The Strength of His Hand by Lynn Austin Page A

moment the king’s eyes slowly opened. Isaiah saw a flicker of recognition.
    “Rabbi?”
    “Yes, Your Majesty. It’s me.”
    He saw the unasked question in Hezekiah’s eyes and couldn’t avoid his task any longer. His voice trembled with emotion as he forced the words out of his mouth.
    “This is what Yahweh says: You need to put your house in order, Your Majesty, because you’re going to die. You won’t recover.”
    Tears flowed down Isaiah’s face in spite of his efforts to control them, and he quickly brushed them aside. He knew from Hezekiah’s expression that he had heard, that he understood. The king nodded almost imperceptibly, as if he lacked the strength to do more, then closed his eyes again.
    “May you rest in peace,” Isaiah whispered. He took a long, final look at King Hezekiah, then turned and fled the room.
    Hezekiah knew that Isaiah’s words were final. The prophet spoke the Word of God, and it could never be changed. Twice before, Isaiah had prophesied Hezekiah’s salvation: when his father tried to sacrifice him to Molech; and a few years ago, when the Assyrians threatened to invade his nation. Both times Yahweh had miraculously intervened to save him, just as the prophet had promised. Now the prophet had spoken again—and Hezekiah would die.
    He felt his life swiftly draining from him, like water disappearing into the desert sand. Until Isaiah had come, Hezekiah had continued to hope. Perhaps he could fight off the poison and the sickness. Perhaps the physicians would find a treatment that would cure him. Now Hezekiah knew that it was hopeless.
    The bitter irony of his death struck him. God had once saved him from an idol’s fire, only to let him perish because of another idol’s fire. Had he accomplished anything during his lifetime? Would his death have any meaning at all?
    How quickly his life had passed! There was so much more Hezekiah wanted to accomplish. And he had left so many things undone. Now, in the few remaining moments of his life, he needed to get his house in order. He needed to name a successor. The next king of Judah would be an heir of King David, as God had promised. But he wouldn’t be his own son.
    Hephzibah. How he had loved her!
    She had worshiped the fertility goddess, thinking a lifeless idol could grant them a son, but it had led to this. He would die because of her idolatry.
    Yet even as he faced the final inevitability of God’s Word, even though he would gladly welcome freedom from the agonizing pain he suffered, Hezekiah felt his fear begin to multiply. He wasn’t ready to die. Isaiah had prayed that he would rest in peace, but peace refused to come.
    “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me… .”
    Hezekiah tried to pray for the courage to accept death, to embrace it without fear—but he couldn’t. He still clung desperately to life, refusing to let go, even as his strength melted away. He was terrified of the unknown. He didn’t want to die.
    O God! Where are you?
    Hezekiah felt utterly alone, abandoned by God in his pain and fear. He turned his face to the wall, in the direction of the Temple, blotting everything else from his mind as he desperately sought the calming presence of God for his fearful soul.
    “O Lord, your Word says that if we follow your laws and keep your covenant that you will bless us … that you will keep us free from every disease. Remember, Lord, how I’ve tried to walk before you faithfully … and with wholehearted devotion as you have commanded … remember how I’ve tried to do what is good in your eyes… .”
    He couldn’t finish his prayer. Hezekiah closed his eyes and wept.

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    T HE SIMPLE COUNTRY FARM outside Beth Shemesh reminded Jerusha of her father’s land in Israel. She had gradually adjusted to life in the city, but ever since arriving at their cousins’ place this morning, Jerusha had been remembering all that she missed: the smell of hay and