Hazael, king of Syria, tore through the eastern territories of Israel like a brushfire. The lands of Reuben, Gad, and the half-tribe of Manasseh fell. Gilead and Bashan burned. And Jehu, king of Israel, did nothing. He had abandoned the God who anointed him, grown contemptuous of religion and law, and died after twenty-seven years on the throne with his kingdom in ruins.
In Jerusalem, young King Jehoash wanted to repair the Temple, which his predecessors had let rot. He told High Priest Jehoiada to collect a half-shekel per head from across the country. Jehoiada dragged his feet, doubting anyone would pay. So he devised something clever: a wooden chest sealed on all sides with a single hole, placed beside the altar. People loved it. They competed with each other to pour in silver and gold. The Temple was rebuilt, the surplus melted into sacred vessels, and the altar ran fat with daily sacrifices.
Then Jehoiada died at the age of one hundred and thirty, buried among kings for saving the Davidic line. And everything collapsed. Jehoash turned wicked. God sent prophets to warn him. He ignored them all. When Zechariah, Jehoiada's own son, stood in the Temple and called the people to repentance, the king ordered him stoned to death on the spot. The son of the man who saved his life, murdered in the house where he was hidden as a baby.
Divine payback was swift. Hazael marched on Jerusalem. Jehoash emptied the Temple treasury and every sacred gift to buy the Syrians off. It worked, barely. But his own officials, furious over Zechariah's murder, conspired against him. They killed the king and buried him in Jerusalem, but denied him a place in the royal tombs. He had lived forty-seven years and earned nothing but disgrace.