Samson

  By the time the jailer had corralled his captive, Samson was dazed and bleeding. The jailer jerked him by his fetters toward a chain that hung between two massive pillars. He attached the shackles, then hoisted Samson until his toes dangled just above the tiled floor.

  The king filled his silver chalice with wine and toasted the crowd. “Dagon’s arm is mighty, and his vengeance is swift. Praise be to Dagon.”

  “Praise be to Dagon,” was the echoed response. “Praise be to Dagon . . . ”

  Still clinging to one of the pillars, Delilah watched the jailer uncoil a leather whip. She turned away but heard it snake across bare skin and Samson’s spine-tingling scream.

  “Praise be to Dagon . . . Praise be to Dagon . . . ”

  King Rallah gloried in the worshippers’ chants. After suffering twenty years of injury and insult from this simple village boy, Rallah had the upper hand. From his vantage point at the throne he watched rivulets of sweat run down the thick neck and broad chest and noticed the quivering thighs and calf muscles as the suspended body took stroke after stroke from the jailer’s whip. He saw Samson’s gritted teeth, his parched lips, the scars on his wrists from these long months in chains.

  The crowd’s bloodlust was as strong as the king’s.

  “Praise be to Dagon!”

  At last Rallah motioned to the jailer to release the chain, and Samson collapsed onto the temple floor.

  Even with this seething mass of people, Rallah spotted a familiar profile at the pillar only ten paces from him. There, Delilah had her face turned away from the prisoner, her cheek pressed against the rounded stone, her eyes shut tight.

  “My queen,” Rallah mumbled. “Oh, what might’ve been.”

  Gorged on food, drunk with wine and violence, the crowd grew restless for more, and they looked to their new king to satisfy their cravings. The tables of food in the halls would not last through the night, not with this many in attendance. The wine would flow freely, but would it be enough? There looked to be thousands here, far more than the vast armies once slain upon the heights of Lehi.

  If not careful, the king realized, he might watch matters get out of hand.

  So then, he would give them what they wanted.

  He would give them a sacrifice.

  Turning back to Samson, he noticed the broken man’s head was lifted. Though wracked by pain and wheezing for breath, he looked to be offering a prayer. What a fool. Clearly Samson’s God was not present, or if He was, He wasn’t moved by the Hebrew’s travails.

  What was this?

  The strongman’s hands were trembling.

  No, no, no! Rallah knew this all too well, and his stomach seized. He turned to the nearest guards. “Kill the prisoner,” he screamed. “Kill him!”

  Delilah’s face was still pressed against the cold pillar. Though the whipping had finally ceased, she feared seeing the shape Samson would be in if she looked. Was he half dead? Unconscious?

  Around her the throng was growing restless.

  When she opened her eyes, she spotted Caleb in his hood, retreating quickly through the crowd with furtive glances at his brother. What was wrong? What would cause the younger brother to abandon his sibling amongst this surging mob?

  Curiosity took over, and she turned.

  At the same moment the king screamed for the death of the prisoner.

  “Kill him!”

  She would never know how the weather changed so quickly, or if she only imagined it, but a thunderous roar shook the temple, and it sounded as though lightning struck nearby. She flinched, but it didn’t keep her from squeezing forward to get a glimpse of the man she loved. The man she once hoped to spend a lifetime with.

  There, rising to his feet, Samson found the help of a stranger and rested his hands against twin pillars. He planted both feet and bore down so that cords of muscle bulged from his neck and shoulders, down through his arms, right through his thighs to his feet. He was an impressive specimen, a picture of strength. A true testament to his God.

  She stood in awe, unable to turn away.

  Samson, she realized, was not resting by any means. In fact, he was pushing with all his might. “Lord,” he groaned through clenched teeth, “give me Your strength one last time. Let me die with these Philistines.” His trembling intensified, and the pillars at his hands began to move.

  “Kill him, kill him, kill him!” King Rallah yelled.

  And finally, she understood.

  Cruu-aack. . .

  Fracture lines appeared in the stone within reach of Delilah’s own hand.

  “Kill him!”

  Cruu-aack!

  The pillars began to shift and crumble. The rooftop buckled. The statue of Dagon shook and started to pitch forward. In the ensuing panic people fell and were trampled. Pivoting, Delilah could find no escape route of her own, and her eyes locked onto Rallah’s over the heads of the guards. The king too was trapped. Everywhere there were people, all of them come to proclaim his majesty.

  “Long live King Rallah,” she mouthed for only him to see.

  Samson’s might had not let up.

  The pillars buckled. Overhead a section of roof broke loose and slammed into Dagon’s tilting figure. The statue cracked and slowly toppled amidst dust and falling stone. Bodies toppled with it, plunging from the roof.

  The king tried to run from the toppling statue, and as he did, his crown flew from his head and skidded beneath trampling feet. He clawed forward, stretching for it. Dagon landed with a shuddering boom atop his prone body, swallowing him in death instantly.

  Delilah gave herself to the inevitable. There was nowhere to run.

  As rock and roof came down all around, she fixed her eyes on Samson’s figure. He stood tall and strong, his long hair crowning his head. He lifted his face toward the skies, and as he did, his body stopped quaking. He was a man who knew what was coming and accepted it without regret.

  CHAPTER 62

  A RECKONING

  I NEVER THOUGHT IT would end this way. My head is bloodied, my back beaten, every muscle shrieking in agony. I am the evening’s main attraction, a bit of entertainment for the Philistine crowd, and they have had their fun.

  Was this what the angel had in mind when he spoke to my parents years ago?

  Lord, help me understand.

  Or don’t.

  Maybe it’s too late for that.

  Caleb would tell me that my choices have consequences, each choice leading me down this path or that. In the end does the Almighty bring those paths back around to His intended destination?

  Well, here I am. The end of the path. If this is the intended destination, so be it.

  I surrender to His will.

  Collapsed on the temple floor, my ears ring with the din of this place. The crowd is all around. I hear them even overhead, on the roof and balconies. I remember the huge carved image of Dagon, how it hovered over this place, and I’m almost glad that I cannot see. I’ve witnessed debauchery before, and I recognize the shrill laughter of people not yet satisfied.

  Lonely souls. Temporary pleasures.

  I know it all well, and in the end the loneliness always returns.

  Ask me how I know.

  Rising on both legs, I plant myself. Some kind soul helps me find the closest pillars with my hands.

  For so many years I wanted peace. I believed it was possible, and some part of me still believes it could be so. I thought love could conquer all, and in my arrogance I fell into the same traps as those before me. The judges, the prophets, none of us have managed to accomplish it. I know now that I couldn’t bring about peace on my own. Oh, how I tried.

  “Maybe one day,” I whisper, “there shall be a prince of peace.”

  But not this day.

  Today there shall be a reckoning.

  For months the jailer has had me grinding at the dungeon millstone, and I’ve existed on gruel and husks of bread. I’ve been the object of scorn to some and of wonder to others who traveled far to see me i
n person. Through it all I’ve let my hair grow back in obedience to my childhood vows, and my body has stayed trim. That’s what hard work will do for you, I guess.

  Do I have back my strength from on high, though?

  I pray for it now, one last time. My parents taught me this, even as a child, to love the Lord with all my heart, soul, mind, and strength. They did their best, they taught me well, but in the end, I stand alone before my God.

  I begin to push against the pillars, and the trembling starts within my hands. My muscles bulge, and the tempest of power comes rushing through. I spread my arms wider and hear a satisfying crack.

  “Kill the prisoner. Kill him!” King Rallah shouts.

  I spread my arms wider still, and there’s a louder, longer crack.

  Then these worshippers begin to understand. Oh yes, trouble is on the way. They scream as rock and mortar fall about our heads. I hear running feet, bodies colliding, curses, and thin metal skidding across tile. A monstrous thud shakes the floor nearby, and someone moans that the king is no more.

  I’ve been gifted with this final burst of strength, and I use it to its fullest, letting out a roar. With a mighty heave I shake this place to its very foundation. The sound is deafening. The temple is crumbling. Everywhere I hear destruction, and I know my own end is near. Dirt swirls at my ankles, grinds against my skin, then billows up into my nostrils.

  I will miss you, Mother. And Father, I will see you soon.

  Sensing a ray of sun or perhaps some heavenly light, I lift my blindfolded eyes, and calm washes over me. There’s a rush of plaster and quarry limestone and rock.

  It is finished, I tell myself.

  And then all strength is gone . . .

  CHAPTER 63

  GENERATIONS

  One Year Later—Village of Zorah

  ZEALPHONIS STILL EXPERIENCED pangs of loss and doubted they would ever go away. The bodies of her husband and oldest son lay buried side by side beneath a monument on a nearby hill. Caleb and some of the tribesmen had carried them here, to be honored and remembered for generations to come. Both Manoah and Samson had been hardheaded and even harder to understand. By no means were they perfect.

  Yet both had served God unto death.

  She prayed, “Father in heaven, hear this old woman’s cries. My back is bent, and my body’s tired. I need Your strength this day, even a small portion of what Samson had. Each day is a gift, and each day is from You. May I use this one to Your glory.”

  There was a knock at the door, and before she could respond, the neighbor widow hobbled inside and plopped herself at the table built by Manoah.

  “So dreary in here, Zealphonis. You really should light a lamp.”

  Zealphonis looked over at the glowing oil lamp. She was frail, but at least her eyesight had not dimmed. “You’re absolutely right,” she said. “I’ll pull back the curtains. How about that?”

  “Oh yes, that’s better, dear.”

  “Would you like some soup?”

  “I’ve eaten. I only came to tell you of the rumors surfacing from Gath.”

  “Gath? The Philistine town?”

  “Joshua once fought the Anakim and their giant offspring, but it’s well known, of course, that some of them settled in Gath. They say there is now a young boy in the town who’s already larger than most men, and with six fingers on each hand and six toes on each foot. He’s still growing, mind you. Seems these Philistines are not done plaguing us yet.”

  “I sure wish Samson was still here,” Zealphonis said. “I miss my boy. You can be certain, though, that God will raise up another man or woman for the task, someone for the next generation. It seems He always does.”

  “Well, I suspect,” the widow said with a cackle, “that we won’t be around to see it.”

  “I’ve seen enough already,” Zealphonis said. “Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

  EPILOGUE

  SAMSON CONQUERED MORE enemies in death than he did in his entire lifetime, and the Lord’s victory through his story has been told to countless generations. Many battles would still be fought over the Promised Land, but through Samson the Lord began to deliver the Israelites from the oppressive grip of the Philistines. A thousand years later another deliverer was born, according to prophecy. He was without sin.

  He would bring lasting freedom, and they would call Him the Prince of Peace.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  SAMSON AROUND THE WORLD

  Nashville, Tennessee

  I’VE BEEN ASKED, “Was Samson a real person or just a myth? Did he really do all of those things the Bible talks about?” Samson’s story took place over three thousand years ago and occupies only a few pages of the Bible, from the thirteenth to sixteenth chapters of Judges. Even so, his exploits are still mentioned in Jewish, Christian, and Arabic cultures, and his fame has spilled over into the arts and popular culture.

  Rembrandt and other masters painted scenes from his life. John Milton, who himself was blind, wrote an epic poem titled Samson Agonistes, which is still read in universities around the world. A statue in St. Petersburg, Russia, depicts Samson wrestling with the lion, and a Samson parade is conducted annually near Salzburg, Austria.

  In Israel a famous soccer team was called Shimshon (Samson) Tel Aviv.

  In America musical acts from Johnny Cash to Bruce Springsteen to Regina Spektor to Babyface have mentioned him in song.

  In recent years archaeological digs have given greater credence to Samson’s historical existence. A circular seal was found near Beth Shemesh (close to the biblical site of Zorah) showing a man and a lion in a fight. In Philistine ruins along the coast near Tel Aviv, a temple was excavated that appeared to have faced extensive damage, perhaps from an earthquake. Or perhaps something else. In the center of the ruins stood two supporting pillars, set close enough that a man could extend his arms and touch both at the same time.

  It is widely believed that the name Palestine derives from the word Philistine. That being the case, the modern-day conflicts between Palestinians and the people of Israel are longstanding and not easily resolved. Just as Samson and Taren express their love for each other in this story, there are Jews and Palestinians who reside side by side and show mutual love and respect. On the other hand, there are also leaders who sour public opinion for political gain, and it’s no surprise that violence erupts on a regular basis.

  Samson used crude methods and made many mistakes. Despite his failings his story is included in the Old Testament account, and he also receives mention in the New Testament in the eleventh chapter of Hebrews. It’s a section often referred to as the “Hall of Faith,” with the biblical writer listing great men and women of faith. Right there alongside the names of Moses, Gideon, and King David, you will find the name of Samson.

  God, when he gave me strength, to shew withal

  How slight the gift was, hung it in my Hair.

  But peace, I must not quarrel with the will

  Of highest dispensation, which herein

  Happ’ly had ends above my reach to know.

  —SAMSON AGONISTES BY JOHN MILTON

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  EVERY WRITER WRESTLES alone with the words that he or she sets on the page, but no writer accomplishes this task without a host of family, friends, and colleagues. I’d like to acknowledge a few of them:

  Carolyn Rose Wilson (wife)—for bringing me the love, peace, and laughter that Samson hoped for and lost. I’d be lost without you.

  Jackie and Kai (daughter and grandson)—for providing hours of fun through soccer, Dominion, Spades, and The Escape Game, and for making me a personalized coffee mug.

  Cassie, Chris, and Remi Rose (daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughter)—for working much harder and longer than I did on this book to bring new life into the world, in the form of a beloved baby girl.

  Shaun and Pamela Wilson (brother and sister-in-law)—for being an even better little brother than Caleb, and for exploring our Scottish heritage with me. And for being a gr
eat wife to my little brother, when he needed it most.

  Heidi and Matt Messner (sister and brother-in-law)—for never giving up on your big brother. May your own writing projects come to life soon.

  Deborah Mart (mother-in-law)—for always praying, hoping, trusting, believing. May your own stories impact others.

  Mark Wilson (father)—for the shared interests, the upkeep of a website, and wise words that carried me into adulthood.

  Jesse Capeheart, Charlotte Jefferson, Stephen Cook, Samantha Moffenbier, Jonathan Arce Rivera, Andrew Smith, and Kelcie Walden (management crew at Office Depot/OfficeMax), and all the rest of our great team—for giving me freedom at the most inopportune time to take on this project and leave you with all the work in the store.

  Rachel McMurray-Branscombe, Rebecca Case, Barb Dunlap, Shekinah Gordon, Chad Taylor, and Nona Quirk (writers to watch for)—for your own dreams of writing. May they come true.

  Keith Balfour (Office Depot/OfficeMax associate)—for loaning me a book about the Philistines in biblical times.

  Djabir Hamed-Bey (next-door neighbor)—for providing a physical example of Samson’s physique. Best wishes in your bodybuilding competitions.

  Alton Gansky (prolific author and professional editor)—for inspiring me early on through your books, and for applying your tools of the trade to make this book better.

  Debbie Marrie (Charisma Media)—for thinking of me for this project and knowing I would love such a challenge.

  Adrienne Gaines (Charisma Media)—for helping me hone the early portions of this story, both in substance and style.