By Peter Roxburgh
Psalm 47 (NIV)
We wait, huddled together with some of the other townsfolk. Even the children know not to make much noise. The elders just walk around muttering prayers under their breath. Everyone too nervous to cook and too sick with worry to eat.
Without saying a word, we know what the other is thinking. We try desperately not to think about what would happen if the battle is lost. But we all know.
If this battle is lost we will become the property of another man, probably other men. Our children will be taken away from us to work as servants, being beaten constantly. Our husbands will most likely be killed or at least have their eyes taken out. We will be taken away from the place we call home, unlikely to see or speak to our closest friends. And we will spend the rest of our lives doing labour-intensive, back-breaking work in the scorching heat under the leering eyes and groping hands of our captors.
Every so often I hear someone crying and I know that those dark thoughts of the impending reality are eating away at them.
After days spent like this, during which everyone ages considerably, a lone figure is spotted riding back with news.
I prepare myself for the worst, barely holding in the tears; trying desperately to remain strong for my children. More cries go up as more of the townsfolk give in to the thoughts of slavery, separation and a life of hell.
And then suddenly I hear a cry that sounds different. A cry of joy! VICTORY! In that moment, my life is literally returned to me! The dark cloud vanishes and I breathe as if I have never known fresh air in my lungs. Every one is up on their feet, dancing, hugging, crying with joy, laughing, singing. VICTORY! The enemy has been defeated!
Tonight we celebrate. Along with the other women I get a fire going. Chickens, lambs and goats are all slaughtered ready for the feast. The musicians bring out their instruments as the children dance round them laughing and giggling, each taking their turn pretending to be our victorious king defeating the enemy.
Suddenly there is commotion at the gate of the town. I drop what I am doing and along with everyone else, I rush towards the gate. The king has returned! The victorious king, our saviour has returned!
In a loud voice we cheer, clap and shout "How awesome is the Lord Most High, the great King over all the earth! He subdued the nations under us, people under our feet."
I join the crowd pushing to get to the King. I notice that he has suffered at the hands of the enemy and he has been scarred. Because he suffered I will sleep safely with my husband tonight, my children breathing gently next to me. I push closer, just wanting to kiss his feet, my thankfulness overflowing in tears.
From behind me, flowers shower the king. Someone offers him freshly baked bread, another a bowl of lamb stew. No expense is spared, nothing is held back. Our king could ask for anything and he would have it. We owe this man our lives, our homes, our dignity, our freedom. Everything.
As the trumpets play a jubilant song, the shouts of joy keep getting louder as the king ascends each step to his throne. The roar of joy and triumph that rises as the king sits on his throne literally shakes the whole town.
Everywhere I look I see people dancing with wild abandon, hugging those that they haven't spoken to for a long time, smiling, sharing food and celebrating with people regardless of background, social standing, nationality or age. And everyone can't help but "sing praises; sing praises to our King, sing praises."
Late into the night the celebrating and song continues;
"For God is the King of all the earth.
God reigns over the nations.
God is seated on his holy throne.
The kings of the earth belong to God;
He is greatly exalted."
I have every reason to praise him, to celebrate his victory, our freedom and inheritance. I may not be the most graceful dancer, or have the best voice but no-one is going to stop me joining in by dancing and singing in praise to my King, our victorious Saviour.
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