The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

  A shout went up from the men, and they rushed forward to thank him and to pledge their support.

  “I’m Mahath, son of Amasai.”

  “Joah, son of Zimmah, and this is my son, Eden.”

  “I’m Shimri, from the descendants of Elizaphan.”

  “Mattaniah, from Asaph, the musicians of Yahweh.”

  “Shimri of Heman, and my brother Jeiel.”

  “I am Uzziel.”

  The last one who came was Zechariah. “We’ll send word to all the priests and Levites who have scattered to come back to Jerusalem,” he said.

  “Good. And take the gold that Uriah was carrying and use it to make repairs to the Temple.”

  “We’ll begin reconsecrating ourselves and the Temple today.”

  “Let me know as soon as everything is purified,” Hezekiah said. “We’ll renew our covenant with Yahweh, beginning with a sacrifice.”

  Zechariah went back inside with the other Levites, leaving Hezekiah alone in the courtyard. He walked over to the huge Assyrian altar, standing where Yahweh’s altar should be, and he studied the forbidden idols that decorated it, running his fingers over the intricate carvings. These were gods you could see and touch. But they were as cold and lifeless as the brass they were carved from. Yahweh, whom he couldn’t see or touch, was a living God.

  “‘Hear, O Israel! Yahweh is God—Yahweh alone!’” he recited softly. “‘Love Yahweh your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength.’” Yahweh required nothing less than a total commitment. And that was what he had promised.

  A misty rain began to fall, chilling Hezekiah. But it seemed to him that the rain washed the city clean, cleansing away the defilement. He left the Temple courtyard through the main gate and walked slowly down the hill alone, back to the palace.

  Hezekiah was twenty-five years old when he became king, and he reigned in Jerusalem twenty-nine years. His mother’s name was Abijah daughter of Zechariah. He did what was right in the eyes of the Lord, just as his father David had done. In the first month of the first year of his reign, he opened the doors of the Temple of the Lord and repaired them.

  2 Chronicles 29:1–3 NIV

  Dedicated to my children,

  Joshua, Benjamin, and Maya—

  my favorite “trilogy”

  The Lord is my strength

  and my song;

  He has become my salvation.

  Exodus 15:2

  Contents

  Dedication

  A Note to the Reader

  Prologue

  Part One

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  Part Two

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  Part Three

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  Epilogue

  A Note to the Reader

  Shortly after King Solomon’s death in 931 BC, the Promised Land split into two separate kingdoms. Israel, the larger nation to the north, set up its capital in Samaria and was no longer governed by a descendant of King David. In the southern nation of Judah, David’s royal line continued to rule from Jerusalem.

  The narrative of this book centers on events in the life of Hezekiah, who ruled Judah from 716 to 687 BC.

  Careful study of Scripture and commentaries support the fictionalization of this story. To create authentic speech, the author has paraphrased the words of these biblical figures. However, the New International Version has been directly quoted when characters are reading or reciting Scripture passages and when prophets are speaking the words of the Lord. The only allowance the author has made is to change the words “the Lord” to “Yahweh.”

  Interested readers are encouraged to research the full accounts of these events in the Bible as they enjoy this second book in the CHRONICLES OF THE KINGS series.

  Scripture references for Song of Redemption:

  2 Kings 17:1–23

  2 Kings 18:1–12

  2 Chronicles 29–31

  2 Chronicles 32:27–30

  See also:

  Deuteronomy 17:14–20

  2 Samuel 5:6–8

  The prophecies of Isaiah and of Micah

  Prologue

  The rain finally ended, but puddles dotted the streets of Jerusalem as King Hezekiah walked down the hill from his palace to the Valley of Hinnom. He followed the route that the procession had taken when he’d been a child, ripped from his bed at dawn to witness the sacrifices to Molech. But this time there was no procession, no entourage of priests and soldiers forcing him to march against his will; only his friend Jonadab, captain of the palace guards, at his side. Fog blanketed the view ahead of him, and Hezekiah could barely see the jagged cliffs through the mist. It seemed appropriate that a shroud would cover this valley of death. He strode through the city gate and turned down the narrow divide, remembering the pounding drums, the column of smoke, his helpless terror. Once again Hezekiah stood face-to-face with his enemy Molech.

  The monster seemed smaller than Hezekiah remembered, the brass idol dull and cold now that the flames had been quenched. Raindrops dripped from Molech’s face as he gazed down from his throne. His soot-smudged belly stood empty, his gaping mouth mute. Heavy ropes shackled him, circling his neck, his chest, his arms and feet.

  “It seems unbelievable that anyone would worship this thing,” Hezekiah said, “much less sacrifice their children to it.”

  “Our nation will be a much better place without it,” Jonadab agreed. “And it’s fitting that you’re the one to destroy it, Your Majesty.”

  Hezekiah nodded, remembering how close he’d come to being destroyed by Molech. He watched as the workers harnessed two teams of oxen to the statue. Then, on Hezekiah’s signal, the foreman’s whip cracked and the animals strained forward. The ropes stretched taut. Molech teetered on his throne for a moment, then lost his balance and crashed to the ground. The oxen dragged the idol a few more feet before halting. Molech’s arms reached toward Hezekiah as if pleading for help.

  “Well, that’s the end of him, Your Majesty,” Jonadab said.

  “If only it were that simple.” Hezekiah remembered his brothers Eliab and Amariah, who had been burned alive, and he felt no victory over his fallen enemy. “I’m afraid there are still plenty of people who’d rather cling to ignorance and superstition than seek the truth. And they’re the ones who’ll keep Molech alive.”

  “You think people will still sacrifice their children now that the statue’s gone?”

  Hezekiah nodded. “I’m certain they will—only now they’ll do it in secret. You’ll need to warn the guards at the Valley Gate to watch this place after dark, Jonadab. It’s been used for child sacrifice for centuries, even before they made this cursed thing.”

  “And if we catch someone sacrificing here?” Jonadab asked quietly.

  “Bring them to me at once.”

  Hezekiah watched in silence as the workers untied the ropes. Jonadab gestured to the fallen idol. “What do you want us to do with it, Your Majesty?” he asked.

  “Smash it into pieces. Melt it down and forge weapons from it. Swords, spears, arrowheads, shields. Fill the armory with them. Someday I’ll have an army again—and you’ll lead them, General Jonadab.”

  The captain looked up at him in surprise. “Your Majesty?”

  “I’m promoting you to general.”

  It took Jonadab a moment to recove
r his composure, then he bowed. “Thank you. I’m honored, Your Majesty.”

  The wind lifted a funnel of soot and ash into the air as Hezekiah walked closer to the empty fire pit. “Our nation’s guilt is very great,” he said softly. “I don’t know how God can ever forgive us for all the innocent blood we’ve shed in this place.” For a moment no one spoke. The workmen waited in reverent silence.

  “Seems like we should say a prayer or something, doesn’t it?” Jonadab said.

  The men looked to Hezekiah expectantly. He drew a breath and recited one of the few verses of the Torah that he knew by heart: “‘Hear, O Israel. Yahweh is our God—Yahweh alone. Love Yahweh your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength.’”

  Then he turned and began the long climb back up the hill to the palace.

  Part One

  Hezekiah was twenty-five years old when he became king, and he reigned in Jerusalem twenty-nine years. His mother’s name was Abijah daughter of Zechariah. He did what was right in the eyes of the Lord, just as his father David had done. In the first month of the first year of his reign, he opened the doors of the temple of the Lord and repaired them.

  2 Chronicles 29:1–3 NIV

  1

  IN THE NORTHERN KINGDOM OF ISRAEL

  Jerusha lay awake in the sleeping loft above her house, listening to the sounds of a new morning. She was much too excited to sleep. Light from the dawning sun filtered through the cracks of the shutters, along with the melody of songbirds in the olive trees outside. She heard the heavy tread of the oxen on the stone floor in the stall below her room and her father, Jerimoth, speaking softly to them as he led them outside. He would feed and water the animals, then hitch them to the cart for the three-mile trip to Dabbasheth—and cousin Serah’s wedding.

  Jerusha stood up and folded her blanket, eager to begin this special day. She set the tiny square of bronze that she used for a mirror on the window ledge and studied her murky reflection as she combed her thick brown hair. Her straight nose and oval-shaped face were deeply tanned from working beside her mother in the barley fields, and she had her father’s almond-shaped eyes, as green as the rolling hills. Abba said she was pretty; she wondered if it was true. Jerusha sighed and returned the metal scrap to its place on the shelf, wishing for a proper mirror.

  This morning, instead of her usual work clothes, Jerusha put on the only good dress she owned, reserved for special occasions like this. The wedding festivities would last for days; she would feast and dance and visit with all her relatives. But best of all, maybe Abram would be there.

  Jerusha had known Abram for years—had grown up with him, seeing him at weddings and festivals and village gatherings. He had always been a quiet boy, the opposite of her own carefree nature, and she had hardly noticed him when they were children. But now that Abram was a man—now that she saw him looking at her the way a man looks at a woman—Jerusha found herself dreaming of becoming his wife, bearing his children, and making a home with him on his father’s land.

  As Jerusha bustled around the tiny loft, humming a wedding tune, her younger sister, Maacah, stirred from her sleep. “Why are you getting up so early?” Maacah grumbled. “It’s barely morning.” She was small for an eleven-year-old and thin as a reed, with thick dark braids and a round freckled face. She followed Jerusha everywhere but was much too young to share her dreams of a husband and babies.

  “Did you forget? We’re going to Dabbasheth for Serah’s wedding today.” Jerusha unlatched the shutters and opened them.

  Maacah turned toward the wall, pulling the covers over her head. “I didn’t forget, but we don’t have to leave this early.”

  “Abba says we can’t leave until we finish all our chores, so the sooner we start, the sooner we’ll get there. Come on, sleepyhead.” Jerusha pulled the covers all the way off her protesting sister and stuffed them into the wall niche beside her own. Maacah was still groaning as Jerusha climbed down the ladder from the loft to the large main room of their house.

  Their mother, Hodesh, knelt in the center of the room by the hearth, grinding wheat with a hand mill for their breakfast. “Oh, good—you’re up,” she said. “Go get me some water.” She handed Jerusha the empty jug, then returned to her work, pouring a mound of the finished flour into the kneading trough.

  Jerusha lifted the jar to her shoulder and opened the door, singing another chorus of the wedding song as she walked down the hill to the well. “‘I am my beloved’s and he is mine. . . .’” The new day was fresh and clear, the sun warm but not yet high enough in the sky to be hot. It would be a beautiful day for a wedding.

  By the time Jerusha returned with the water, balancing the pot daringly on her head, Maacah was out of bed and dressed, helping their mother rekindle the fire. Jerusha sang as she worked, her chores a familiar daily routine—but with a special reward at the end of them today. When Abba came in from outside, he bent to kiss her cheek.

  “What makes my little bird sing so sweetly this morning?” he asked.

  She smiled as she cut the goat cheese into thick slices for their trip. “You know why, Abba—we’re going to the wedding today. I’ll get to see Serah and Tirza and—”

  “And maybe Abram, that handsome son of Eli?”

  “I wasn’t thinking of him at all,” Jerusha replied too quickly. Her face felt warm as she handed her father a lump of cheese that had crumbled off. “But . . . but he’ll be there, won’t he?”

  Jerimoth laughed as he popped the cheese into his mouth.

  “What’s so funny, Abba?” Maacah asked.

  “Nothing, my little one.” He gave Maacah’s braid an affectionate tug. “It’s just that your sister has grown into a woman already. Look at her—as slender and graceful as a young willow tree. She’ll soon make a lovely bride.”

  “But she’s not getting married today,” Maacah said with a frown. “Serah is.”

  “I know, I know.” Jerimoth circled an arm around each of them and pulled them close. “How I wish I could keep my daughters here with me forever. How lonely we’ll be without our Jerusha-bird to sing for us! But Abram’s land isn’t so very far. Maybe she’ll fly back to visit us once in a while, eh?”

  Jerusha looked up into her father’s face, loving every line and wrinkle in his weathered skin. “Abba, you talk as if I’m already married and gone. How do you know that Abram even wants to marry me?”

  “How do I know? Ha! If he had his way, you two would be getting married today instead of Serah and her groom. I’m the one who’s making him wait. I’m the one who doesn’t want my little bird to leave the nest.”

  Jerusha stared in surprise. “Did he really say he wanted to marry me?” She couldn’t hide her excitement and hoped her father wouldn’t laugh at her again.

  “Yes, of course he did,” Jerimoth said with a sigh. “And I can see that it’s time I listened to him. After the wedding I’ll talk to Abram’s father. We shall see about a betrothal.”

  Jerusha threw her arms around her father and hugged him tightly. “I love you, Abba! Thank you! Thank you!” Jerimoth returned her hug in tender silence.

  It seemed to take forever for Jerusha’s family to finish their chores and load the oxcart with wine from Jerimoth’s vineyard and the food that they had prepared for the wedding feast. Jerusha could hardly contain her excitement as they journeyed over the terraced green hills to Dabbasheth, and she longed to run down the road to the unwalled village ahead of the plodding oxen. But at last they arrived at Uncle Saul’s house, tucked behind the shop where he fashioned and sold his pottery. Jerusha let the married women unload the cart and arrange all the food for the banquet—she had been asked to serve as one of the bride’s attendants.

  The girls talked in excited whispers as they helped Serah get ready, listening all the while for the sound of the groom’s procession. When the bride was finally dressed in her brightly embroidered wedding gown with garlands of flowers in her hair and scattered around her chair, Jerusha gazed
at her cousin with envy. “Maybe the next wedding will be mine,” she sighed. “Mine and Abram’s.”

  Then they heard the music of flutes and cymbals and tambourines. The groom was coming to claim his bride, leading his procession through the streets of Dabbasheth. Villagers streamed from their homes to celebrate with the happy couple and to watch the wedding ceremony in the courtyard behind Uncle Saul’s house. Afterward, as Jerusha followed the bride and groom to the wedding banquet in the village square, she eagerly scanned all the faces in the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of Abram.

  But above the music and gaiety of the procession, Jerusha thought she heard a rumble of distant thunder. She glanced up, hoping a storm wouldn’t spoil the day, but the sun blazed in a cloudless sky. The rumbling grew louder, closer. Gradually the merriment died away as others paused to listen.

  Suddenly it seemed as if a dam had burst as hundreds of Assyrian warriors on horseback poured into the village square. Screams of terror replaced the sound of singing and laughter as the villagers tried to flee, running in every direction. The Assyrians’ swords flashed in the sunlight as they cut down everyone in their path, their horses’ hooves trampling anyone who stumbled and fell beneath them. Within minutes the cobbled streets ran with blood and dozens of bodies lay sprawled in the streets.

  “Run, girls! Run!” Uncle Saul cried above the din. Jerusha heard his warning but she stood rooted in place, too stunned to move, frozen in shock by the horror and bloodshed all around her.

  “Run, Jerusha!” he begged. “Run! Now!” She watched in a daze as her uncle shoved his daughters down an alleyway toward their house. Jerusha looked around for Serah’s new husband and saw him lying motionless on the ground in a spreading pool of blood. The grisly sight finally broke through her shock. She turned away to stumble down the alley behind her uncle, her legs moving beneath her as if weighted with heavy stones.