“But many of the priests and Levites and chief of the fathers, who were ancient men, that had seen the first house, when the foundation of this house was laid before their eyes, wept with a loud voice; and many shouted aloud for joy:
So that the people could not discern the noise of the shout of joy from the noise of the weeping of the people: for the people shouted with a loud shout, and the noise was heard afar off.” Ezra 3:12-13
For as far as the old man could see in this glaring sunlight, the long strung-out caravan wended snake-like along the rugged landscape. For many weeks already, the returning exiles had been traveling in this fashion —and they were still a long way from their destination. First, Zerubbabel, a prince of the house of David, and Jeshua, a grandson of one of the last high priests to serve in the temple; then the Levites, followed by the temple singers, players, and the temple servants; finally, the thousands upon thousands of lay people, trailed by the beasts of burden and the herdsmen and servants to tend them.
The old man leaned heavily upon his staff as he paused for a few brief moments to regain his balance and catch his faltering breath. How fast and irregularly his heart was beating! How blistering was the sun—and it not even noon yet! How harsh was the terrain! The old man wondered if he would be able to persevere in this arduous trek back to Jerusalem, since stragglers such as he had to fend for themselves, keeping apace as best they could. Once in a while, the very old persons, like himself, were privileged to ride for a short time on a burden-bearing animal such as a mule, an ass, or a camel. Mostly, however, the old as well as the young had to walk, for every spare animal was needed to carry back the supplies and those precious treasures which had been taken from Yahweh’s House some seventy years ago —the dishes, the bowls, the cups, and the goblets. Now, Cyrus, in a surprisingly gracious edict, had given these back to the exiles for use in their temple in Jerusalem. Lost in his musings, the old man lagged farther and farther behind, shuffling along apathetically.
He was old. He wasn’t even sure how old. He only knew that he had to be at least fourscore years because he remembered well the sacking of Jerusalem. He recalled with clarity how he had thrown a huge rock at his dark-haired captor. And he remembered as if but yesterday how the Babylonian soldier had thrown back his head to laugh, not deigning to draw his sword on such an insignificant one saying, “Look how this young one fights. He’ll make a splendid soldier in our army.” Then, holding his obvious rippling strength in check, the soldier had cuffed him but lightly, even so sending him sprawling against his Mother’s doorsill.
Even now, the old man was embarrassed as he recalled his own feeble resistance on that memorable day. What a futile attempt that had been —one small, feisty boy resisting the well-organized Babylonian army. And yet, the old man knew by the clenching of his free fist and the tightening of his gnarled hand on his staff that given the same situation, he would resist and fight all over again —puny though his efforts would be. For to be a captive, and that in an alien land, was most painful to the proud and freeborn Jew.
In all his seventy years in Babylon, the old man had never felt at home. Many of his compatriots had had no difficulty “settling in” in Babylon and even now were plying their lucrative trades in that God-forsaken country. They had no intention of leaving the comforts and prosperity that Babylon afforded and had melded quite fluidly into Babylon’s culture and society. But not he! Every new sunrise had been a forceful reminder to him that he was a stranger in a foreign land. The old man fretted that so small a group had agreed to return to Jerusalem with Zerubbabel. Only about 45,000 out of the many, many of his kinsmen who were given the opportunity to return had set out on this long and wearisome journey —a distance of some 900 miles, spanning six months, and all of it on foot.
Every Sabbath day, the old man had grieved anew that he could not go up to Yahweh’s House in prayer. During those times of deepest loneliness, sorrow, and despair, he had tried to find consolation by playing on his lyre the songs of Zion which his Mother had taught him when he was a young lad. But after plucking only a few plaintive notes, he could only lament: How shall I sing Jehovah’s song When Zion’s walls in ruin lie, While in an alien land I die ?
And then at the close of each Sabbath, he had carefully packed away his lyre in its goatskin sheath, with the fervent prayer that Yahweh, who had departed from the land of Israel at least so far as his favor was concerned, would remember to be merciful and bring back the pining captives to the joy and peace of Zion. The old man was one of the few exiles who carried in his heart the letter that Jeremiah had sent from Jerusalem to the captives and which assured him that indeed Yahweh would hear him:
For thus saith the LORD, that after seventy years be accomplished at Babylon I will visit you, and perform my good word toward you, in causing you to return to this place.
“For l know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the LORD, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end.” Jeremiah 29:10-11
The old man never doubted, though the ray of hope was ever so slim, that some glad day he would stand within the temple, perhaps even as one of the temple players accompanying the singers. As a small boy, he had heard the sweet refrains which filled the courts of Solomon’s Great Temple on the Sabbath Day. He had listened in rapt attention while watching his father, of the illustrious family of Asaph, standing with all the other temple musicians in their blue and white robes, filling the temple, its courts, and all the surrounding countryside with the brilliancy of voice and instrument. He had been told that he, too. would someday take his place with his father to magnify God’s House with these same stirring Psalms of praise. Even then, he had begun his training; for as a scion of the house of Asaph he would also be expected to accompany the temple singers when he came of age.
But he had never played so much as one note in the temple. He, destined to be so nimble of finger on the lyre, had only learned to handle the sword and spear, and now his fingers were clumsy with disuse. How this vexed the old man. Tears squeezed out of his rheumy old eyes and coursed down the furrows of his cheeks at the memory of the lyrical strains which had filled the temple environs —which all the sands of time could not erase —and joy filled his soul at the very thought that such pleasure as he had yearned for all these many years yet awaited him.
He must quicken his step! Even now the children, those paragons of energy, had doubled back and were cavorting around him, urging him to catch up. Zerubbabel was calling a noon break. Already, the old man could hear the melody which the long line of returnees had taken up. Once more hope ran high. The old man rasped out a prayer to Yahweh: “Oh Yahweh, thou who hast kept me safely these many years, shine thou thy glorious face upon my aged one and allow me to return to the land of my people ere I die and be no more. Let me taste that joy once again.” It seemed that the prayer revitalized the old man more than all the urgings of the children, and they were surprised how quickly the old man hurried to catch up with the caravan.
With the foundation of the temple now laid, Zerubbabel had called for a day of celebration and thanksgiving, a day of temple worship. The old man had arisen especially early this morning. Each day since the captives had returned, at the first streaks of sunrise, the old man had hastened to the temple ruins to assist in clearing away the years of debris and rubble. But this day the old man had lain awake even before the first bird had warbled its morning reveille. He wanted time to be alone with God. How thankful he was! He must tell Yahweh this in the most beautiful phrases which he could formulate. Today he would play his lyre with the other temple players; he reached across to the crude table where his lyre rested and caressed the strings lovingly. This was the day for which he had prayed and waited for almost eighty long years, and his soul soared in gratitude to God.
As the old man haltingly made his way to the temple site, he was joined by throngs of fellow worshippers, already caught up in the festive tone of this day. Truly, this was a day of unparalleled joy and celebration!
When the old man reached the newly-laid foundation, the joy of this day was somewhat marred by the view which met his eye. Deep within this soul, he knew that this temple was not nearly so beautiful —nor would it ever be —as the grand and glorious temple of his youth. Many of the gold and silver goblets and dishes had not been returned. The wall surrounding the temple was crumbling and in disrepair, and even now the enemies were taunting the harried builders and threatening them. Worst of all, the Holy of Holies was empty. There was no Ark of the Covenant covered by the spreading wings of the cherubim. And there was no Shechinah, that divine, visible presence of Yahweh. He meditated on the prophet Haggai’s words: Who is left among you that saw this house in her first glory? and how do ye see it now? is it not in your eyes in comparison of it as nothing?
“Yet now be strong, O Zerubbabel, saith the LORD. . .and be strong, all ye people of the land, saith the LORD, and work. . .
For thus saith the LORD of hosts; Yet once it is a little while, and I will shake the heavens, and the earth, and the sea, and the dry land;
And I will shake all nations, and the desire of all nations shall come: and I will fill this house with glory, saith the LORD of hosts.
The glory of this latter house shall be greater than of the former, saith the LORD of hosts: and in this place will I give peace, saith the LORD of hosts.”
The old man believed these words of Haggai, but, oh, how dim was the picture it portrayed. It was as if he looked through a glass, darkly. Yet by faith, he recognized the “Desire of all Nations’’ who would “fill this house with glory.’’
As the old man took his prescribed place with all the other temple players and singers, a hush settled over the jubilant exiles as they began to play and sing giving thanks unto the LORD for His goodness and mercy. Lightly and hesitantly the old man coaxed his beloved lyre to play these thrilling Psalms of David and of his own ancestor, Asaph, while the tears streamed down his wrinkled face. Then, the people, no longer able to contain their happiness, in their transports of joy. interrupted the singing with a great shout of exaltation.
But the old man, along with all the other ancients of Judah, began to weep loudly.