The man beside him cried out, and Joshua turned just in time to catch him before he fell—a gash across the soldier’s leg, blood darkening the dust.
The sun was dropping fast. Too fast. Shadows dragged across the valley like hands trying to turn the battle over, to say, Enough.
But they weren’t done.
Joshua pressed his palm to the man’s wound. “Bind it,” he said to the others. “Hold the line.” He stood.
All around him, the armies of Israel surged forward. The five kings had broken in panic, and their forces were falling—but the hills ahead were steep, and night would cover them soon. If they reached cover...
He shook his head. They couldn’t finish it in the dark.
He looked up. The sun hovered low over Gibeon, the moon ghosting in the valley of Aijalon. The sky rolled on—unstopping, uncaring.
But God had made a promise.
He stepped clear of the fray, lifted his eyes—and shouted.
“Sun! Stand still over Gibeon! Moon—don’t move from Aijalon!”
Silence punched the battlefield. Even the clash of swords paused in the echo.
Then—nothing moved.
The sunlight stayed warm on his face. No breeze stirred his hair. The shadow line on the ridge did not creep an inch.
Joshua stared upward, breathing hard.
All his life he'd seen the sun as the master of time—marching forward, indifferent. But now it held its breath, still as the God who made it.
And they ran.
With time nailed open above them, they pursued the enemy over ridge and rock, scattering the five armies like dry husks before the wind. The hail struck down what swords couldn’t reach. God fought with them—above them, ahead of them. The shouting turned to weeping. The weeping turned to surrender.
By the time night finally slipped over the land—hours later than it should have—there were no more enemies in sight.
Joshua stood on the final ridge, alone, his sword down by his side.
The sun was sliding again. He watched its golden edge dip below the horizon, slow and smooth. Daylight drained from the hills in silence.
He thought of when Moses lifted his hands and the sea opened. When the staff touched the rock and water flooded out. Those moments had moved like thunder—but this... this had moved without motion. A pause that filled the skies.
Behind him, the campfires of his people began to flicker in the dark.
Joshua closed his eyes.
He didn’t thank God out loud. He didn’t have words for it yet. He stood still, as if holding time in his own heart a little longer.
The man beside him cried out, and Joshua turned just in time to catch him before he fell—a gash across the soldier’s leg, blood darkening the dust.
The sun was dropping fast. Too fast. Shadows dragged across the valley like hands trying to turn the battle over, to say, Enough.
But they weren’t done.
Joshua pressed his palm to the man’s wound. “Bind it,” he said to the others. “Hold the line.” He stood.
All around him, the armies of Israel surged forward. The five kings had broken in panic, and their forces were falling—but the hills ahead were steep, and night would cover them soon. If they reached cover...
He shook his head. They couldn’t finish it in the dark.
He looked up. The sun hovered low over Gibeon, the moon ghosting in the valley of Aijalon. The sky rolled on—unstopping, uncaring.
But God had made a promise.
He stepped clear of the fray, lifted his eyes—and shouted.
“Sun! Stand still over Gibeon! Moon—don’t move from Aijalon!”
Silence punched the battlefield. Even the clash of swords paused in the echo.
Then—nothing moved.
The sunlight stayed warm on his face. No breeze stirred his hair. The shadow line on the ridge did not creep an inch.
Joshua stared upward, breathing hard.
All his life he'd seen the sun as the master of time—marching forward, indifferent. But now it held its breath, still as the God who made it.
And they ran.
With time nailed open above them, they pursued the enemy over ridge and rock, scattering the five armies like dry husks before the wind. The hail struck down what swords couldn’t reach. God fought with them—above them, ahead of them. The shouting turned to weeping. The weeping turned to surrender.
By the time night finally slipped over the land—hours later than it should have—there were no more enemies in sight.
Joshua stood on the final ridge, alone, his sword down by his side.
The sun was sliding again. He watched its golden edge dip below the horizon, slow and smooth. Daylight drained from the hills in silence.
He thought of when Moses lifted his hands and the sea opened. When the staff touched the rock and water flooded out. Those moments had moved like thunder—but this... this had moved without motion. A pause that filled the skies.
Behind him, the campfires of his people began to flicker in the dark.
Joshua closed his eyes.
He didn’t thank God out loud. He didn’t have words for it yet. He stood still, as if holding time in his own heart a little longer.
