The Valley Remembers
Andante doloroso
Trans Torrentem Cedron
Night had settled over Jerusalem.
The city still breathed with the anticipation of Passover. Pilgrims filled its streets. Lamps flickered in narrow windows. Somewhere, families were gathering around tables where fathers would once again tell the ancient story.
“When your son asks you…”
Israel had been remembering for centuries.
Tonight…
memory itself was about to become flesh.
Long before anyone descended toward the Kidron, another journey had already begun.
Not upon the road.
Within the heart of God.
Scripture allows us only the briefest glimpse beyond the veil.
It simply tells us that the Lamb was slain from the foundation of the world.
It does not explain.
It invites us to wonder.
Before there was a garden east of Eden…
before there was a mountain called Moriah…
before there was a tabernacle…
before there was a Temple…
before lambs bled upon Jewish altars…
the Lamb already rested within the purpose of God.
The echoes begin there.
Then they move through history.
A voice walks in another garden in the cool of the day.
“Where are you?”
A frightened son hides among the trees.
Centuries pass.
A father climbs another mountain carrying wood for sacrifice.
The knife is raised.
Then comes another voice.
“Abraham, Abraham!”
The answer had already become familiar.
Hineni.
Here I am.
The ram appears.
The son lives.
The promise walks back down the mountain.
The echo remains.
Years pass again.
A bush burns without being consumed.
“Moses, Moses!”
Again the answer.
Hineni.
Here I am.
The call continues through generations.
A young boy hears his name in the night.
A prophet stands trembling before the throne.
“Whom shall I send, and who will go for Us?”
Always…
someone answers.
Hineni.
Here I am.
The centuries become a chorus.
Different voices.
The same answer.
Then another king walks barefoot through another valley.
His head is covered.
Dust clings to his feet.
Behind him lies Jerusalem.
Before him waits sorrow.
From somewhere deep within that broken father’s heart rises a cry that has never ceased echoing through the ages.
“O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! Would God I had died for you!”
The valley remembers that cry.
It remembers the tears.
It remembers the blood of countless Passover lambs flowing down its dark winter brook.
It remembers the ashes of idols carried away during seasons of cleansing.
It remembers kings.
Prophets.
Priests.
Pilgrims.
The stones remember.
The brook remembers.
The valley remembers.
Now…
once more…
footsteps approach.
Not hurried.
Not reluctant.
Solemn.
The Son has left the table.
The bread has been broken.
The cup has been shared.
The hymn has been sung.
The farewell has lingered like guests who cannot bear to part.
Soon He will descend toward the brook that has carried so many memories.
Soon He will walk where David once walked.
Soon He will enter the garden.
The echoes have been gathering for centuries.
The voice in Eden.
The ram upon Moriah.
The fire at Horeb.
The call in the Temple.
The tears of David.
The blood of lambs.
Every echo has been waiting for this night.
No Hebrew word is recorded upon His lips as He leaves the city.
None is needed.
Every step already speaks.
Every step says what faithful servants had answered before Him, yet what only He could fulfill completely.
Hineni.
Here I am.
Not merely spoken.
Lived.
The valley listens.
The earth waits.
Tomorrow…
the Lamb will ascend another hill.
From the middle section of Crossing the Kidron Valley, to be published soon.
Spiritual Wanderings 