David and Goliath, Romanesque capital (12th c.), Basilica of Sainte-Madeleine, Vézelay, France. David, standing on foliage, uses Goliath’s own sword to behead the giant. Goliath falls backward, still armored.
High among the capitals of the Basilica of Sainte-Madeleine in Vézelay, a violent and vivid drama unfolds in limestone: the biblical clash between David and Goliath, captured at its blood-soaked peak. (I Samuel 17:48–51)
The capital tells its story in two acts. On the side (a modern reconstruction), we glimpse the moment before the climax: young David raises his sling, ready to face the Philistine warrior. But it’s the front face of the capital that delivers the blow.
Here, the drama bursts into action. The small, clean-shaven David — nimble and determined — stands balanced on what may be stylized foliage. With one foot he pushes the giant back, while with both hands he lifts an enormous sword and brings it down on Goliath’s neck. The giant is mid-fall, his arms flailing, his bulky frame dressed in heavy chainmail and a conical helmet. A stone — the one from David’s sling — remains lodged in his forehead. From Goliath’s belt hangs an empty scabbard. It is his own sword, now wielded by his young killer.
The sculptor doesn’t give us a passive victory. He gives us movement, tension, and theological weight. David is not merely triumphant; he is chosen, active, righteous. Goliath is not just big — he is blind to the deeper power at work.
Vézelay’s basilica is best known for its monumental tympanum and pilgrimage history, but capitals like this one reward slower, closer looking. They reveal a world where every gesture is meaningful, every figure purposeful — and where even the coldest stone can cry out the clash of faith and force.
