“Help,” Sam cried, as he tried to scale the glazed surface of his prison, “Can somebody help me?”
Craning his neck, searching, pleading, he saw the jeering face of Abbadon mocking his fruitless efforts, “Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”
Bending over Sam covered his ears to block the booming laughter, gasping as pain pierced his side; Abbadon’s hand appeared holding what appeared to be a needle. He grasped Sam’s head between his thumb and forefinger. Sam screamed. His head felt as though a hundred thorns were being hammered in. Mercilessly Abbadon dragged the needle across Sam’s back repeatedly as Sam weakened, his cries becoming fear-filled whimpers and sobs.
“Help me, somebody, please.” The pain was unbearable and he choked as his breath ran short. Was there anybody?
“P-p-please help,” Sam sobbed repeatedly.
The unusual prison shook and Sam skittered across the glass smooth floor banging his head into the sloping wall that curved perpendicular at its rim. He skidded round and round the skirt as the shaking room developed a circular motion till he became giddy and began to vomit.
“P-please stop,” he groaned as the laughter pounded into his aching head, “Why are you doing this? What is this place?”
“It’s your cup, boy,” boomed Abbadon, “Everyone has one and I hold them all.”
“C-cup, why am I in a cup?” queried Sam.
“It’s the cup of judgment for your sins,” enlightened Abbadon, “The eternal law states the soul that sins will die, you have been found guilty, and now you wait your sentence.”
“God, take this away from me,” moaned Sam.
As soon as he finished speaking Sam heard another voice, lonely and sorrowful praying, “Father, if it be your will, take this cup from me. Nevertheless not my will, but yours be done.”
Was it really God’s will for him to suffer this way? What did they tell him? Something about God not wanting anyone to die, now what was that about? God sent His Son to die for all who would believe, Jesus, wasn’t he? Yes, and it was Jesus who prayed this prayer in Gethsemane on his way to the cross where he died in Sam’s place.
Recalling this made Sam realise one thing – this cup was not God’s will for him, but he had to believe that Jesus already took the cup in his place. He needed to confess his guilt and ask God to forgive him for Jesus’ sake.
“Oh, God I’m so sorry,” Sam spoke into the floor as he clutched his aching stomach, “Thank you for sending Jesus Christ who took the punishment for my sins. I know this cup is not for me, by your own will you have purchased my redemption.”
Abbadon had grown silent, straining to hear what Sam was saying.
“No,” he bellowed, “You shall not speak such words in my presence!”
Angrily he stabbed at Sam with his needle to kill him but his hand was stayed by a power he could not overcome.
“Stop,” boomed an unseen voice, “You shall not slay him.”
Gently Sam was lifted from his slippery prison and set down in open places, free to roam wherever he wished. Looking up he saw another being lowered into the cup: one dressed in purple with a crown of thorns on his head, weakened and pitiful yet unafraid. Abbadon howled and turned away.
Hilva shook him awake, “Sam, will you please stop laughing, I can’t sleep.”
Sam lay recalling his dream, convulsing in subdued pleasure every time he recalled how Christ died in his place.
Ah, the joy of the Lord is our strength. It is God’s will that this cup pass from you.