'Now Absalom in his lifetime had taken and reared up for himself a
pillar, which is in the king's dale; for he said, I have no son to keep
my name in remembrance; and he called the pillar after his own name:
and it is called unto this day, Absalom's Place. 19. Then said Ahimaaz
the son of Zadok, Let me now run, and bear the king tidings, how that
the Lord hath avenged him of his enemies. 20. And Joab said unto him.
Thou shalt not bear tidings this day, but thou shalt bear tidings
another day; but this day thou shalt bear no tidings, because the
king's son is dead. 21. Then said Joab to Cushi, Go tell the king what
thou hast seen. And Cushi bowed himself unto Joab, and ran. 22 Then
said Ahimaaz the ton of Zadok yet again to Joab, But howsoever, let me,
I pray thee, also run after Cushi. And Joab said, Wherefore wilt thou
run, my son, seeing that thou hast no tidings ready? 23. But howsoever,
said he, let me run. And he said unto him, Run. Then Ahimaaz ran by the
way of the plain, and overran Cushi. 24. And David sat between the two
gates: and the watchman went up to the roof over the gate unto the
wall, and lifted up his eyes, and looked, and behold a man running
alone. 25. And the watchman cried, and told the king. And the king
said, If he be alone, there is tidings in his mouth. And he came apace,
and drew near. 26. And the watchman saw another man running: and the
watchman called unto the porter, and said, Behold another man running
alone. And the king said, He also bringeth tidings. 27. And the
watchman said, Me thinketh the running of the foremost is like the
running of Ahimaaz the son of Zadok. And the king said, He is a good
man, and cometh with good tidings. 28. And Ahimaaz called, and said
unto the king, All is well. And he fell down to the earth upon his face
before the king, and said, Blessed be the Lord thy God, which hath
delivered up the men that lifted up their hand against my lord the
king. 29. And the king said, Is the young man Absalom safe? And Ahimaaz
answered, When Joab sent the king's servant, and me thy servant, I saw
a great tumult, but I knew not what it was. 30. And the king said unto
him, Turn aside, and stand here. And he turned aside, and stood still.
31. And, behold, Cushi came; and Cushi said, Tidings, my lord the king:
for the Lord hath avenged thee this day of all them that rose up
against thee. 32. And the king said unto Cushi, Is the young man
Absalom safe I And Cushi answered, The enemies of my lord the king, and
all that rise against thee to do thee hurt, be as that young man is.
33. And the king was much moved, and went up to the chamber over the
gate, and wept; and as he went, thus he said, O my son Absalom! My son,
my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my
son!--2 SAMUEL xviii. 18-33.
The first verse of this passage and the one preceding it give a
striking contrast between the actual and the designed burial-place of
Absalom. The great pit among the sombre trees, where his bloody corpse
was hastily flung, with three darts through his heart, and the rude
cairn piled over it, were a very different grave from the ostentatious
tomb 'in the king's dale,' which he had built to keep his memory green.
This was what all his restless intrigues and unbridled passions and
dazzling hopes had come to. He wanted to be remembered, and he got his
wish; but what a remembrance! That gloomy pit preaches anew the vanity
of 'vaulting ambition which o'erleaps itself,' and tells us once more
that
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.'
I. The first picture here shows a glimpse of the battlefield, and
brings before us three men, each in different ways exhibiting how small
a thing Absalom's death was to all but the heartbroken father, and each
going his own road, heedless of what lay below the heap of stones. The
world goes on all the same, though death is busy, and some
heart-strings be cracked. The minute details which fill the most part
of the story, lead up to, and throw into prominence, David's burst of
agony at the close. The three men, Ahimaaz, Joab, and the Cushite
(Ethiopian), are types of different kinds of self-engrossment, which is
little touched by others' sorrows. The first, Ahimaaz, the young priest
who had already done good service to David as a spy, is full of the
joyous excitement of victory, and eager to run with what he thinks such
good tidings. The word in verse 19, 'bear tidings,' always implies good
news; and the youthful warrior-priest cannot conceive that the death of
the head of the revolt can darken to the king the joy of victory, He is
truly loyal, but, in his youthful impetuosity and excitement, cannot
sympathise with the desolate father, who sits expectant at Mahanaim.
Right feeling and real affection often fail in sympathy, for want of
putting oneself in another's place; and, with the best intentions,
wound where they mean to cheer. A little imagination; guided by
affection, would have taught Ahimaaz that the messenger who told David
of Absalom's death would thrust a sharper spear into his heart than
Joab had driven into Absalom's.
Joab is a very different type of indifference. He is too much
accustomed to battle to be much flushed with victory, and has killed
too many men to care much about killing another. He is cool enough to
measure the full effect of the news on David; and though he clearly
discerns the sorrow, has not one grain of participation in it. He has
some liking for Ahimaaz, and so does not wish him to run, but dissuades
him on the ground (verse 22, Revised Version) that he will win no
reward. That is the true spirit of the mercenary, who cannot conceive
of a man taking trouble unless he gets paid for it somehow, and will
fight and kill, all in the way of business, without the least spark of
enthusiasm for a cause. Hard stolidity and brutal carelessness shielded
him from any 'womanish' tenderness. Absalom was dead, and he had killed
him. It was a good thing, for it had put out the fire of revolt. No
doubt David would be sorry, but that mattered little. Only it was
better for the message to go by some one whose fate was of no
consequence. So he picks out 'the Cushite,' probably an Ethiopian
slave; and if David in his anguish should harm him, nobody will be hurt
but a friendless stranger.
The Cushite gets his orders; and he too is, in another fashion,
careless of their contents and effect. Without a word, he bows himself
to Joab, and runs, as unconcerned as the paper of a letter that may
break a heart. Ahimaaz still pleads to go, and, gaining leave, takes
the road across the Jordan valley, which was probably easier, though
longer; while the other messenger went by the hills, which was a
shorter and rougher road.
II. The scene shifts to Mahanaim, where David had found refuge. He can
scarcely have failed to take an omen from the name, which commemorated
how another anxious heart had camped there, and been comforted, when it
saw the vision of the encamping angels above its own feeble, undefended
tents, and Jacob 'called the name of that place Mahanaim' (that is,
'Two Camps'). How the change of scene in the narrative helps its
vividness, and makes us share in the strain of expectancy and the
tension of watching the approaching messengers! The king, restless for
news, has come out to the space between the outer and inner gates, and
planted a lookout on the gate-house roof. The sharp eyes see a solitary
figure making for the city, across the plain. David recognises that,
since he is alone, he must be a messenger; and now the question is,
What has he to tell? We see him coming nearer, and share the suspense.
Then the second man appears; and clearly something more had happened,
to require two. What was it? They run fast; but the moments are long
till they arrive. The watchman recognises Ahimaaz by his style of
running; and David wistfully tries to forecast his tidings from his
character. It is a pathetic effort, and reveals how anxiously his heart
was beating.
As soon as Ahimaaz is within earshot, though panting with running, no
doubt, he shouts, with what breath is left, the one word, 'Peace!' and
then, at David's feet, tells the victory, 'Blessed be the Lord thy
God'; the triumph was Jehovah's gift, and in it He had shown Himself
David's God, and vindicated His servant's trust. But Ahimaaz is more
devout and thankful than David. The king has neither praise and
thankfulness to God nor to man. He has no pleasure in the victory; no
interest in the details of the fight; no thankfulness for a restored
kingdom; no word of eulogium for his soldiers; nothing but devouring
anxiety for his unworthy son. How chilling to Ahimaaz, all flushed with
eagerness, and proud of victory, and panting with running, and hungry
for some word of praise, it must have been, to get for sole answer the
question about Absalom! He shrinks from telling the whole truth, which,
indeed, the Cushite was officially despatched to tell; but his
enigmatic story of a great tumult as he left the field, of which he did
not know the meaning, was meant to prepare for the bitter news. So he
is bid to stand aside, and no words more vouchsafed to him. A cool
reception, unworthy of David! As Ahimaaz stood there, neglected, he
would think that the politic Joab was right after all.
The Cushite must have been close behind him, for he comes up as soon as
the brief conversation is over. A deeper anxiety must have waited his
tidings; for he must have something more to tell than victory. His
first words add nothing to Ahimaaz's information. What, then, had he
come for? David forebodes evil, and, with the monotony of a man
absorbed in one anxiety, repeats verbatim his former question. Poor
king! He more than half knew the answer, before it was given. The
Cushite with some tenderness veils the fate of Absalom in the wish that
all the king's enemies may be 'as that young man is.' But the veil was
thin, and the attempt to console by reminding of the fact that the dead
man was an enemy as well as a son, was swept away like a straw before
the father's torrent of grief.
III. The sobs of a broken heart cannot be analysed; and this wail of
almost inarticulate agony, with its infinitely pathetic reiteration, is
too sacred for many words. Grief, even if passionate, is not forbidden
by religion; and David's sensitive poet-nature felt all emotions
keenly. We are meant to weep; else wherefore is there calamity? But
there were elements in David's mourning which were not good. It blinded
him to blessings and to duties. His son was dead; but his rebellion was
dead with him, and that should have been more present to his mind. His
soldiers had fought well, and his first task should have been to honour
and to thank them. He had no right to sink the king in the father, and
Joab's unfeeling remonstrance, which followed, was wise and true in
substance, though rough almost to brutality in tone. Sorrow which sees
none of the blue because of one cloud, however heavy and thunderous, is
sinful. Sorrow which sits with folded hands, like the sisters of
Lazarus, and lets duties drift, that it may indulge in the luxury of
unrestrained tears, is sinful. There is no tone of 'It is the Lord! let
Him do what seemeth Him good,' in this passionate plaint; and so there
is no soothing for the grief. The one consolation lies in submission.
Submissive tears wash the heart clean; rebellious ones blister it.
David's grief was the bitter fruit of his own sin. He had weakly
indulged Absalom, and had probably spared the rod, in the boy's youth,
as he certainly spared the sword when Absalom had murdered his brother.
His own immorality had loosened the bonds of family purity, and made
him ashamed to punish his children. He had let Absalom flaunt and
swagger and live in luxury, and put no curb on him; and here was the
end of his foolish softness. How many fathers and mothers are the
destroyers of their children to-day in the very same fashion! That
grave in the wood might teach parents how their fatal fondness may end.
Children, too, may learn from David's grief what an unworthy son can do
to stuff his father's pillow with thorns, and to break his heart at
last.
But there is another side to this grief. It witnesses to the depth and
self-sacrificing energy of a father's love. The dead son's faults are
all forgotten and obliterated by death's 'effacing fingers.' The
headstrong, thankless rebel is, in David's mind, a child again, and the
happy old days of his innocence and love are all that remain in memory.
The prodigal is still a son. The father's love is immortal, and cannot
be turned away by any faults. The father is willing to die for the
disobedient child. Such purity and depth of affection lives in human
hearts. So self-forgetting and incapable of being provoked is an
earthly father's love. May we not see in this disclosure of David's
paternal love, stripping it of its faults and excesses, some dim shadow
of the greater love of God for His prodigals,--a love which cannot be
dammed back or turned away by any sin, and which has found a way to
fulfil David's impossible wish, in that it has given Jesus Christ to
die for His rebellious children, and so made them sharers of His own
kingdom?