At the King’s Table
(A monologue from the perspective of Mephibosheth, reflecting on his journey from obscurity to the royal table.)
(Mephibosheth sits on the floor of the palace, gazing at the grand banquet table before him. His voice is quiet, filled with awe and gratitude.)
I never imagined I would see the inside of this palace, let alone sit at the king’s table.For years, I lived in Lo-debar—a place whose name itself means “no pasture,” a land of barrenness, forgotten by the world. I was the son of Jonathan, grandson of Saul, but that meant nothing now. When my father fell in battle, and my grandfather’s reign came to an end, I was only five years old. Fear gripped my nurse as she fled with me, and in that desperate escape, I fell—crippling both my feet forever.
A crippled boy. A remnant of a fallen dynasty. What hope could I have?
I learned to survive in obscurity, never expecting kindness, only waiting for the inevitable: a summons to my destruction. After all, was it not common for kings to eliminate any descendants of their predecessors? Did David not have every reason to wipe out Saul’s line?
And then, one day, the summons came.
David—King David—had sent for me.
I was carried to Jerusalem, trembling with every step. Would I die today? Would my name be blotted out as a final stroke of justice for the house of Saul?
I was brought before the throne. My body was low, my heart lower still. But then—his voice.
"Mephibosheth," he said. My name, spoken without threat.
I dared to answer. “Behold, I am your servant.”
The silence stretched, but not with wrath—no, something else lingered in the air. Mercy.
"Do not fear," he said. And in that moment, I breathed for the first time in years.
"I will show you kindness for the sake of your father Jonathan."
Jonathan. My father. A man who had loved David, defended him, covenanted with him in loyalty and friendship. A promise had been made long before my birth, and now, even with Jonathan gone, David remained faithful.
I braced myself for what would follow. Perhaps a token of mercy, a small provision. I never expected the words that came next.
"You shall eat at my table always."
Always? Surely, he did not mean—surely, he did not intend to--
Yet here I sit. At the table of the king.
Not as a crippled outcast. Not as a remnant of a broken house. But as a son.
The shame of my brokenness is covered here; no one looks at my feet. They see only the seat reserved for me.
What king does this? What ruler spares an enemy’s grandson, not merely to live, but to belong?
This is not the justice of men—this is the kindness of God.
(Mephibosheth looks up, his voice softening.)
Mercy found me in Lo-debar. Mercy lifted me to the throne room. Mercy placed me at the king’s table.
I have done nothing to deserve this, yet here I am.
Grace. This is grace.
(He pauses, then slowly reaches for the bread before him, as the lights fade.)
(A monologue from the perspective of Mephibosheth, reflecting on his journey from obscurity to the royal table.)
(Mephibosheth sits on the floor of the palace, gazing at the grand banquet table before him. His voice is quiet, filled with awe and gratitude.)
I never imagined I would see the inside of this palace, let alone sit at the king’s table.For years, I lived in Lo-debar—a place whose name itself means “no pasture,” a land of barrenness, forgotten by the world. I was the son of Jonathan, grandson of Saul, but that meant nothing now. When my father fell in battle, and my grandfather’s reign came to an end, I was only five years old. Fear gripped my nurse as she fled with me, and in that desperate escape, I fell—crippling both my feet forever.
A crippled boy. A remnant of a fallen dynasty. What hope could I have?
I learned to survive in obscurity, never expecting kindness, only waiting for the inevitable: a summons to my destruction. After all, was it not common for kings to eliminate any descendants of their predecessors? Did David not have every reason to wipe out Saul’s line?
And then, one day, the summons came.
David—King David—had sent for me.
I was carried to Jerusalem, trembling with every step. Would I die today? Would my name be blotted out as a final stroke of justice for the house of Saul?
I was brought before the throne. My body was low, my heart lower still. But then—his voice.
"Mephibosheth," he said. My name, spoken without threat.
I dared to answer. “Behold, I am your servant.”
The silence stretched, but not with wrath—no, something else lingered in the air. Mercy.
"Do not fear," he said. And in that moment, I breathed for the first time in years.
"I will show you kindness for the sake of your father Jonathan."
Jonathan. My father. A man who had loved David, defended him, covenanted with him in loyalty and friendship. A promise had been made long before my birth, and now, even with Jonathan gone, David remained faithful.
I braced myself for what would follow. Perhaps a token of mercy, a small provision. I never expected the words that came next.
"You shall eat at my table always."
Always? Surely, he did not mean—surely, he did not intend to--
Yet here I sit. At the table of the king.
Not as a crippled outcast. Not as a remnant of a broken house. But as a son.
The shame of my brokenness is covered here; no one looks at my feet. They see only the seat reserved for me.
What king does this? What ruler spares an enemy’s grandson, not merely to live, but to belong?
This is not the justice of men—this is the kindness of God.
(Mephibosheth looks up, his voice softening.)
Mercy found me in Lo-debar. Mercy lifted me to the throne room. Mercy placed me at the king’s table.
I have done nothing to deserve this, yet here I am.
Grace. This is grace.
(He pauses, then slowly reaches for the bread before him, as the lights fade.)
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