"If the Book of Psalms be, as some have styled it, a mirror
or looking-glass of pious and devout affections, this Psalm, in particular,
deserves as much as any one Psalm to be so entitled, and is as proper as any
other to kindle and excite such in us. Gracious desires are here strong and
fervent; gracious hopes and fears, joys and sorrows, are here struggling. Or
we may take it for a conflict between sense and faith; sense objecting, and
faith answering." (Matthew Henry)
In these few words, the Father of commentators, with his
customary discernment, has given us the key to the true interpretation of this
sacred song. It may be regarded, indeed, as the Old Testament parallel to the
7th chapter of the Epistle to the Romans, in which another inspired writer
truthfully and powerfully portrays the same great struggle between corruption
and grace, faith and sense, "the old and the new man."
There are two antagonist principles in the heart of every
believer, corresponding to the great forces which act in the material world.
The tendency of his new nature is to gravitate towards God—the Divine Sun of
his being—the center of his fondest affections—the object of his deepest love.
But "there is a law in his members warring against the law of his mind" (Rom.
7:23)—the remains of his old nature, leading him to wander in wide and
eccentric orbit from the grand Source of light, and happiness, and joy!
"What will you see in the Shulamite?" asks the Spouse in the Canticles,
personating the believer, (at a time, too, when conscious of devoted
attachment to the Lord she loved). The reply is, "As it were the company of
two armies." (Sol. Song 6:13.) Sight on the one hand, Faith on the other.
The carnal mind, which is enmity against God, battling with the renewed
spiritual mind, which brings life and peace. Affections heaven-born,
counteracted and marred by affections earth-born. The magnet would be true to
its pole but for disturbing moral influences. The eagle would soar, but it is
chained to the cage of corruption. The believer would tread boldly on the
waves, but unbelief threatens to sink him. He would fight the battles of the
faith, but there is "a body of death" chained to his heavenly nature, which
compels him to mingle denunciations of himself as "a wretched man" with the
shouts of victory. (Rom. 7:24, 25)
We may imagine David, when he composed this Psalm, wrapped
in silent contemplation—the past, the present, and the future suggesting
mingled reflections. The shepherd, the king, the fugitive! Sad comment on the
alternations of human life! humbling lesson for God's Anointed! It furnishes
him with a true estimate of the world's greatness. It has taught him the utter
nothingness of all here as a portion for the soul. Amid outward trial and
inward despondency, FAITH looks to its only true refuge and resting-place. His
truant heart softened and saddened by calamity, turns to its God—"As the
deer pants after the water-brooks, so pants my soul after you, O God. My soul
thirsts for God, for the living God: when shall I come and appear before God?"
(Ver. 1, 2.) But the wave is beaten back again! He remembers his sins and
his sorrows, and (more galling to his sensitive spirit) the taunts of ungodly
scoffers. "My tears have been my food day and night, while they continually
say unto me, "Where is your God?" (Ver. 3.) Moreover, he is denied the
solace of public ordinances. He can no longer, as once he could, light the
decaying ashes of his faith at the fires of the altar. Memory dwelt with
chastened sadness on the hours of holy convocation. "When I remember these
things, I pour out my soul in me: for I had gone with the multitude, I went
with them to the house of God, with the voice of joy and praise, with a
multitude that kept holy day." (Ver. 4.) But, once more, the new-born
principle regains the mastery. He rebukes his own unbelief, urges renewed
dependence on God, and triumphs in the assurance of His countenance and love.
"Why are you cast down, O my soul? and why are you disturbed in me? hope in
God: for I shall yet praise him for the help of his countenance." (Ver.
5.) But again the harp is muffled! Unbelief musters her ranks;
remembrances of sin and sorrow crowd upon him. "O my God, my soul is cast
down within me." (Ver. 6.) Faith, however, has its antidote at
hand, and the momentary cause of depression is removed. The memory of former
supports and mercies inspires with confidence for the future, and he
immediately adds, "I will remember YOU (in this the place of my Exile)
from the land of Jordan, and of the Hermonites, from the hill Mizar."
But the storm-clouds are still wreathing his sky—no, it
seems as if the tempest were deepening. Fresh assaults of temptation are
coming in upon him—there seems no light in the cloud, no ray in the darkness.
"Deep calls unto deep at the noise of your waterfalls; all your waves and
your billows are gone over me." (Ver. 7.) But again, his own extremity is
God's opportunity; Faith is seen cresting the resurgent waves. Lifting his
voice above the storm, he thus expresses his assurance in God's faithfulness,
"Yet the Lord will command his loving-kindness in the day-time, and in the
night his song shall be with me, and my prayer unto the God of my life."
(Ver. 8.) No, he resolves in all time to come to provide against the return of
seasons of guilty distrust and misgiving. He dictates and transcribes the very
words of a prayer to be employed as an antidote in any such recurring moments
of despondency. He resolves to rise above frames and feelings, and to plant
his feet on the Rock of Ages, which these fluctuating billows can never shake—"I
will say unto God my rock, Why have you forgotten me? why go I mourning
because of the oppression of the enemy?" (Ver. 9.) The old nature makes
one last and final effort, before abandoning the conflict. Unbelief rallies
its strength. A former assault is renewed. "As with a sword in my bones, my
enemies reproach me; while they say daily unto me, Where is your God?"
(Ver.10.) But he reverts to his prayer! He adopts his own liturgy for a time
of sorrow. "Why are you cast down, O my soul? and why are you disturbed
within me? hope you in God; for I shall yet praise Him." (Ver.11.) He
seems to be "answered while yet speaking;" for he closes with the joyful
declaration, "Who is the health of my countenance, and my God." (Ver.
11.) He had made a similar assertion in a former verse (ver. 5), "I shall
yet praise him for the help of his countenance;" but now he can add the
language of triumphant assurance, "MY God!" The conflict is ended—sense quits
the field, and faith conquers. He began the Psalm in trouble, he ends it with
joy. Its notes throughout are on the minor key, but these merge at last into a
strain of triumph. He began comparing himself to the stricken deer—the
helpless, breathless, panting fugitive—he ends it with angels' words—with the
motto and watchword in which a seraph might well glory—heaven knows no
happier—"MY GOD!"
"He looked," says Matthew Henry, "upon the living God as
his chief good, and had set his heart upon Him accordingly, and was resolved
to live and die by Him; and casting anchor thus at first, he rides out the
storm."
O child of God! touchingly expressive picture have we here
of the strange vicissitudes in your history. The shuttle in the web of your
spiritual life, darting here and there, weaving its chameleon hues; or, to
adopt a more appropriate emblem, your heart a battlefield, and "no discharge
in that war" until the pilgrim-armor be exchanged for the pilgrim-rest—sense
and sin doing their utmost to quench the fires of faith, and give the enemy
the advantage—yes, and they would succeed in quenching these, did not
the Lord of pilgrims feed with the oil of His own grace the languishing flame.
"Sometimes," it has been well said, "in the Voyages of the Soul, we feel that
we can only go by anxious soundings—the compass itself seeming useless—not
knowing our bearings—nearing here Christ—then perhaps the dim tolling bell
amid the thick darkness warning us to keep off." (Cheever's "Windings"). But
fear not; He will "bring you to the haven where you would be." The voice of
triumph will be heard high above the water-floods. The contest may be long,
but it will not be doubtful. He who rules the raging of the sea will, in His
own good time, say, "Peace, be still, and immediately there will be a great
calm." Have you ever watched the career of the tiny branch or withered leaf
which has been tossed into a little virgin stream on one of our high
table-lands or mountain moors? For a while, in its serpentine course, it is
borne sluggishly along, impeded by protruding moss, or stone, or lichen. Now
it circles and saunters here and there on the lazy streamlet—now floating back
towards the point of departure, as if uncertain which direction to choose. A
passing breath of wind carries it to the center, and the buoyant rivulet sings
its way joyously onward, bearing its little cargo through copse, and birch,
and heather. But again it is obstructed. Some deep inky pool detains it in the
narrow ravine. There it is sucked in, whirled and twisted about, chafed and
tortured with the conflict of waters; or else it lies a helpless prisoner,
immured by the rocks in their fretting caldrons. But by and by, with a new
impulse it breaks away along the rapid torrent-stream, bounding over cascade
and waterfall, home to its ocean destiny.
So it is with the Soul! It is often apparently the sport
and captive of opposing currents. It has its pools of darkness, its eddies of
unbelief, its jagged rocks of despair, but it will eventually clear them all.
"All motion tends to rest, and ends in it. God is the center and resting-place
of the soul; and here David takes up his rest, and so let us. We see that
discussing of objections in the consistory of the Soul, settles the Soul at
last—Faith at length silencing all risings to the contrary. Then whatever
times come, we are sure of a hiding place and a sanctuary."(Sibbes)
Yes! your life, notwithstanding all these fluctuations,
will end triumphantly. It may, as in this Psalm, be now a paean, then a dirge;
now a Miserere, then a Te Deum. The Miserere and Te
Deum may be interweaved throughout; but the latter will close the
Life-story—the concluding strain will be the anthem of Victory. You may arrest
the arrow in its flight—you may chain the waterfall, or stay the lightning,
sooner than unsay the words of God, "He that has begun a good work in you
will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ." (Phil 1:6.)
Remember, God does not say, that "good work" is never to be
impeded. He has never given promise in Scripture of an unclouded
day—uninterrupted sunshine—a waveless, stormless sea. No, "the morning without
clouds" is a heavenly emblem. The earthly one is "a day, in which the
light shall neither be clear nor dark." (Zech. 14:6.) The analogy of the outer
world of nature, at least under these our chequered and ever-varying skies,
teaches us this. Spring comes smiling, and pours her blossoms into the lap of
Summer. But the skies lower, and the rain and battering hail descend, and the
virgin blossoms droop their heads and almost die. Summer again smiles and the
meadows look gay; the flowers ring merry chimes with their leaves and petals,
and Autumn with glowing face is opening her bosom for the expected treasure.
But all at once drought comes with her fiery footsteps. Every blade and
floweret, gasping for breath, lift their blanched eyelids to the brazen sky;
or the night-winds rock the laden branches and strew the ground. Thus we see
it is not one unvarying, unchecked progression, from the opening bud to the
matured fruit. But every succeeding month is scarred and mutilated by drought
and moisture, wind and rain, storm and sunshine. Yet, never once has Autumn
failed to gather up her golden sheaves; yes, and if you ask her testimony, she
will tell that the very storm, and wind, and rain you dreaded as foes, were
the best auxiliaries in filling her yellow garners.
If the experience of any one here present be that of "the
deep" and "the water-flood"—"the stormy wind and tempest," think ever of the
closing words of the Psalm, and let them "turn your mourning into dancing;
take off your sackcloth, and gird you with gladness!" You may change
towards God, but He is unchanging towards you. The stars may be swept
from our view by intervening clouds, but they shine bright as ever—undimmed
altar-fires in the great temple of the universe. Our vision may be at
fault, but not their radiance and undying glory. The Being "not confined to
temples made with hands," who met this wrestler of old in the forest of
Gilead, and poured better than Gilead's balm into his bosom, is the same now
as He was then. And if you are a wrestler too, He seems through the moaning of
the storm to say, "Though you fall, yet shall you not be cast down utterly,
for the Lord upholds you with his right hand."
"My God!" Oh, if that be the last entry in the Diary of
religious experience, be not desponding now because of present passing
shadows, but "thank God and take courage." It is written that "at evening-time
it shall be light." (Zech. 14:7.) The sun may wade all day through murky
clouds, but he will pillow his head at night on a setting couch of vermilion
and gold. "Though you have laid among the pots, yet shall you be as the wings
of a dove covered with silver, and her feathers with yellow gold."
(Psalm. 68:13). It was said by aged Jacob, in his prophetic death-song,
regarding that very tribe on the borders of which the royal exile now sang,
"GAD, a troop shall overcome him: but he shall overcome at the last" (Gen.
49:19). Was not this the key-note of his present elegy? Faith could lift its
head triumphant in the clang of battle, amid these troops of spiritual
plunderers, and sing, "Though a army should encamp against me, my heart
shall not fear: though war should rise against me, in THIS will I be
confident" (Psalm. 27:3)