p. 8 | The Vigil of Rizpah by Hart Hall

Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Oct 24, 1911

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 38, No. 42.

The Vigil of Rizpah

By Hart Hall

There was a famine in the days of David three years, year after year; and David inquired of the Lord. And the Lord answered, It is for Saul, and for his bloody house, because he slew the Gibeonites.

THE Lord does not forget. His eyes "are in every place, beholding the evil and the good" (Prov. 15:3), and "tho hand join in hand, the wicked shall not be unpunished."

The children of Israel had made a league with the Gibeonites when they first invaded Canaan. The Gibeonites, it is true, practised deception, in their wholesome fear of the terrible conquerors from the desert. But the league was binding nevertheless; and Joshua, as a punishment for their deception, made them servants, "hewers of wood and drawers of water."

But Saul, years afterward, in a fit of enthusiasm or mistaken patriotism, had killed some of these inoffensive people, and evidently planned a wholesale massacre of the rest. God had noted this injustice, and now the land was suffering in consequence.

The Lord, on the occasion of the first murder ever committed, laid its curse upon the soil. To Cain He said, "When thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength." And later the warning was given, "Ye shall not pollute the land wherein ye are: for blood it defileth the land: and the land can not be cleansed of the blood that is shed therein, but by the blood of him that shed it." Num. 35:33. But this warning was unheeded, and the prophecy in Deut. 29:22-25 was literally fulfilled: "The stranger that shall come from a far land, shall say, when they see the plagues of that land, and the sicknesses which the Lord hath laid upon it; and that the whole land thereof is brimstone, and salt, and burning, that it is not sown, nor beareth, nor any grass groweth therein, like the overthrow of Sodom, and Gomorrah, Admah, and Zeboim, which the Lord overthrew in His anger, and in His wrath. . . . Then men shall say, Because they have forsaken the covenant of the Lord God of their fathers, which He made with them when He brought them forth out of the land of Egypt." "The land can not be cleansed of the blood that is shed therein, but by the blood of him that shed it."

Therefore when David consulted with the Gibeonites, they asked not for revenge, but for Scriptural justice; and it was given. Seven of the sons of Saul were given up to the Gibeonites, who hanged them upon the hill in Gibeah "before the Lord."

Two of these victims were the sons of Rizpah, the concubine of Saul. "And Rizpah the daughter of Aiah took sackcloth, and spread it for her upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest until water dropped upon them out of heaven, and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest on them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night." 2 Sam. 21:10.

The Bible records many sad tragedies, but few are sadder than this brief narrative. From the beginning of barley harvest (first of May), throughout the long summer until water dropped from heaven (October), this woman kept her horrible, self-appointed vigil, with sackcloth cast upon that rocky, wind-swept hilltop for her resting-place, and her only canopy the blistering sky by day and the stars by night.

The law forbade that the bodies of any that were hanged should remain till the sun went down; and whether this gruesome laxity in regard to their civil code was due to carelessness or to a new superstitious regard for justice, we do not know. But when the execution was over and the crowd had departed, one lone woman remained.

The sun, large and florid, dipped quickly into the sea; and the evening breezes, whistling mournfully over the hill, began to sway and gyrate uncannily the bodies of the unfortunate seven. Night, damp and chill, palled the earth; and yet, through its eternal hours, a huddled figure crouches beside the long gibbet, alternating its occasional creaking with shuddering, tearless sobs.

Finally day comes, and with it unconsciousness, that lasts till the night comes again; and another day, and then a shrill scream arouses the prostrate figure, but it is only a swooping vulture that calls to its mate.

Another night and another day, and more vultures circle the hill. They alight upon the gibbet and flap their black pinions defiantly at the creature who rises frenziedly and strikes wildly, blindly at them. . .

Another night, and the hyenas, sniffing the decomposing bodies, bark and cry weirdly as they patter in a circuit about their prey, snapping cowardly at the watcher who strikes and flings at them.

Days pass, and the bodies fall, decapitated by their own weight. Then the bones appear, white and ghastly. The skulls grin in mirth at the never-ceasing battle of the watcher with beast and vulture.

Weeks pass, then months, centuries, perhaps, to the lone one on the bleak hilltop; and then one comes and gathers the bones, and they are buried. The vultures upon the long gibbet now scream unmolested, and the hyenas scratch and scurry over the hill at night, howling in disappointment,—the watcher is gone.

Who cared for Rizpah during her vigil? What was her fate?—We do not know. But we do know that many to-day are repeating in their own lives this experience of Rizpah. Many there are who are keeping weary vigils of their disappointments, sorrows, and sufferings, when common decency at least would suggest a burial.

Tragedies come into all lives, whether or no. Trivial incident to one is tragedy to another. A man in Los Angeles in 1898 killed himself because it did not rain. The drought was an incident merely to others. To him it was tragedy. Had he kept his vigil one day longer, all would have been well; for the next day it rained.

There is no doubt that the greatest of all tragedies is bereavement. Love is stronger than death; it is the greatest thing in the world. Consequently when it is separated from its own, this must necessarily be the greatest of all losses. But to watch over and nurse disappointments and sorrows is to shrivel and demean the soul until sympathy and kindness are shut out of the heart; till the eyes of faith are dimmed forever, and hope is killed.

To the real Christian, disappointments are His appointments. The bitter cup is accepted as a remedy for the soul. The chastening rod is received as from the hand of a loving Father who sees that it will work out in us the fruits of righteousness. David says, "Before I was afflicted I went astray: but now have I kept Thy Word." Ps. 119:67.

There is a peculiar refinement in suffering; it tenders and enlarges the heart, quickens the sympathies, opens the eyes of our understanding, and puts us in touch with a needy and perishing world. "For unto you it is given in the behalf of Christ, not only to believe on Him, but also to suffer for His sake." Phil. 1:29. "For as the sufferings of Christ abound in us, so our consolation also aboundeth by Christ." 2 Cor. 1:5.

Pomona, California.