They had finished their game now, but they wished him to remain on view to the multitude. They set him between the pillars of the temple. And he said to the little lad: “Lead me to the pillars, for I am weary and would lean on them.” And the little boy led the blind giant by the hand to the pillars of the temple.
Samson stood between the two great middle columns that supported the roof of the temple. He placed his right hand on one and his left hand on the other. “Dear God,” he said, “forgive me my transgression. And allow me enough of the strength you have taken to do this one last thing.”
He bowed his head and spread his legs and pressed outward upon the pillars of the temple. And in a great, swelling, bitter joy he knew that God had answered him, for the harder he pressed the stronger he grew.
“Thank you, God,” he said. “Now let me die with the Philistines.”
Those in the courtyard gazed in wonder as they saw the marble columns begin to sway. The roof sagged.
The people on the roof shrieked in terror. Great chunks of marble fell. Still the blind giant, planted upon the portico with bowed head and spread legs, pressed upon the pillars, pressed outward, outward. The pillars were like bows now; they crumbled. The walls fell. Men and women ran screaming to the doors and to the windows. But they could not escape. The walls caved in on them. The roof fell, and crushed all those who were in the temple. And the stone idol that was Dagon was crushed, also. Three thousand died in the temple—the lords and the captains of the Philistines and their best fighting men. And Samson.
Now the enemy was sorely weakened, and the Israelites swept them from the field, and took back their strong places, and were triumphant. They went to Gaza and took the broken body of Samson and buried him beside his father, Manoah.
THE COMING OF KINGS
THERE WAS A TRUCE upon the land, and the Israelites began to pick up the ways of their neighbors. They were seduced by the Canaanite gods and worshipped them in the groves and high places. They sacrificed to Ashteroth, moon goddess; barley mother, mistress of revels; they rutted in plowed fields and honored her with orgies. They turned to Baal, also, whose stone image smiled upon ritual prostitution and whose seasonal wrath was appeased by the blood of babies. How much easier to please were these Canaanite gods than the stern Father in heaven who demanded your whole soul, who wrenched you into righteousness, thwarting every impulse toward robbery, rape, and murder.
So the children of Israel wandered from the way and broke the holy commandments and whored after strange gods. The Lord turned His face away, and they were sapped of strength and courage. The truce ended; the enemy attacked. The Hebrews called upon their new gods, Ashteroth and Baal, but they were useless in battle, and the enemy prevailed. Every tribe was threatened with defeat and enslavement.
The captains of the tribes clamored for a leader. Not many separate leaders but one supreme war chief for all the tribes. And since each of their enemies had a king who led them into battle, the Israelites—who had never had a king—began to want one.
Now, there was a man named Samuel whom everyone respected. He was a strange figure. He had been a judge. He had driven from office certain corrupt priests, whose interest was not to serve God but to enrich themselves. But he did not like to govern; he wanted to make his people wise enough to govern themselves. It was known that he conversed with God. He went up and down the land preaching against idolatry—warning that the children of Israel must return to God’s law or be punished by defeat in battle.
It was to this man that the captains came, and the elders of the tribes, clamoring for a king.
Samuel answered them, “You want a king to reign over you. Do you know what a king will do? He will take a tenth of your harvest, and one beast in ten of your flocks and herds. He will take your sons to be his charioteers and his horsemen, and some will run before his chariot. Your sons will labor for him; he will set them to sow his ground and reap his harvest and labor at the anvil, forging armor for him and tall gates for his palace. He will take the best of your fields and your orchards and your vineyards and give them to those who flatter him. He will take your daughters to be concubines, cooks, and house maids. And in time to come you will cry out because of the king you wanted, but the Lord will not hear you on that day.”
So Samuel warned, but the captains refused to hear his words. “Nay,” they cried, “we wish to be like other nations. We want a king to judge us, and go before us, and fight our battles.”
Samuel consulted the Lord, who said: “Do as they say. Find them a king.”
“Where shall I find him, O Lord?”
“I will show you the way. Go to the least of the tribes, the tribe of Benjamin, and seek out the poorest man of that tribe. His name is Kish and he has sons. You want his youngest son.”
Samuel did as the Lord had commanded. He went to the domain of the Benjamites, and sought the youngest son of Kish. When the young man was brought before him, Samuel saw the tallest man he had ever seen, towering head and shoulders above his tall brothers, and powerfully muscled. His name was Saul.
Samuel presented Saul to the captains, and anointed him king, the first king of Israel. And Saul was humble in his greatness. He thanked God for His favor, and implored God for strength and wisdom. And God answered, promising victory.
The troops gathered. They came from every tribe to serve under their king. Saul was a wild bull in battle and a fearless leader. He led the armies of Israel to victory on every field. The foe was beaten back. And Israel rejoiced in its king.
Saul reigned for many years. He held court. He took wives and concubines and they bore him sons and daughters. His heart grew fat with pride, and he put on pomp. And all that Samuel had spoken came true. Saul taxed the people and stuffed his treasury. He kept a multitude of servants and lackeys and courtiers, and flew into a murderous rage when anyone opposed him in anything. No one dared stand against him except Samuel, who feared only God and always spoke his mind.
Then Saul began to whore after other gods. He assembled his court in the groves and high places and performed the abominable rituals of Baal. He honored Ashteroth with orgies.
The Lord was displeased and raised an enemy against him. The Philistines marched against the Israelites and smote them. Saul’s army was driven from the field. He retreated and regrouped. But the spirit of God had departed from him. Nothing was the same.
DAVID
The Shepherd Lad
SAUL WAS KING IN Israel. He had been mighty in war, but was now losing battle after battle. He did not know why—and resisted knowing. Again and again he had been warned by the prophet Samuel: “God is the source of power,” said Samuel. “When you walked in His way, He lent strength to your arm and brought you victory. Now that you have grown disobedient, He withdraws His favor. Repent, O King! Keep His statutes, or lose your power.”
But Saul did not heed the old prophet. He pursued a mean-hearted, brutal course. He was suspicious of all men, and feared by all men when he fell into one of his wild fits of wrath. In one savage tantrum he had tried to thrust his spear through his own son, Jonathan, whose beauty and valor had endeared him to everyone except Saul.
The Philistines were pressing hard. The king led out his armies, but the flame of command that had burned in him when he was God’s own young captain was damped now by sloth and arrogance. The inspired power of leadership had gone from him, and the Philistines were everywhere triumphant.
Samuel spoke to God: “Must the Philistines prevail, O Lord? You raised a king to drive the heathen out of our holy land, and the king was Saul. Now you withdraw your favor and his heart faints. Must your people be vanquished again? Shall the stone images be raised where your altar now stands?”
God said: “How long will you mourn over Saul, seeing that I have rejected him? Fill your horn with oil. Find another to be king and anoint that one.”
“Where shall I find him, O Lord?”
“Behold, the sheep are lost, the wolves prowl. Seek a shepherd.�
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“Where?”
“Go to Bethlehem.”
Samuel begged the Lord for more exact directions, but the Lord was silent. And Samuel knew that God wanted him who had found Saul to find his successor and would give no further clue. Samuel begged no more. He was old and very wise, and he knew that the Lord liked to test His prophets, also. Without saying a word to Saul, he left the palace and hastened toward Bethlehem.
Now, there was a man named Jesse who dwelt in Bethlehem, and he was of the tribe of Judah. He had eight sons. Seven were grown men; the youngest was a boy named David. And David was a shepherd lad and kept his father’s flocks.
He was small and slight, of auburn hair and fair skin, but made ruddy by sun and wind. He was light-footed as a wild roebuck and very swift in all his movements. But what marked him most was his joyous heart. He lived outdoors. He saw the sun rise out of the eastern mountains and climb to the top of the sky and dive into the western sea. He watched the huge darkness gather, saw the moon swim out of the sea and touch the great chandelier of stars with its silver fire. Then, under the enormous jewelry of that sky, he made a last round of his flock and lay down to sleep.
David was a poet—with a poet’s generous greed. He claimed each of the stars as his own, and the sun and the moon. And returned them as song.
He touched his harp and sang. His voice was beautiful. It was said of him that the staid old rams rose on their hind legs and skipped like lambs when his song was merry, and that his night song would make the marauding wolf lie down and sleep. These are the words he sang:
O Lord, when I consider your heavens,
the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars that you have
ordained,
I ask what is man that you are mindful
of him,
and the son of man that you visit him.
For you have made him a little lower
than the angels
and have crowned him with glory and
honor.
He welcomed all weather. He loved even storm. He watched the sky blacken and the first low thunder growl. He sang:
The voice of the Lord is upon the waters;
The glory of God thunders; the Lord is upon many waters.
The voice of the Lord breaks the cedars;
yea, the Lord breaks the cedars of Lebanon.
He makes them also skip like a calf,
Lebanon and Sirion like a young unicorn.
The voice of the Lord divides the flames of fire.
The voice of the Lord shakes the wilderness.
He shakes the wilderness of Kadesh.
His father wondered at him. His brothers mocked his ways and thought him half a lunatic. But he answered them gently and held his peace. He knew that he was not like the others. He knew that the starry joy that flooded his soul and compelled him to song was a good thing and had nothing of evil in it. So he held his peace and walked in his own way.
As the grazing grew more sparse around Bethlehem, he sought farther slopes, other valleys, places where the grass was lush and no flocks went. But here, also, prowled beasts of prey; it was the lair of the wolf, haunt of lion and bear. He had two dogs that were fierce and true. Otherwise, he was armed only with his shepherd’s staff and a sling.
He had made his sling out of calfskin. He had cured the skin himself, working it till it was very supple. He had made its pouch of a size to fit the exact size of the stone whose weight and shape he found best for slinging. And he made a dance of the slinging, humming a song and spinning on the balls of his feet, whirling the sling about his head with all the speed of his spinning behind it. As he whirled, he fixed his whole mind upon the mark, felt his whole soul launch itself upon the chase, and released one end of the leather thong just as his soul clutched the souls of his prey. He rarely missed.
A chill wind blew that night, and David built a fire and slept. He was awakened by barking, bleating, snarling, and awoke to find a bear at bay being attacked by his dogs. He saw the bear’s paw catch a leaping dog and smite it to earth, but the other dog kept circling. Now David was whirling his sling. The stone flew and hit the bear under the eye. The beast howled in agony and fled. David ran to the fallen dog. The animal lifted its head and whimpered, licked David’s hand, and died. The other dog was barking far off, chasing the wounded bear. David wept.
He was snatched from grief by the crying of a lamb, and he saw that a lion had crept out of the shadows and was bearing the lamb off alive. He did not use his sling for fear of hitting the lamb, but flashed after the lion. He seized it by its beard and pulled the lamb from its mouth. The lamb tottered away. The lion roared. The lamb froze in its tracks. The lion swung its great head back and forth between David and the lamb, trying to decide where to pounce. But now David was whirling his sling. Spinning on the balls of his feet, he sang: “Break its teeth in its mouth, O Lord. Break its great teeth.” And he let the stone fly just as the lion pounced. The stone caught the beast in midleap, its force doubled by the force of the lion’s leap. David heard the lion’s teeth breaking. It sank to earth, bleeding from the mouth. David stood off, watching. He put another stone in his sling and whirled it again. The stone hit the lion’s head, smashing it.
“Thank you, Lord,” said David, “who has given me dominion over the great beasts, and strengthened my arm to guard my flocks.” He heard a slight sound, saw eyes glowing. His hand went again to his bag of stones.
“Hold your hand,” said a voice. “I come in peace.”
An old man stood in the firelight. He was tall and very thin, with a tangled white beard and white hair that blew in the wind. His eyes smoldered in their sockets.
“Who are you?” said David.
“I am Samuel. And you are David, son of Jesse, who dwells in Bethlehem.”
“Venerable sir,” said David, “welcome to my fireside. Repose yourself, I pray. And partake of my fare—bread and cheese, olives, figs. Will you share my meal?”
“I thank you,” said the old man. “But I come upon urgent business and must not tarry. I have been to your father’s house in Bethlehem and seen your brothers. Now I seek you.”
“Did my father send you?”
“The Lord sent me here, unless I mistake His purpose. David, son of Jesse, remove your garments and wash them in the stream. Bathe yourself; purify yourself. Then return.”
The night was cold, but David did not think of refusing. For Samuel’s words came with easy power, with the authority of natural things, river flow and wind and rock fall. A great force seemed to flow through him, having its source elsewhere. David stared at him, at the emaciated body, the hair and beard, the burning eyes.
“Samuel?” he whispered. “Are you he, even that one, that Samuel, prophet to the king?”
“I am the Lord’s prophet,” said the old man. “I serve the king only when he serves the King of kings. But of kingdoms and such we will speak another time. Go now. Purify yourself and return.”
David went to the river. He stripped himself and washed his clothes and laid them on a rock. He leaped into the icy water. But the blood heat of the beast hunt was still upon him, and he was strangely stirred by the old man. His blood ran hot and he did not feel the cold. When he came out of the stream, he found that his clothes were miraculously dry, and fragrant of wild grass. And his joy grew. But he was a little frightened, also. The man stood tall in the firelight. He held a horn in his hand. “Kneel,” he said.
David knelt. The man poured a little oil from the horn. It fell on David’s head and ran down his face. It was oil but not sticky. It smelled of sandalwood and cinnamon; it felt like balm.
Samuel spoke as he poured: “O Lord, you sent me into this wilderness without a guide and instructed only by hints. But I have found a young shepherd who guards his flocks well. I offer him to you, and anoint him with holy oil. If I have read your intention, accept him, I pray. If I have erred, forgive me, and instruct me afresh.”
“Why do
you anoint me with holy oil?” said David. “What have you done to me? What does it mean?”
“If I have done right, the meaning will come clear,” said Samuel. “At this time I can tell you no more. Besides, my lad, things take on the meaning you give them. You must gather your flocks now and drive them all night to reach Bethlehem by dawn, and put them in your brother’s care. Then you must leave your father’s house and go to the king.”
“To Saul?”
“He is your king.”
“O venerable sir, what shall I do at court among the mighty? I am a poor shepherd.”
“That is a form of words. Modesty becomes the young, but this hour demands truth. Do you really deem yourself poor?”
David looked into the sunken fire of the old man’s eyes. The flame licked at his own marrow, burning away trivia and inconsequence. Only truth could be spoken.
“I don’t know what I am,” he said. “The oil you have poured upon me this night has entered my blood, and I am changed, changed. It is pain and it is joy. What have you done to me?”
“Go to the king,” said Samuel. “Go to the palace of King Saul. He will welcome you, for he esteems the music of the harp and sweet song. Play to him. Sing to him. Look into the heart of that bitter, stormy man and seek to learn his strength and his weakness. Watch his ways with captain and charioteer and man-at-arms. Observe the court and the ways of the court. Study kingship, its perils and possibilities.”
“To what end?” whispered David.
Samuel looked at him sternly. “David, son of Jesse,” he said, “you have been chosen, and, being chosen, must justify the choice. You are unripe yet for your destiny. Go to the court and do as I have said.”
David knelt and kissed the old man’s hand. He looked up at him and saw that his beard was a thicket of silver fire in the starlight.
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