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| The Writing On The Wall |
The firelight shimmered across marble pillars as laughter and music rolled through the great hall of Babylon. Eliab balanced a silver tray in his hands, moving carefully among the nobles sprawled on cushions, their voices thick with wine. He had grown used to the decadence of palace banquets, but tonight was different.
His eyes caught on the cups the king’s attendants had passed around. Gold, heavy, etched with patterns he knew as well as his own breath. They weren’t ordinary goblets. They were the vessels—holy vessels—taken from the temple of Jerusalem.
His chest tightened. His people had carried those cups with reverence. Generations had poured offerings into them, lifted them in prayer before the Almighty. Now they sloshed with Babylonian wine, passed from hand to hand amid drunken laughter.
He steadied his tray, but his heart burned. Do they not know? Do they not see Whose these belong to?
At the far end of the hall, Belshazzar, king of Babylon, raised one of the sacred goblets high. His jeweled fingers curled around it like a prize. “To the gods of gold and silver, of bronze, iron, wood, and stone!” he roared. The nobles echoed his toast, their voices rising in thunder.
Eliab flinched as if struck. Every shout was an insult to the God of Israel, every swallow a desecration. He wanted to cry out, to snatch the cups away, to fall on his face in protest. But he was a slave, nameless and voiceless in the shadow of Babylon’s glory. His grief had no place in the din of their revelry.
The lyres strummed faster. The women laughed louder. The torches hissed with smoke. Yet something shifted. It was subtle at first—a pause in the rhythm, a hesitation in the song. Eliab’s skin prickled. The air seemed thicker, charged, as though another presence had entered the hall.
The music faltered. A hush rippled across the crowd.
Eliab’s eyes darted toward the wall opposite the king. His tray slipped. Gold cups crashed to the floor, spilling wine across the polished stone. But no one scolded him. No one even noticed.
Every gaze had locked on the same sight.
A hand—disembodied, radiant—appeared near the great plaster wall. Fingers glowed like firebrands, tracing letters into the surface. No sound but the scratching, deliberate and sure: Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin.
A scream broke the silence. Someone shouted, others stumbled backward, their goblets tumbling like rain. Eliab stood frozen, trembling, his own breath lodged in his throat. His grief turned to awe, his anger to holy fear. The Lord of Heaven had answered.
Belshazzar’s face blanched, the flush of wine draining to ash. His knees knocked together beneath his robe. “Bring the magicians!” he bellowed. “
The magicians hurried in, their cloaks trailing, eyes darting at the glowing words. They whispered, argued, wrung their hands—but none could explain it. Eliab watched the king’s face twist with fear, his voice shrill as he promised riches to anyone who could read the writing.
As the chaos swirled around him, Eliab's heart pounded in his chest, each beat a drum of anticipation. The sight of the mysterious message etched in flames filled him with a mix of wonder and dread. He couldn't tear his gaze away from the luminous letters, each stroke burning itself into his memory.
The magicians' futile attempts only heightened the tension in the hall. Eliab could sense the palpable fear gripping everyone, the air heavy with uncertainty. Belshazzar's once haughty demeanor had crumbled into a mask of desperation, his eyes wide with disbelief at the divine manifestation before him.
When his wise men, astrologers, and diviners fail to decipher the writing, the king's queen suggests sending for Daniel, a prophet known for his divine wisdom.
The queen's suggestion hung in the air like a fragile thread, tension coiling around each person in the hall. Belshazzar's eyes darted between his advisors and the glowing inscription on the wall, a mix of desperation and defiance churning in his gaze.
Daniel, the prophet from the land of Israel, was ushered into the great hall with a solemnity that seemed to hush even the flickering torches. Eliab's heart quickened at the sight of him, a flicker of hope igniting within his chest. This man had walked with the Almighty, had interpreted dreams and visions with a wisdom beyond mortal understanding.
Older now, his beard streaked with gray, but his eyes clear as the river in spring. Eliab had heard stories of him—how he served faithfully through kings and empires, how he prayed three times a day toward Jerusalem. To Eliab, he was more than a court advisor. He was living proof that God had not forgotten His people.
Daniel stood before the wall, unshaken. He looked not at the trembling king but at the blazing words, as if they had been waiting for him all along.
“Keep your gifts,” Daniel said calmly when Belshazzar promised him purple robes and gold. “But I will read the writing for the king.”
His voice filled the chamber, strong and steady: “Mene—God has numbered the days of your reign and brought it to an end. Tekel—you have been weighed on the scales and found wanting. Peres—your kingdom is divided and given to the Medes and Persians.”
The hall shuddered with whispers. Eliab felt his knees weaken, not with fear but with awe. The holy vessels mocked, the covenant ridiculed, his God blasphemed—and yet here was the answer. The Lord had spoken in front of kings and nations. He had defended His name.
That night, the prophecy came to pass. The empire shifted. Babylon’s walls, thought impenetrable, fell to the armies of Persia. Belshazzar’s feast became his la
Morning light crept across the city, Eliab swept shards of glass and splashes of wine from the banquet floor. His hands shook, but not from weariness. The image of the writing hand burned fresh in his mind.
Hi fingers traced the rim of a temple goblets, its gold now dented and tarnished lying dented among the debris. His chest swelled with a bittersweet relief.
Where the king had raised sacred vessels in blasphemy, the Almighty had written judgment with His own hand.
Lifting his eyes toward the paling stars, Eliab whispered into the silence: “The Lord is not mocked. Even in exile, He is with us.”
And for the first time in years, the weight in his chest lifted, replaced by something he had thought was gone forever—hope.
The handwriting on the wall reminds us still today—God’s Word cannot be ignored.
🕊️ An Echoes of Scripture Story
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