far away from his head.
But his hair is so long that it is if she has cut nothing at all. Another snip. And then another. Soon it is gone--all of it. And still, he sleeps. The final lock falls to the floor just as Philistine soldiers rush into Delilah's bedroom.
"Take him!" Abimilech orders.
In that instant Samson is up, out of bed, on his feet and ready to fight.
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He touches a hand to his head and feels the stubble. A look at the bed--a pile of dark hair. A glance at Delilah--gorgeous, delightful Delilah, the woman of his dreams--as she turns away from him. His heart sinks. The Philistine soldiers easily hold him down. Samson fights back, but he has no strength at all. For the first time in his life, Samson is weak and afraid. "What have you done?" he yells to Delilah.
Abimilech empties the box of silver coins onto the bed, where they mingle with the coils of hair like exotic jewelry.
Samson's eyes dart to Delilah. He is dumfounded by her betrayal and curses his own foolishness.
She doesn't speak.
"Beautiful, isn't she?" leers Abimilech.
Samson struggles, but can't break away.
"So, my friend," continues Abimilech. "Take a good look. A very good look."
Samson doesn't want to look at his betrayer. He can still feel her fingertips on his skin. He loved and trusted Delilah. He can feel her warm breath and remember their words of love. He looks at his enchantress with pain in his heart.
"Now paint that picture in your head," says Abimilech. "For that is the last thing you will ever see." Abimilech bends over, his two hands extended, and Samson expects Abimilech to choke him to death. But instead, Abimilech plunges his thumbs into Samson's eyes.
Within a minute, Samson is blind.
Killing Samson would have shown benevolence. But Abimilech is hardly a merciful man. He orders Samson to be chained again--this time in a prison.
Abimilech allows his focus on Samson to slip for months.
Samson's hair grows and is getting longer. Samson presses his forehead against the cool stone of a prison cell inside the soldiers' barracks. He is alone, his eyes covered in bloody bandages. Darkness is his world. But it is in this darkness that he finally begins to see that his destiny
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will be fulfilled. Behind him, the door creaks as it swings open. "Who's there?" he cries in agony.
No reply, but Samson receives his answer soon enough. Two Philistine soldiers pummel him with fists and clubs, taking great delight in their work.
Samson roars in pain as the blows rain against his body, and his chains make a great clanking noise as he waves his arms in a futile attempt to protect himself. But with his strength and sight gone, there is nothing Samson can do. His bare chest and ribs soon resemble a side of beef, bloody and raw.
Only when Samson sags forward against the chains, unable to support his own body weight, do the soldiers unchain him, continuing their kicks and punches as the key turns in the locked manacles around his wrists and ankles.
When Samson collapses they drag him from the cell, rubbing the skin from his knees and feet, and into the temple of the Philistine god, Dagon. The room is packed with hundreds of people. Incense smoke wafts over their faces, and their eyes are watery and bloodshot. Pigs are being roasted.
Goblets of wine are filled and refilled. Dogs are allowed inside this great pagan assembly, and their barks and bellows ricochet off the tall stone pillars supporting the roof.
"Samson, Samson, Samson," they chant, spitting on the Israelite as his body is dragged through their throng. Even children are allowed to taunt Samson.
When the Philistine soldiers release Samson, he rises to his feet, confused.
Samson hears the ridicule, yet he cannot see who is showering him with oaths and profanities. He senses Delilah's presence in the room and turns in her direction.
She does not chant nor take delight in Samson's misery. But she is there, and he knows it.
Samson falters, on the verge of passing out once more. "I'm weak," he cries.
"Stand me up against something."
The guards lead Samson to the building's central pillars. In the distance, Abimilech watches carefully. Samson may be blind, but he is a
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formidable enemy. "Should have killed him when I had the chance,"
Abimilech mumbles to himself.
Phicol overhears. "It won't be long now," he tells his superior.
Abimilech nods, breathing a sigh of relief. Yes, Samson will be dead before the dawn. He takes a long pull on his wine and strides