end of me.
I waited patiently till dawn,
but like a lion he broke all my bones;
day and night you made an end of me.
I cried like a swift or thrush,
I moaned like a mourning dove.
My eyes grew weak as I looked to the heavens.
I am troubled; O Lord, come to my aid!”
But what can I say?
He has spoken to me, and he himself has done this.
I will walk humbly all my years
because of this anguish of my soul.
Lord, by such things men live;
and my spirit finds life in them too.
You restored me to health
and let me live.
Surely it was for my benefit
that I suffered such anguish.
In your love you kept me
from the pit of destruction;
you have put all my sins
behind your back.
For the grave cannot praise you,
death cannot sing your praise;
those who go down to the pit
cannot hope for your faithfulness.
The living, the living—they praise you,
as I am doing today;
fathers tell their children
about your faithfulness.
The Lord will save me,
and we will sing with stringed instruments
all the days of our lives
in the temple of the Lord.
When he finished reading, Isaiah rolled the parchment carefully and placed it in the earthenware storage jar with his other scrolls. The jar contained all the precious words Yahweh had spoken to him over the years, all the visions he had seen during the reigns of Uzziah, Jotham, Ahaz, and now King Hezekiah.
But Hezekiah’s heart was proud and he did
not respond to the kindness shown him;
therefore the Lord’s wrath was on him
and on Judah and Jerusalem.
__________
2
C
HRONICLES
3 2 : 2 5
K
ING MERODACH-BALADAN REACHED
the top of the ziggurat first and paused in front of the Temple of Bel to gaze at the city below. Babylon’s turquoise canals and broad streets fanned out like a net, snaring mud-brick houses and green patches of parkland in their web. Beyond the city’s broad protective walls, emerald fields and marshes stretched toward the horizon, nourished by the sluggish Euphrates River as it snaked across the plain. Everything looked remarkably clean and orderly from this height, and Merodach-Baladan loved order.
It was early in the day, and a holiday at that, so the king detected little movement in the quiet streets below. The few people he saw appeared small and vulnerable from this height, like ants he could easily crush beneath his thumb. He enjoyed the lofty view and the feeling it gave him of being above all other men, far removed and supreme.
Merodach-Baladan liked to feel supreme. He knew that his physical appearance was ordinary—his wavy black hair and classical Babylonian features didn’t stand out in a crowd unless he was clothed in the rich trappings of royalty. But he also knew that his shrewd political mind sprinted far ahead of the average man’s, just as his lean, limber body had outraced his advisors to the top of the monument.
Gradually the other four members of his royal council straggled up the ziggurat’s steep stairs behind him, panting and gasping from exertion. They flopped onto the stone benches that were arranged in a semicircle outside the temple. Even the king’s military commander, who trained every day in order to remain fit, had difficulty recovering his breath. King Merodach-Baladan smiled to himself as he listened to them, savoring the fact that he’d reached the summit first, without becoming short-winded.
“Take a good look, gentlemen,” he said, gesturing to the miniature city below. “You’re gazing at the birthplace of the New Babylonian Empire. In fact, you’re seated within her very womb, watching as she’s being formed.” He studied their sweating faces as they surveyed the view, then snapped his fingers to draw their attention back to himself.
“We’re closer to that miraculous day of birth now than when we stood here last New Year’s Day. And much closer than three years ago when I first conceived my New Babylonian Empire. Soon we will slay the Assyrian beast for good, and Babylon will rise to take her predestined place.”
“May almighty Bel, king of all gods, make it so!” the secretary of state shouted, leaping to his feet. He was a handsome, ambitious man with a tongue as smooth as his clean-shaven face. Merodach-Baladan enjoyed the secretary’s flattery and admired his zeal, but he kept the man close to his side, wary of what such charm might accomplish behind his back.
“And this time next year,” the king continued, “when we climb once again to Bel’s sanctuary to seek his blessings for a new year, we will be ready to begin the first stage of my master plan: attacking the weakened beast’s flank and bringing Assyria to her knees at last.”
“May the all-powerful Bel make it so!” the secretary declared again, and the other three men murmured in agreement.
“Civilization, gentlemen! That’s what the New Babylonian Empire will offer the world. Look at the order and beauty we have already accomplished here.” The king swept his hand in an arc, indicating the city below. “What nation wouldn’t gladly embrace such splendor after years of Assyrian brutality? Marching, conquering, oppressing. That’s all the Assyrians know. But now their empire is swiftly coming to an end, and Babylon will rise to take Assyria’s place with the glory and splendor of Shamash, god of the sun.”
The king’s military advisor raised his fist and shook it defiantly.
“Death to the Assyrians! May they find no rest in the netherworld!”
“Hear! Hear!” the others echoed. The king gave them time to shout and cheer before continuing.
“For the next stage of my master plan, I’ll need time as my ally,” he said, pointing to the clock tower in the plaza at the base of the ziggurat. “The new Babylon isn’t quite ready to withstand an Assyrian assault, but if we can keep the beast at bay for another year—better yet, two years—we can use the time to make ourselves ready.
“In the meantime, we must continue to fan the flames of rebellion throughout the Assyrian empire.” He moved his hands back and forth as if pumping a bellows. “Our enemy has spread across too many fronts. They will never be able to quench a widespread rebellion.
Look here …” He snapped his fingers again, and the prime minister hurried to produce a map, unrolling it awkwardly. The stiff parchment scraped against the stone as he struggled to spread it out on the bench and to prevent the curling ends from rolling up again.
“Here, let me help,” the commander said, pinning down two corners of the map. When it finally lay flat, the king proceeded.
“Emperor Sargon’s sudden death wounded Assyria, and she’s lying low, licking her wounds as Sargon’s son struggles for control. That’s the time to destroy a beast, when it’s injured and weak.”
“True, Your Majesty,” the prime minister said, “but that’s also the time when a beast will fight viciously—when it’s cornered and wounded.”
“You’re always a pessimist,” the military commander said. “Why do you have to look for problems instead of solving them?”
“We shall see,” Merodach-Baladan said. “We’ll see how much fight Sennacherib, son of Sargon, has left in him, especially when the nations he thought were his victims turn on him and become his foes.”
The king spread his broad hands over the map, slowly moving them from east to west, claiming the nations beneath them. “Elam will join with us … Moab … and Edom, too. The Philistines have rebelled before at Ashdod and will undoubtedly rally again. But we need Egypt on our side, and these nations in the middle. Syria. Israel. Judah. Is there a spark of nationalism left in any of them that we can fan into rebellion?”
The prime minister shook his head gloomily. “Syria and Israel are shattered. Their populations were deported and have disappeared into the empire.”
“And this one?” the king asked, looking down at the map. “Judah?”
“Now there lies somewhat of a mystery, Your Majesty,” the secretary of the treasury said, speaking for the first time. He was the youngest of the five men, newly appointed to office. His family controlled a vast international trading empire, and his experience and accounting skills were exceptional for a man his age.
“I enjoy solving mysteries,” the king said. “Proceed.”
“Well, Your Majesty, for centuries Judah has been a poor halfsister to Israel, living in her shadow. Yet within the last few years, Judah’s trade has suddenly blossomed. She has become a major player in regional commerce. Her economy is thriving while many of the nations around her are suffering because of the heavy Assyrian tribute.”
“Why is that?” the king interrupted. “Why does Judah thrive while the rest of us suffer?”
“Well, she used to be an Assyrian vassal, too, but the current king stopped paying tribute a dozen years ago. Now she’s prospering.”
