‘This is he who seers in old time
Chanted of with one accord.’
Take a breath, and let it out slowly. Let me tell you a story.
A distant drum-beat. The smell of incense. The candles along the dusty corridor flicker as he runs past. His footsteps echo around the temple walls and join the rhythm pulsing in his ears.
With a clatter of sandals against stone, he turns a corner into the main hall. The muffled pounding of drums rings louder, and a thousand voices join, chanting. Heart thumping louder than even these, Isaiah surveys the multitude, clouded in fumes from golden censers. He falls to the floor. How could they know?
Sat underneath a fruit tree, it had come to him in a vision. On the sodden earth he had felt the very roots pounding away, deep in the ground. He had felt the soft flesh and it was sweet on his tongue. Now here was a congregation of unknown voices, singing of that dream before he had even spoken of it himself.
Now on his knees in the main hall, Isaiah looks up at the vaulted ceiling. The columns, planted deep into the floor, fan out gracefully to support the roof. Resounding round the rafters, the chant had always been, and would always continue. ‘The surviving remnant of Judah shall again take root downwards and bear fruit upwards.’ He allows himself a smile.
On and on the song continued; sung, and beaten with drums, and rung with bells. Louder and louder roared the chant, until its very power caused it to be fulfilled. ‘The surviving remnant of Judah shall again take root downwards and bear fruit upwards.’
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