by Lynn Austin
Isaiah’s heart leaped inside him. He listened to the rest of Yahweh’s message as he turned around and ran back the way he had come, bounding up the stairs, reaching the king’s chambers, panting for breath. He burst through the door, and Shebna and the startled physicians stared at him in surprise. He hurried past them, into the bedroom.
Hezekiah lay alone with his face to the wall. He slowly turned his head when Isaiah entered, and his ashen face glistened with tears.
“This is what the Lord, the God of your father David says,” Isaiah breathed. “‘I have heard your prayer and seen your tears; I will heal you! On the third day from now you will go up to the Temple of the Lord. I will add fifteen years to your life. And I will deliver you and this city from the hand of the king of Assyria. I will defend this city for my sake and for the sake of my servant David.’”
Hezekiah closed his eyes as tears of relief ran down his cheeks. Yahweh was a personal God, his God. Yahweh had heard his prayers. He had seen every tear Hezekiah had shed. And in His great love and mercy, Yahweh had decided to answer those prayers. He was going to live!
He would live!
At last Hezekiah wiped his eyes and looked up at Isaiah again. The room whirled dizzily as Hezekiah struggled with the ravages of his fever, and he needed proof that Isaiah was real, not a hallucination. He needed a pledge, a tangible sign to restore his strength and hope; he knew how close to death he still hovered.
Hezekiah stretched out his hand and touched Isaiah’s arm, feeling the coarse fabric of Isaiah’s robe, the warmth and life in the prophet’s flesh. He wasn’t hallucinating.
“What will be the sign that the Lord will heal me? And that I will go up to the Temple three days from now?”
For a moment Isaiah didn’t respond. Then he strode across the room and flung aside the heavy curtains, unlatched the wooden shutters and threw them open. Hezekiah winced as painful sunlight streamed into his room for the first time in many days. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he saw Isaiah pointing to King Ahaz’s tower in the courtyard beyond.
“This is the Lord’s sign to you that the Lord will do what he has promised: Shall the shadow go forward ten steps, or shall it go back ten steps?”
Hezekiah stared at Isaiah in amazement, unable to comprehend his astounding words. He was going to live. It still seemed like a feverish dream.
“It’s simple for the shadow to go forward ten steps,” Hezekiah finally said. “Have it go back ten steps.” His grandfather had told him long ago that Yahweh could do the impossible.
Isaiah dropped to his knees and closed his eyes in silent prayer. A moment later he fell forward, with his forehead pressed to the floor. Hezekiah concentrated on the shadow that blanketed the tower’s winding stairs, not daring to take his eyes off it. The air outside shimmered in the late afternoon heat, but he shivered, still clammy with feverish sweat.
Then slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the leading edge of the shadow began to do the impossible, retreating up the stairs the full distance it had traveled since noon. By the time Isaiah lifted his forehead from the floor, the shadow had moved backward a full ten stairs to its noontime position, and the sun blazed with fierce midday heat.
“O God . . . thank you . . . thank you,” Hezekiah murmured. His strength was exhausted, and he slumped against the pillows again, grimacing in pain. He still felt as if he were dying, but he knew he would live. God had heard him. His God.
Shebna burst into the king’s bedroom with the terrified physicians right behind him. King Hezekiah lay against the pillows with his eyes closed. He appeared to be dead.
“The sun!” one of the physicians gasped. “Is it an omen? Is the king . . . ?”
“The king will live,” Isaiah said, rising from where he knelt beside the window. “He will live. Prepare a poultice of figs, and apply it to the boil, and he will recover.” The doctors hurried from the room to do it.
Shebna remained behind, staring speechlessly, his dark eyes traveling involuntarily from the king, to Isaiah, then to the clock tower beyond the open window. He had been gazing idly out of the window a few moments ago and thought he had seen the impossible—the shadow on Ahaz’s tower had appeared to move backward. Shebna couldn’t believe his eyes. He stared intently at the tower once again, but now the shadow was back where it should be, on the tenth step. In a little while it would reach the bottom step and the sun would set. Shebna knew he hadn’t imagined it. Some of the physicians and servants had seen it, too, and they had been filled with superstitious dread, believing that it was an omen, believing that King Hezekiah had died.
Shebna went to the king’s bedside. He watched Hezekiah’s chest rise and fall: his breathing was shallow and irregular. He didn’t look as though he could live much longer.
“He will live,” Isaiah repeated firmly. Shebna turned to stare at the rabbi. He wanted to believe him, but his eyes told him otherwise.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m positive. In three days King Hezekiah will worship at the Temple.”
“That is impossible. Look at him! The doctors have all said the king cannot live, much less recover in three days’ time. You are not a physician—why do you make such outrageous claims? It is cruel to raise everyone’s hopes.”
“I didn’t make this promise—Yahweh did.”
Shebna shook his head. “You are bluffing.”
Isaiah didn’t reply. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest as if to say, “We shall see.”
Shebna knew that Isaiah had been right once before when he’d prophesied that the Assyrians wouldn’t invade Judah. But Shebna had convinced himself that Isaiah had an informant in the north who’d sent him advance word of Assyria’s movements. This time Isaiah had to be bluffing. He couldn’t possibly know if the king would live or die. And yet . . .
Shebna glanced nervously at Ahaz’s tower again. He had seen the shadow move backward. So had everyone else. How could he explain that?
Suddenly Eliakim burst into the room, gasping for air as if he had run all the way up the hill to the palace. He stared fearfully at the king.
“He’s going to live,” Isaiah told him.
“But . . . I saw the sun. I thought . . .”
“It was Yahweh’s sign to King Hezekiah that he will recover.”
Eliakim slumped onto the chair beside the bed and covered his face. “Oh, praise God!”
Suddenly Shebna remembered Prince Gedaliah. If Hezekiah lived, then this would be the second time that the prince had come close to inheriting the throne only to lose it again. He would not weep for joy as Eliakim did. Shebna knew then that there must never be a third time. He would never support Gedaliah’s claim to the throne again. As soon as King Hezekiah was well enough, Shebna would make certain that he married a suitable wife. The next king must be Hezekiah’s son, not his brother.
Suddenly Hezekiah’s eyes flickered open. They were filled with pain, but he was fully conscious and aware.
“Shebna?”
He bent closer to him. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Arrange a thank offering . . . at the Temple . . . in three days.” He smiled slightly, then closed his eyes again and fell asleep.
Millions of stars filled the night sky as Jerusha sat alone in the vineyard. From the open window behind her, she heard her son’s sleepy voice, along with Hilkiah’s husky one, reciting prayers together. Blessed are you, Yahweh, king of heaven and earth . . .
She hoped she would never have to go back to Jerusalem, back to a house filled with unbearable memories. She wanted to stay here in the country and raise her children far from the political intrigue of the palace.
The new king would launch a purge, Hilkiah had said. Eliakim might already be dead. As the horrible truth slowly took root in her heart, Jerusha felt a cry of grief swelling inside her. She forced it down, knowing she had to remain strong for her children. Instead, she looked around at the peaceful countryside, trying to draw comfort in the famili
ar noises of the farm: the sounds of hens clucking over their nests, of goats and sheep jostling for position in their pens, the slow clopping of a horse’s hooves as its owner led it up the road to the stable for the night.
“Hear, O Israel! Yahweh is our God—Yahweh alone!” her son recited upstairs with Hilkiah.
The chirp of crickets and frogs blended with the voices in prayer and with the steady rhythm of a horse’s hooves as it plodded up the road toward her. Then suddenly all the sounds disappeared again as the truth dug deeper into her heart. She would never see Eliakim again.
Jerusha didn’t notice the horse’s hooves drawing steadily louder, closer, as her grief overflowed. When the horse suddenly stopped in front of her, she looked up. Eliakim stood with the reins in his hand, smiling at her. She stumbled across the grass and into his arms.
“I would have been here sooner,” he said, “but unlike our daughter, I never could stay on a horse.”
9
The sun hadn’t yet risen when Hezekiah awoke on the third day. He was terribly weak, but his fever had broken, and his mind felt as clear as the morning sky after the wind has chased away the rain. He called for his servants, ordering them to light all the lamps in his bedchamber. Then he struggled to sit up.
“Shall I help you, Your Majesty?” his valet asked.
“No. I want to do it myself. I’m tired of being sick. I want to be well again.” His joints and muscles ached, but it was a good pain, a healing pain, as if the life flowed back into his body with vitality and force.
All his servants hurried to wait on him, and one of them began massaging balm made with aloe into the fresh pink skin on the palms of his hands. It smelled familiar, and he vaguely recalled his servants doing this several times a day while he was delirious. He was grateful that they had, even though it had hurt him at the time, for although his skin felt tight when he opened his palms wide, the burns had healed well. He would regain the full use of his hands.
They brought him his breakfast when the massage ended, and he fed himself for the first time since the fire. He felt ravenously hungry and asked for second helpings of bread with date honey.
“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 da
ys 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.
Part Two
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 Chronicles 32:25
10
King 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.