The Scribe and the Enduring Refrain
The lamp oil was nearly spent. Its faint, guttering light threw long shadows across the small cell, catching the dust motes that drifted in the still, warm air. Asaph, his fingers stiff and corded with age, traced the edge of…
Evening Psalm on a Hillside
The heat of the day had begun to soften, that long, amber hour when the world seems to hold its breath. I sat on a flat stone at the edge of my small, terraced field, the smell of turned earth…
The King’s Seed
The scent of cedar was fading. Solomon could still smell it, a ghost of resin and sawdust clinging to the stones of the nearly-complete palace, but it was being overtaken by the damp, earthy breath of a Jerusalem spring. He…