The Valley of Hinnom

...and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.  

Matthew 16:18

Night falls on the valley of Hinnom. The light of the setting sun surrenders to total darkness, and a new illumination fills the valley. Wicked tongues of fire leap high into the night sky and cast an eerie glow upon the valley floor. Foul smoke billows up from a dark, impenetrable stronghold, and the demonic legions of Gehenna revel in its plumes. The valley reeks of the odor of burning flesh, and interminable shrieks of agony and despair announce in that, in the fortress of Gehenna, darkness reigns.

Night falls also on the banners of the High King. His steed stomps and kicks the dust at the rim of the dark valley as his small band of soldiers approaches the valley from above. They have arrived here at long last, tired and battle-weary from the relentless pursuit. How long have they been at battle--fighting, retreating, rallying, pursuing? How many of their brothers-at-arms have already fallen to the legions of the Dark Lord? How many of their sons and daughters and wives have been captured and carried off to wail within the terror of this unbreachable prison?

Only moments ago each man had held in his heart a tiny spark of hope that the Dark Lord’s reign might finally meet its end tonight, but all hope is snuffed out with a single glance upon the object of their siege. The soldiers of the High King stare down into the hopeless abyss, and the abyss stares back hard. Who knew how vast this fortress would be, how thick its walls, how massive its gates? Each man cries in his heart, “How foolish to have even come! What can our swords and lances do even to dislodge a single stone from this place?”

Then despair turns quickly to terror as the black gates suddenly swing open. Dark spirits fly from the open mouth of the fortress of Gehenna like a swarm of angry hornets, and numberless legions of the Dark Lord pour through the gates and fill the valley like a storm surge. Their enumerable shrieks of terror rise together as one voice, stealing away the last vestiges of hope from the soldier’s hearts. “Lord of Hosts, they sortie!” comes a gasping cry.

White knuckles grip battered shields and lances as, moment by moment, the dark legions draw nearer. The fires of Gehenna leap high into the air casting ominous shadows of the approaching ghastly forms. Higher and higher they march and soar, drawing nearer and nearer to the terrified ranks of the King, and with every passing second each man feels the life within him draining away.

Some of the men stand firm, though more frozen with fear than steadied by valor. Others bolt off into the night, fleeing back along the path they have so recently marched. The trickle of fleeing soldiers becomes a torrent, and as the tide of darkness fills the valley, the army of the Kingdom of Light ebbs away.

The Lord of Hosts sits serenely upon his mount, single-minded in vision and purpose. His eyes gaze beyond the nebulous faces of the approaching horde, past the massive black gates that now stand closed. Into the very heart of the prison fortress he stares, and he knows why he has come.

He extends his bare right hand in front of him, and his fingers slide smoothly along the steel handle of the furled battle standard mounted in his banner saddle. The King lowers his face toward the standard and in hushed tones he speaks to the steel.

"Long ago I drew you from this place, forged in the heat of these wicked flames. I restored you and polished you with my own hand, and I arrayed you with my own coat of arms. Now, daughter of mine, glorify me as I have glorified you.”

The King places his mouth against the steel, breathes gently upon the furled banner, and the brilliant white battle standard springs to life as if caught in some tremendous gale. She unfurls for yards and yards, fluttering proudly over the heads of the few remaining soldiers.

Suddenly, from the coat of arms emblazoned upon the banner, a brilliant light emanates. Bright as the sun at midday she glows, beautiful and radiant. The eerie glow of the flames of Gehenna is overpowered by the King’s glorious standard fighting back every shadow. The approaching horde momentarily draws back at the sight of her, and the few remaining soldiers of the King suddenly breathe new courage.

“To me! To me!” comes the cry of the High King, and the small band of men rushes to their Lord. He is more glorious now than they have ever beheld him, transfigured by the light of his standard. They crowd close around his charger, keeping their eyes always upon the approaching front of battle. The King grasps his bow, and as he reaches over his shoulder a single gleaming silver arrow leaps from the quiver into his waiting hand. “Send me!” she says. “I was born to do this.” He steadies the bow and draws back hard upon the bowstring, then he whispers a word to the arrow as she rests against his cheek. “Shine!” he says, and at the touch of his breath upon her she bursts into white hot flame.

A bolt of lightning in the night sky, she flashes across the putrid air of Hinnom, and the hosts of the Dark Lord recoil at the brightness of her passing. Over numberless foes she flies, into the very heart of darkness itself, and in the wake of her passing, along every point of her descent into hell, she leaves behind her a brilliant white trail of holy light.

The instant she strikes her target the impenetrable gates of Gehenna burst into roaring flame, and the dark forces turn in confusion to survey the destruction. They are not long distracted, however, and then all the legions of hell, newly enraged, charge toward the King and his tiny consort, their shrieks and cries rising to a deafening level. The rising black tide of demons is almost at the lip of the valley now, preparing to crash like a breaker upon the shore, sweeping all away into eternal darkness.

“Lord of Hosts! How will we stand?” comes the gasping cry of a young soldier.

The King remains transfixed upon the burning gates of Gehenna as he responds, “My precious child, I am not asking you to stand.

“To the gates! To the gates!” shouts the King, “Take the city!”

Panic fills the face of every man as each is torn between his love for his King and his horror of this reckless, suicidal charge. Quickly the the King reaches for the golden horn he wears always upon his belt, raises her to his lips, and blows a long, clear blast. At the sound of the golden horn, the heart of every soldier awakens within him; his fear melts away, and his courage is renewed.

The Lord of the Battle points the nose of his charger along that lingering path of light which the flaming silver arrow has left in her wake, and as the hoofs of his steed clear the valley’s edge the King shouts his command again. “Take the city! Take the city! Set my captive children free!”

Upon the heels of their beloved King they race, into the heart of darkness, into the very belly of the dark tide. Every man is ready to die for and with his King as he plunges headlong into the bowels of hell.

Each braces for the coming onslaught, but the onslaught never comes. Farther and farther the brave soldiers venture into the darkness, deeper and deeper into the valley of Hinnom. They are surrounded on every side by hideous and wicked forms, but no foe dares approach them. The silver arrow of the King has carved out of the darkness a brilliant path of divine light, unapproachable by all their foes. And even as they race along this holy corridor, the forces of evil flee at the awesome presence of the battle standard shining in the hands of the King.

By the power of the Lord of Hosts, the exhausted band of soldiers reaches the burning gates of Gehenna at last. The King once again draws his golden horn and sounds a long clear blast, and the flaming gates of Hell crumble into ashes at the sound.

“Shout!” comes the cry of the Lord Most High. “Shout! For I have given you the city!”