me.”
“What if he wakes up again?”
“I’ll send a servant to fetch you if he calls for you.”
Zechariah finally convinced her. But after Abijah left he sat down on the empty bed again, wondering what he could possibly do for his little grandson. He certainly wasn’t strong enough to fight off Ahaz’s soldiers if they came back—although he knew he would sooner die than let Ahaz sacrifice this child.
Gradually the oil lamps burned lower and the room darkened. A gentle breeze blew through the open window, bringing cooler air after the hot, dry day. The room was quiet except for the sound of Hezekiah’s breathing. But Zechariah wasn’t sleepy. He needed a drink. He knew where the palace wine cellars were and where to find the chief steward. If he just slipped downstairs for a moment, he could return with a skin of wine. He rose to his feet and shuffled to the door.
Suddenly Hezekiah’s cry shattered the stillness. It startled Zechariah so badly that he feared his heart would leap from his chest. For a moment, he couldn’t think what to do. Then he turned and saw Hezekiah sitting up in bed, screaming in terror, and Zechariah quickly gathered him into his arms. The boy clung to him, sobbing.
“Yahweh! Yahweh!”
He seemed so small, so vulnerable, that Zechariah’s eyes filled with tears. He felt a heavy weight of guilt for the part he played in Hezekiah’s nightmare, but he didn’t know how to help him. “Shh … shh …” he soothed as he stroked Hezekiah’s curly hair. “Yahweh’s here with us. Yahweh’s here… .”
Then, not knowing what else to do, Zechariah began reciting from the Psalms, stirring up the nearly forgotten words from somewhere in his memory. “‘Yahweh is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear? Yahweh is the stronghold of my life—of whom shall I be afraid?’” Almost imperceptibly, Hezekiah began to relax. His sobs died away to soft whimpers. Zechariah swallowed the lump in his throat and continued reciting: “‘For in times of trouble, Yahweh will keep me safe in his shelter. Yahweh will hide me in the secret place where he dwells and will set me up on a high rock …”’
Eventually, Hezekiah fell asleep in Zechariah’s arms. The oil lamps flickered, then burned out. But Zechariah continued to recite throughout the long night until the first soft rays of sunlight lit the room. “‘Yahweh is my shepherd, I shall not be in want… . Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Yahweh is with me.’”
6
U RIAH STOOD ATOP J ERUSALEM’S walls and gazed down at the enemy troops encamped in the valley below. The sun would soon dip below the rim of the western hills, and he realized that he had been listening unconsciously for the trumpet to announce the evening sacrifice. But there would be no trumpet. It hadn’t sounded for more than six weeks, since the day the Aramean armies poured into the valleys surrounding Jerusalem and the siege had begun. So far the city’s thick walls and steep cliffs had withstood the enemy’s attacks, but supplies and tempers were growing short. And with no wood for the altar fire, no lambs for the offering, the daily sacrifices in Yahweh’s Temple had ceased.
Uriah turned away and descended the long flight of stairs from the wall to the street. He felt tense and exhausted as he made his way to the palace throne room, dreading his meeting with King Ahaz. Every day the king sent him to the top of the walls to survey the enemy encampments, but the king refused to look for himself. Messengers raced in and out of the throne room with news of the latest attempts to breech the gates, but Ahaz wouldn’t observe the fighting or offer words of encouragement to his meager troops. He had vowed not to leave the palace until the siege was over. Uriah had been forced to act as a buffer between the king, isolated in his palace, and the real conflict taking place outside.
A palace chamberlain opened
“What if he wakes up again?”
“I’ll send a servant to fetch you if he calls for you.”
Zechariah finally convinced her. But after Abijah left he sat down on the empty bed again, wondering what he could possibly do for his little grandson. He certainly wasn’t strong enough to fight off Ahaz’s soldiers if they came back—although he knew he would sooner die than let Ahaz sacrifice this child.
Gradually the oil lamps burned lower and the room darkened. A gentle breeze blew through the open window, bringing cooler air after the hot, dry day. The room was quiet except for the sound of Hezekiah’s breathing. But Zechariah wasn’t sleepy. He needed a drink. He knew where the palace wine cellars were and where to find the chief steward. If he just slipped downstairs for a moment, he could return with a skin of wine. He rose to his feet and shuffled to the door.
Suddenly Hezekiah’s cry shattered the stillness. It startled Zechariah so badly that he feared his heart would leap from his chest. For a moment, he couldn’t think what to do. Then he turned and saw Hezekiah sitting up in bed, screaming in terror, and Zechariah quickly gathered him into his arms. The boy clung to him, sobbing.
“Yahweh! Yahweh!”
He seemed so small, so vulnerable, that Zechariah’s eyes filled with tears. He felt a heavy weight of guilt for the part he played in Hezekiah’s nightmare, but he didn’t know how to help him. “Shh … shh …” he soothed as he stroked Hezekiah’s curly hair. “Yahweh’s here with us. Yahweh’s here… .”
Then, not knowing what else to do, Zechariah began reciting from the Psalms, stirring up the nearly forgotten words from somewhere in his memory. “‘Yahweh is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear? Yahweh is the stronghold of my life—of whom shall I be afraid?’” Almost imperceptibly, Hezekiah began to relax. His sobs died away to soft whimpers. Zechariah swallowed the lump in his throat and continued reciting: “‘For in times of trouble, Yahweh will keep me safe in his shelter. Yahweh will hide me in the secret place where he dwells and will set me up on a high rock …”’
Eventually, Hezekiah fell asleep in Zechariah’s arms. The oil lamps flickered, then burned out. But Zechariah continued to recite throughout the long night until the first soft rays of sunlight lit the room. “‘Yahweh is my shepherd, I shall not be in want… . Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Yahweh is with me.’”
6
U RIAH STOOD ATOP J ERUSALEM’S walls and gazed down at the enemy troops encamped in the valley below. The sun would soon dip below the rim of the western hills, and he realized that he had been listening unconsciously for the trumpet to announce the evening sacrifice. But there would be no trumpet. It hadn’t sounded for more than six weeks, since the day the Aramean armies poured into the valleys surrounding Jerusalem and the siege had begun. So far the city’s thick walls and steep cliffs had withstood the enemy’s attacks, but supplies and tempers were growing short. And with no wood for the altar fire, no lambs for the offering, the daily sacrifices in Yahweh’s Temple had ceased.
Uriah turned away and descended the long flight of stairs from the wall to the street. He felt tense and exhausted as he made his way to the palace throne room, dreading his meeting with King Ahaz. Every day the king sent him to the top of the walls to survey the enemy encampments, but the king refused to look for himself. Messengers raced in and out of the throne room with news of the latest attempts to breech the gates, but Ahaz wouldn’t observe the fighting or offer words of encouragement to his meager troops. He had vowed not to leave the palace until the siege was over. Uriah had been forced to act as a buffer between the king, isolated in his palace, and the real conflict taking place outside.
A palace chamberlain opened
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