The sun was just beginning to rise over the valley, coloring the rocks with a soft, golden warmth. From where I stood—with the other guards of the royal caravan—I could see the army stretching like a great river down the hills: soldiers, horses, birds flying in ordered flocks, even wild beasts disciplined under one command. I had seen many kings. But none like him.
Prophet Sulayman—Solomon, peace be upon him—stood tall in the center, his eyes scanning the land before us. I had been assigned to his court for only a few weeks, but already I knew: this was no ordinary ruler. Yes, his kingdom stretched farther than the eye could see. And yes, the winds bent to his will. But what struck me most wasn’t his power.
It was his listening.
That day, as we marched, the Prophet raised his hand sharply. The entire caravan froze. The wind stilled. The horses exhaled.
Everyone followed his gaze.
A trail of tiny ants moved like a black ribbon across the dusty path ahead. At first, I couldn't see them clearly. But then, somewhere below, a voice—too small for my ears—spoke.
“O ants,” Sulayman recited softly, “enter your homes so that Sulayman and his armies do not crush you without realizing.”
I blinked. Had he really heard that?
The Prophet smiled, a gentle curl of gratitude lighting his face. His lips moved in a whisper—thanking Allah ﷻ for granting him this knowledge, for making him grateful, for allowing him to do right by even the smallest of creatures.
In that moment, I felt something shift inside me.
All my life, I thought strength looked like weapons. Like victory. But here stood a man more powerful than any I had known... and he stopped a nation’s march for an ant.
Later that night, I approached quietly and sat near where he prayed. His eyes were closed, his voice low in du’a—a supplication to Allah. Not for more power. Not for conquest.
He asked, “My Lord, inspire me to be grateful for Your blessings, and let me do righteous deeds You are pleased with.”
That was his strength. Gratitude. Mercy. Purpose.
I returned to my post, but I couldn’t stop thinking: The ant didn’t see a king, it saw a danger. And yet, Sulayman saw the ant—and chose mercy.
In his silence, I learned how to listen.
In his stillness, I learned how to obey.
And in his smile, I saw the reflection of a man who ruled not for himself… but for the One who sees all.
I watched the Prophet walk away, his robe brushing the earth, and I understood something my sword never taught me:
Great men kneel before Allah ﷻ, so they may stand with gentleness before creation.
The sun was just beginning to rise over the valley, coloring the rocks with a soft, golden warmth. From where I stood—with the other guards of the royal caravan—I could see the army stretching like a great river down the hills: soldiers, horses, birds flying in ordered flocks, even wild beasts disciplined under one command. I had seen many kings. But none like him.
Prophet Sulayman—Solomon, peace be upon him—stood tall in the center, his eyes scanning the land before us. I had been assigned to his court for only a few weeks, but already I knew: this was no ordinary ruler. Yes, his kingdom stretched farther than the eye could see. And yes, the winds bent to his will. But what struck me most wasn’t his power.
It was his listening.
That day, as we marched, the Prophet raised his hand sharply. The entire caravan froze. The wind stilled. The horses exhaled.
Everyone followed his gaze.
A trail of tiny ants moved like a black ribbon across the dusty path ahead. At first, I couldn't see them clearly. But then, somewhere below, a voice—too small for my ears—spoke.
“O ants,” Sulayman recited softly, “enter your homes so that Sulayman and his armies do not crush you without realizing.”
I blinked. Had he really heard that?
The Prophet smiled, a gentle curl of gratitude lighting his face. His lips moved in a whisper—thanking Allah ﷻ for granting him this knowledge, for making him grateful, for allowing him to do right by even the smallest of creatures.
In that moment, I felt something shift inside me.
All my life, I thought strength looked like weapons. Like victory. But here stood a man more powerful than any I had known... and he stopped a nation’s march for an ant.
Later that night, I approached quietly and sat near where he prayed. His eyes were closed, his voice low in du’a—a supplication to Allah. Not for more power. Not for conquest.
He asked, “My Lord, inspire me to be grateful for Your blessings, and let me do righteous deeds You are pleased with.”
That was his strength. Gratitude. Mercy. Purpose.
I returned to my post, but I couldn’t stop thinking: The ant didn’t see a king, it saw a danger. And yet, Sulayman saw the ant—and chose mercy.
In his silence, I learned how to listen.
In his stillness, I learned how to obey.
And in his smile, I saw the reflection of a man who ruled not for himself… but for the One who sees all.
I watched the Prophet walk away, his robe brushing the earth, and I understood something my sword never taught me:
Great men kneel before Allah ﷻ, so they may stand with gentleness before creation.
