by Mesu Andrews
By the Waters of Babylon
A Captive’s Song - Psalm 137
Mesu Andrews
BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON
A Captive’s Song - Psalm 137
Copyright © 2018 by Mesu Andrews
ISBN: 9781732443617
ASIN: B07D62FD5S
Published by McPherson Publishing
Sparta, WI, USA
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Cover design by Josh Meyer Photography and Design
Edited by Hanemann Editorial
Quotations from Psalms and Proverbs are from The Passion Translation®. Copyright © 2017, 2018 by Passion & Fire Ministries, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved. ThePassionTranslation.com.
All other Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.
All rights reserved.
Contents
Publisher’s Note
Note to Readers
Part I
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Part II
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Author’s Note
Bible Study for Psalm 137
Also by Mesu Andrews
Get the rest of The Psalm Series!
About the Author
The Psalm Series Bible Study
Publisher’s Note
The Psalm Series is a collection of creative fiction based on the Psalms. These stories are not meant to add to or replace Scripture, but to explore the deep meaning woven through the Psalms, and to enrich our experience of the timeless truths these ancient songs of praise contain.
This particular story, By the Waters of Babylon, is a historical novel based on the events recorded in Psalm 137 and the Old Testament prophetic books whose prophecies intertwined with the events of Psalm 137.
For an explanation of the author’s approach to the biblical text, be sure to read the Author’s Note at the end of the book. And be sure to read through the Bible Study of Psalm 137, as well.
In the meantime, we hope you enjoy reading passionate poetry made into heart-pounding fiction!
For a FREE 7-Day Psalm Series Devotional, and to find the other books in the series, go to psalmseries.com.
Note to Readers
I believe to my deepest core that my God is good, just, and righteous in all He does. He’s the same loving Father in the Old Testament that gave up His Son for my sins in the New Testament. However, I find His Old Testament judgment hard to read, don’t you? No matter what I know to be true about His goodness, justice, and rightness, the torturous loss of life seems harsh and cruel.
The research and writing of By the Waters of Babylon has changed me. Though in some places it reflects the violence of Jerusalem’s captivity—portrayed as tactfully as possible—I have seen through Merari’s journey the loving provision of Yahweh on the other side of His judgment. Those difficult passages of God’s wrath and Judah’s suffering still pull at my heart, but now I know with firm assurance that every faithful child of God was met—in captivity or in heaven—by the promise of a new and better way. Because they saw God as true to His Word, in both reward and discipline, as every good parent should be.
My prayer for you, dear reader, is that you also recognize the loving Father amid the discipline and reap its eternal fruit.
Part I
“Along the banks of Babylon’s rivers we sat as exiles, mourning our captivity,
and wept with great love for Zion.
Our music and mirth were no longer heard, only sadness.
We hung up our harps on the willow trees.
Our captors tormented us, saying, “Make music for us and
sing one of your happy Zion-songs!”
But how could we sing the song of the Lord
in this foreign wilderness?
May my hands never make music again
if I ever forget you, O Jerusalem.
May I never be able to sing again if I fail to honor Jerusalem supremely!
And Lord, may you never forget
what the sons of Edom did to us, saying,
“Let’s raze the city of Jerusalem and burn it to the ground!”
Listen, O Babylon, you evil destroyer!
The one who destroys you will be rewarded above all others.
You will be repaid for what you’ve done to us.
Great honor will come to those who destroy you and your future,
by smashing your infants against the rubble of your own destruction.”
-Psalm 137
Prologue
I once was a goddess who led a prince to Yahweh. Now, I’m an exile living out my life in Babylon, knowing Yahweh’s words will be fulfilled. Thousands of Jews—as we are now called—have grown strong in Babylon. Someday we’ll return to Judah. Yahweh promised. Jeremiah told us. “Seventy years,” he said, and Jerusalem would be rebuilt.
I heard him say it, but I also saw the walls fall down. Doubt shadowed my heart for years. My journey hasn’t been an easy one. I tell you my story now, how life can feel hopeless, a heart embittered, but God . . .
Yes, with those two little words, all hope was restored. But God . . .
For we who believed, those words mended broken hearts, turned the tide. Lives were changed. Wanderers found purpose. Those who loved much, lost much. Yet we who trusted Yahweh, allowed Him to step into the void and fill our emptiness.
Only Yahweh chooses a broken woman to heal a wounded man. Only Yahweh uses a pagan prince to offer truth to a foreign empire. And only Yahweh can use my story to change your life.
You may think change impossible—but God . . .
Chapter 1
Merari, Jerusalem - 588 BC
“In the ninth year of Zedekiah king of Judah, in the tenth month,
Nebuchadnezzar king of Babylon marched against Jerusalem with his whole army
and laid siege to it.”
-Jeremiah 39:1
The strings of my harp felt like rods of iron in the cold mix of sleet and rain, while I played David’s Shepherd Song in Jerusalem’s empty streets. Eyes closed, my mind wandered through the valley of the shadow of death. How would I feed my sister and my son if I couldn’t sell my harps? King Zedekiah’s royal prophets had proven false and my husband’s cousin, Jeremiah, had been mournfully accurate. Babylon laid siege to our city two weeks ago, and even the elite here in the upper city bought only food in the market.
You couldn’t eat a harp.
But I could at least provide a measure of peace and joy. Swaying to the gentle rhythm of my music, I opened my eyes and noticed the sandal-maker’s wife packing up her wares. We were the only two merchants brave enough—or insane enough—to keep our booths open when both weather and Babylon threatened. I hadn’t sol
d a harp in six months, but I’d rather be here than fighting with my sister at home.
A trumpet blew. Then another. The ground beneath me shook with the thunder of horses’ hooves. The sandal-maker’s wife and I exchanged a fearful glance, and she ran toward her home around the corner without a good-bye. More trumpets sounded, and now rams’ horns joined them from atop the walls around our city. The market began to fill with noblemen and soldiers, rushing past me on their way to the palace.
One man took his time, strolling past my booth with eyes as hungry as a jackal. “Your cousin Jeremiah has proven to be a false prophet, little Merari. Did you hear? The Babylonians are withdrawing. The siege is over as the other prophets said.” Jehukal, the chief of forced labor, peered down at me over a rotund middle, wiping sweat from his brow on a wintry day. “But I could speak in Jeremiah’s favor if you agree to meet me after the council meeting.”
I smiled sweetly, suppressing a shudder, still strumming my harp. “I’m honored by your persistence, my lord, but as I’ve mentioned before, my son requires my attention at home.” I stilled my harp and hoped to glean information to share with my husband’s cousin—my cousin. “Have all of Nebuchadnezzar’s armies withdrawn or only some?”
“Changing the subject can’t quench my fire, but I’ll play your little game.” He glanced right and left. “My personal guard told me Nebuchadnezzar took the mercenaries as well as his Babylonian troops. I suspect the Egyptians have honored our treaty and drawn him away, but I’ll find out more at the council meeting.” Tracing his finger along my jawline, his eyes raked me with ungranted familiarity. Withdrawing a coin from his waist pouch, he tossed it into the basket at my feet. “I’ll give you more information and three more pieces of silver if you come home with me after the meeting.”
I ducked my head, feigning shyness to hide my revulsion. “You flatter me with your attention, Lord Jehukal.” I nodded at my harps on display. “If you purchased one of my harps, I could spend less time in the market tomorrow and offer your wife lessons—so she might please you with the same songs I play.”
His bawdy laughter drew the attention of the growing crowd. “If I wanted a harp, Merari, I would buy one from the Babylonian merchants. Your harps are pretty little baubles, but when Nebuchadnezzar took our best soldiers and artisans, I stopped buying anything in Jerusalem.” He walked away laughing, and my cheeks burned at the smirks from onlookers.
Furious, I began wrapping my pretty little baubles in thick blankets and placing them in my small wagon. That fat nobleman had no idea what craft and skill were involved in carving, drying, and stringing a harp. He was an imbecile. A fool.
Like our King Zedekiah. Did he really think Egypt could save Judah from King Nebuchadnezzar’s minions? When the siege began, market gossips talked of six nations fighting with the Babylonians. Edomites, of course. They found any excuse to harass us, still bitter generations after Jacob cheated Esau out of his birthright. Arabs, Persians, Scythians, Medes, and Syrians also joined the threat, all anxious to curry the favor of Nebuchadnezzar, the man who had conquered the invincible Assyrians. But Babylon’s king possessed something far greater than mercenary armies and more valuable than his military mind. According to Yahweh and His prophet Jeremiah, Nebuchadnezzar was God’s designated instrument of wrath on Judah. He held God’s favor, which meant he could not fail.
I placed my last harp in the wagon and a commotion near the Temple gate drew my attention. Jeremiah. A temple guard dragged him by the neck toward the palace.
“Stop!” I ran toward them, leaving my wagon. “Stop! What are you doing? He’s done nothing but speak truth.”
I realized the guard was Irijah, brother of Jehukal. “He was deserting to the Babylonians.” He pulled Jeremiah backward such that he couldn’t get his footing.
“No,” Jeremiah croaked, scratching at the arm cutting off his airway. “I wasn’t.”
“At least let him stand.” I tugged at Irijah’s arm, trying to loosen his grip. “You’re choking him!”
The guard shoved me aside. “The council can decide, but I know what I saw. He deserves death.”
A shiver worked up my spine as he dragged my cousin up the palace steps. Would Irijah finally have his vengeance? Five years ago, a priest on the king’s council falsely prophesied that Yahweh would deliver Judah and its king from Babylon’s yoke of oppression. The priest’s name was Hananiah—Irijah and Jehukal’s abba. Jeremiah issued Yahweh’s judgment on Hananiah for his false prophecy, and within two months he was dead. His sons never forgave Jeremiah, and today they would no doubt seek to repay him.
Chapter 2
“Jeremiah was put into a vaulted cell in a dungeon, where he remained a long time.
Then King Zedekiah sent for him and had him brought to the palace,
where he asked him privately, ‘Is there any word from the Lord?’
‘Yes,’ Jeremiah replied, ‘you will be delivered into the hands of the king of Babylon.’”
-Jeremiah 37:16–17
I wanted to follow Irijah but remembered my wagon full of harps. Hustling back to my booth, I found the wagon where I left it, untouched. Even Jerusalem’s thieves must be distracted by Jeremiah’s arrest. Angry and helpless, I began my torturous walk home, traveling against the flow of curious citizens. Though the cobblestone streets of the upper city hadn’t changed, and the dividing archway between upper and lower city towered over me—today’s downhill journey into Jerusalem’s poorest sectors felt like passing from Paradise to Sheol.
During the two weeks of siege in the upper city, citizens experienced little more than inconvenience. Their grain and food supplies had been stockpiled for months, and King Hezekiah’s ancient tunnel continued to channel water inside our city walls. My wagon wheels splashed into the trench flowing through the lower city’s main street, splashing waste—both human and animal—on my robe. Everything from the upper city flowed downhill, except the prosperity. Except the food.
During the two-week siege, we in the lower city had already become desperate for food. My neighbors sold a few furniture pieces to pay for grain, and I offered to a vendor in the upper city two of Jehukal’s silver coins for a handful of barley. Outrageous, but what else could we do?
When the Babylonians attacked Jerusalem nine years ago, we hadn’t endured a siege. King Jehoiachin simply opened the gates and let them in, allowing Nebuchadnezzar to take our best soldiers and artisans. Which was wiser? My stomach growled. According to Jeremiah, if Zedekiah refused to surrender, our minds wouldn’t be able to even fathom the horror we’d experience within these walls during the siege to come.
Veering down a narrow alley north of my house, I knocked on a rickety door and called inside. “Ruth? Abigail? Are you home?”
“Merari? Is that your sweet voice?”
I nudged the door open, and Ruth met me there. She was the spryest of the two widows. I waved Abigail back to her cushion. “Don’t get up. I can’t stay long.” These women had become like second imas to me when Yahweh’s faithful in Jerusalem began meeting with Jeremiah after the exile nine years ago.
“Why the trumpets?” Ruth asked. “We heard the trumpets and felt the ground shake. Did the Babylonians leave? Have you talked to Jeremiah?”
I released a shuddering breath. “The Babylonians are gone, but we don’t know why or for how long. Remember what Jeremiah said though. Babylon will eventually destroy Jerusalem and kill the king, his family, and his officials if he doesn’t surrender.”
This brought Abigail to her feet with great effort. “So Nebuchadnezzar’s army will come back?”
The fear in her eyes made me ache to reassure her, but how could I? “Yes, they’ll be back. And . . .”
Exchanging a glance, they asked in unison, “What?”
“One of Hananiah’s sons arrested Jeremiah as a traitor.” Their wrinkled hands covered fearful gasps. “I must get home to Taphath and Neriah, but I’ll stop by Caleb’s house first and ask him to notify the others in our f
ellowship. Perhaps he could run back to the upper city and wait for a public verdict to be announced.”
“I’ll tell Caleb.” Ruth had already grabbed her head scarf and cloak and was moving toward the door. “You go home.”
I blew Abigail a kiss, hugged Ruth, and then hurried out the door, sending a quick prayer heavenward. Yahweh, protect Your servant Jeremiah, and protect me now as I return home to my sister. Give me grace to love her well and wisdom to draw her back to You.
The sun had disappeared behind the western hills, so I walked home in the dim, gray hues of dusk. My wagon rattled behind me on the pitted, filthy streets of the lower city’s squalor. I shivered. Was it the biting cold, or the awful memory of Irijah’s arm cinched tight around Jeremiah’s neck?
I shook my head and determined to focus on the joy in my life. Neriah, my son. He was my reason for breathing. He was why I endured leering hyenas like Jehukal.
I rounded the last corner in the southernmost section of town and found a lamp burning in our single window. A sign Taphath was having a good day. Perhaps we could enjoy a nice meal before bedtime.
When was the last time I’d enjoyed anything with my sister? It had been nine years since the Babylonians stole Elon and our parents and the children. And killed Taphath’s betrothed. He resisted capture, and the Babylonians attacked him like a mosquito on a summer day. They left his body in the Kidron Valley to be picked apart by scavengers. Taphath disappeared for days after, and I thought I’d lost her too. She returned to me wearing the image of a bull’s head around her neck, and I realized I had indeed lost her—to Molech, an enemy deadlier than Babylon.
