Turning The Tables

The Lion’s Pride

When Nahum wrote his prophecy, Nineveh was still a considerable world dominating power.

The city stood like a glittering jewel on the banks of the Tigris River — towering walls, wide streets, palaces carved with lions, kings who thought of themselves as gods.

The Assyrian Empire was the most feared power on earth.

They didn’t just conquer their enemies — they crushed them.

They flayed rebels alive. They stacked skulls at city gates as trophies.

They deported entire populations just to make a point.

And yet, when you read Nahum, it’s not the political commentary of a frightened man — it’s the steady voice of faith whispering:

> “It won’t last.

Pride always has an expiration date.”

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Imagine it — a prophet sitting somewhere far from the palace lights of Nineveh, maybe under a small lamp, ink and parchment spread out before him.

He’s not surrounded by soldiers or banners or fanfare.

He’s surrounded by silence.

But into that silence, God breathes a question so sharp it slices through history:

> “Where now is the lion’s den?” (Nahum 2:11)

Where is all that pride now?

Where is the empire that devoured nations and called it glory?

Where are the roars that once shook the earth?

You can almost hear the echo of that question in every age.

Empires rise, governments boast, leaders strut — and then they’re gone.

Nineveh’s palaces are dust now. Its roar is just a footnote in the sand.

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But here’s the part that stings:

Assyria’s pride didn’t just live in palaces and armies.

It lived in human hearts.

And if we’re honest, that lion still prowls in us.

Pride isn’t just arrogance — it’s the quiet conviction that we don’t need God.

It’s the illusion of control.

It’s the assumption that we’re the ones who make things happen, that life bends to our effort, our talent, our plan.

For Assyria, pride looked like empire.

For us, it might look like independence.

For some, it looks like self-sufficiency — “I can fix this.”

For others, it looks like resentment — “I deserve better.”

And the question still comes: Where now is the lion’s den?

Where are the things we once trusted to make us feel strong — the jobs, the titles, the applause, the savings account, the image?

They roar for a while. Then they fade.

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Nahum’s words aren’t just history — they’re a mirror.

They remind us that pride has a short shelf life, and God has a long memory.

The lion may seem to rule today, but every roar eventually meets silence.

When I was a young man, I once visited an old zoo where the last lion had died years earlier.

The cages were still there, empty and rusted, the bars bent from years of use.

I remember standing in front of one of those cages, trying to imagine the sound that used to fill that place — the growl, the pacing, the fear.

But all I heard was wind.

It struck me then: Every roar fades.

That’s what Nahum saw.

Nineveh’s roar would fade.

The cages would stand empty.

The oppressor would fall silent.

And God’s people, who had lived so long under that sound, would finally breathe again.

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Pride always ends the same way — silence.

Because God won’t compete with the noise of self-importance.

He waits, patiently, until the roar exhausts itself.

Then He whispers what He whispered through Nahum:

> “Behold, I am against you.” (Nahum 2:13)

Not because God delights in destruction — but because He is determined to defend what is right.

And when His patience ends, His justice begins.

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That’s what sets the stage for the next movement in the story — when God, who seemed silent, steps forward and issues His verdict.

We’ve seen the pride of the lion.

Now comes the voice of the Judge.

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The Lord’s Verdict

There’s a moment in Nahum’s prophecy when the whole tone shifts.

Up until now, it’s been description — lions, dens, roaring, prey.

But then, in verse 13 of chapter 2, God steps into His own story and speaks directly.

No more metaphors. No more middlemen.

Just the voice of the Almighty breaking centuries of silence:

> “Behold, I am against you,” declares the Lord of hosts. (Nahum 2:13)

It’s not a whisper. It’s not a suggestion.

It’s a divine declaration — a verdict from heaven.

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For over a hundred years, Assyria had been the nightmare of nations.

They marched across the map like a storm, leaving fire and fear in their wake.

Kings built monuments to their victories. Scribes recorded their glory in stone.

They believed themselves to be the hand of destiny — the lion no one could cage.

And then — God speaks.

A simple sentence that unravels an empire.