I still hear the screams.
The clash of swords, the cries of wounded men—it echoes in my ears though many seasons have passed. I was just a servant then, a shield-bearer for a soldier in King Shaul’s army. You won’t find my name in the scrolls. I wasn’t a man who mattered, but I was there the day our king fell.
It was on Har HaGilboa—Mount Gilboa—that we met the Pelishtim, the Philistines. Our people had trembled at their numbers, but King Shaul—Saul, our first king, chosen by the prophet Shmuel (Samuel), anointed with oil—had led us into battle just the same. He was tall, strong, a sight that made men feel safe. But inside, even before the fighting, I feared he was not ready. Not in his heart.
He had changed.
When he was first made king, he was humble, the kind who hid instead of demanding a throne. But being king is not easy. There are choices that test the soul. King Shaul had made mistakes—he rushed offerings without waiting for Shmuel, and he didn’t obey the command to destroy Amalek. I remember hearing whispers that Shmuel had told him the kingdom would be taken from him.
Still, that morning on the mountain, we hoped.
Until the arrows began to fall.
I saw them strike men beside me—one in the chest, one in the neck. Then I spotted King Shaul on the ridge. He had been wounded. Three arrows, they said, pierced him. He leaned on his sword, swaying, looking down at the battlefield gone red.
Then he called over his sword-bearer—the one who always stayed nearest the king. I wasn’t close enough to hear his voice, but I saw him point to his own chest. I heard later that he asked the man to kill him, to keep the Pelishtim from torturing him.
But the sword-bearer refused. How could anyone lift a sword against the one chosen by God?
So King Shaul did it himself.
I watched our mighty king fall on his own blade.
And then—I still can barely speak it—his sons died too. Yonatan—Jonathan—beloved and brave, a true friend to David, the one chosen next. He died trying to protect his father.
That night, I wandered the hills, too tired to weep, too broken to move. The air smelled like ash. I kept thinking—how did we lose not just a battle, but a king?
I believe it was fear.
Fear had crept into King Shaul’s heart long before that day. Fear of losing power. Fear of being forgotten. Instead of turning to the Lord our God, he tried to hold on with his own hands. But pride and fear cannot hold a kingdom.
Now I serve David, son of Yishai—Jesse. He was hunted by Shaul, yet he never raised his sword against him. David mourned when he heard of the king’s death. He called him “Hashem’s anointed one.” That’s how I learned something powerful: A strong man knows when to bow. A true king fears God more than men.
And that’s a lesson I will never forget.
I still hear the screams.
The clash of swords, the cries of wounded men—it echoes in my ears though many seasons have passed. I was just a servant then, a shield-bearer for a soldier in King Shaul’s army. You won’t find my name in the scrolls. I wasn’t a man who mattered, but I was there the day our king fell.
It was on Har HaGilboa—Mount Gilboa—that we met the Pelishtim, the Philistines. Our people had trembled at their numbers, but King Shaul—Saul, our first king, chosen by the prophet Shmuel (Samuel), anointed with oil—had led us into battle just the same. He was tall, strong, a sight that made men feel safe. But inside, even before the fighting, I feared he was not ready. Not in his heart.
He had changed.
When he was first made king, he was humble, the kind who hid instead of demanding a throne. But being king is not easy. There are choices that test the soul. King Shaul had made mistakes—he rushed offerings without waiting for Shmuel, and he didn’t obey the command to destroy Amalek. I remember hearing whispers that Shmuel had told him the kingdom would be taken from him.
Still, that morning on the mountain, we hoped.
Until the arrows began to fall.
I saw them strike men beside me—one in the chest, one in the neck. Then I spotted King Shaul on the ridge. He had been wounded. Three arrows, they said, pierced him. He leaned on his sword, swaying, looking down at the battlefield gone red.
Then he called over his sword-bearer—the one who always stayed nearest the king. I wasn’t close enough to hear his voice, but I saw him point to his own chest. I heard later that he asked the man to kill him, to keep the Pelishtim from torturing him.
But the sword-bearer refused. How could anyone lift a sword against the one chosen by God?
So King Shaul did it himself.
I watched our mighty king fall on his own blade.
And then—I still can barely speak it—his sons died too. Yonatan—Jonathan—beloved and brave, a true friend to David, the one chosen next. He died trying to protect his father.
That night, I wandered the hills, too tired to weep, too broken to move. The air smelled like ash. I kept thinking—how did we lose not just a battle, but a king?
I believe it was fear.
Fear had crept into King Shaul’s heart long before that day. Fear of losing power. Fear of being forgotten. Instead of turning to the Lord our God, he tried to hold on with his own hands. But pride and fear cannot hold a kingdom.
Now I serve David, son of Yishai—Jesse. He was hunted by Shaul, yet he never raised his sword against him. David mourned when he heard of the king’s death. He called him “Hashem’s anointed one.” That’s how I learned something powerful: A strong man knows when to bow. A true king fears God more than men.
And that’s a lesson I will never forget.
