Praise in distress and in abundance (Psalm 35; 71; 40)
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In-depth:
David knew what it was to be hunted. For years a king chased him, cave after cave through the wilderness, with only one goal: to kill him. And in Psalm 35 you hear a man running who turns around and cries out to the only one who can still save him: contend, YHWH, with those who contend with me; take up shield and buckler and rise for my help; draw the spear, block the way of those who pursue me; say to my soul, I am your salvation. He does not ask God for a pious feeling; he asks God to arm Himself and go stand on the path behind him like an armed man. Around him liars who testify against him about things he knows nothing of, who repay evil for good until he stands entirely alone. And out of that exhausted, wasted man — a body worn down to the bone by running and fear — escapes a confession that sits deeper than the mouth: all my bones shall say, YHWH, who is like You? Not his lips, not his heart: his skeleton. And it is not God's power in general that he sings of, but one thing very precisely: who is like You, who rescues the weak from one stronger than he, the poor and needy from the one who robs him? There is no god like this, his bones cry out, for no other ever took the side of the victim against the strongest one in the room.
And the same question rises up from the other end of a life: old age. Psalm 71 is the prayer of an old man whose body is failing him, and it is achingly honest. Do not cast me off in the time of old age, he prays; do not forsake me when my strength is spent. For his enemies smell his weakness the way predators smell a wounded animal: God has forsaken him, they say among themselves, pursue and seize him, for there is no one to rescue him. But the old man has one thing they cannot take from him, something he has built his whole life long: from my youth, O God, You have taught me, and to this hour I declare Your wonders. And now, with gray hair and a trembling voice, he asks not for rest but for more time — give me a little longer, until I have told of Your arm to the generation to come, Your power to all who are yet to be. And then his whole long life gathers itself into a single line: You who have done great things, O God — who is like You? The bones have grown brittle, the voice trembles, but the question has not changed a comma since he was young. There are things that do not wear out.
And it rises also from the bottom, literally. Psalm 40, again from David, begins in a pit. I waited patiently for YHWH, he sings, and He bent down to me and heard my cry; He drew me up from the pit of destruction, out of the mud and mire, and He set my feet upon a rock and made my steps firm. It is the image of a person sunk to the waist in a mudhole — an old cistern with a layer of sludge on the bottom, where there is no way out because every movement pulls you deeper. And then a hand from above that hoists him out and sets him down on stone, so that for the first time in days he feels what is solid. And what does someone who is freed like that do once he has ground under his feet again? He sings. He has put a new song in my mouth, David says, a song of praise to our God. And when he wants to say why: many are Your wonders, YHWH my God, and nothing can be compared to You. Up out of the mud — and the first thing the rescued man does is sing out the incomparability.
Laid side by side, these three trace something beautiful. The question "who is like You" does not come from just one corner. It rises from persecution, when the strongest tramples the weakest (Psalm 35). It rises from old age, when strength drains away and the vultures start circling (Psalm 71). It rises from the bottom of a mudhole, when a person is up to his neck in ruin (Psalm 40). Not only on the good days, then — not only on the far shore of a split sea, with dry feet and a tambourine — but also in distress, also in decline, also at the bottom. It is the same question every time, and that is exactly where the gain lies: a God you can only sing of when things are going well is a fair-weather god, an idol cut to size. But a God whose incomparability rises up also out of the mud, also out of breaking bones, is a God who carries the whole person — the day and the night, the strength and the decline.
And at the very end of the book of Psalms, the question stops being a question and becomes an outburst. The last five psalms, 146 through 150, know no more enemy, no more mud, no more complaint; they do nothing but praise. Each of the five begins and ends with the same word — hallelujah, praise YHWH — as if the book, after everything it has endured, can only manage to bring out this one thing. And it swells until it no longer fits on a single voice: praise Him with trumpet blast, with harp and lyre, with tambourine and dance, with strings and pipe, with clashing and resounding cymbals. The orchestra grows and grows until the whole of creation joins in, and then the very last line of the whole book falls, as wide as the sky: let everything that has breath praise YHWH. Hallelujah. The book of Psalms ends not with a closing argument, but with a hand held out to everyone who breathes: join in. The question "who is like You" finds its answer not in a definition but in a choir — every living creature, every breath drawn in and blown out again, lifted up into praise. Who is like YHWH? Ask everything that breathes. It already knows the answer; it only needs to burst out with it.
ExpertThe four shapes of the question
Now that the book of Psalms lies behind us, all four grammatical shapes of incomparability stand before us at once — for the poets use them interchangeably. The first is the question: mi kamocha, "who is like You" (Psalm 35:10; 71:19; 89:7) — a question that expects no answer because it is itself the answer. The second is the negation: ein kamocha, "there is no one like You" (Hannah's "none holy as YHWH"). The third is the comparison-verb, negated: ein aroch elecha, "nothing can be compared to You," ranked, set beside You (Psalm 40:6) — the image of a scale on which nothing outweighs God. And the fourth, which will thunder above all in the prophets, is God's own self-declaration: "I am YHWH, and there is no other." Four forms, one confession. And Psalm 35 adds a bodily accent the others lack: not my mouth, but "all my bones shall say, who is like You" — the incomparability confessed all the way down to the skeleton.
ExcursusThe new song
A recurring refrain runs through the psalms: "sing to YHWH a new song." David sings it when he has been pulled out of the mud pit (Psalm 40:4); it sounds in Psalm 96, in 98, in 149. Each time something new has happened — a rescue, a victory — for which the old songs fall short, and a new one must be added. That line does not stop at the last verse of the Psalms. It runs all the way to the end of the Bible, where the redeemed stand around the throne and sing "a new song" — and the reason for that very last new song is no longer a split sea or an emptied mud pit, but a slaughtered Lamb who with His blood has bought people for God out of every tribe and tongue. Every new song in the psalms is a rehearsal for that one. The mud pit of Psalm 40 was small; the pit out of which the last new song rises is death itself.
HeartPraising with your bones
There is great comfort in that phrase of David's: not "my mouth" but "all my bones shall say, who is like You." For there are days when the mouth cannot manage it. Days when you are too tired to sing, too sick, too old, too defeated; when the words do not come and the song stays stuck in your throat. On such days it is good to know that praise sits deeper than the voice — that even your bones can say it, that a life which, even in silence, even limping, keeps clinging to this God, is itself a song of praise.
And look at the three we heard: a hunted man, an old man with failing strength, a person up to his neck in the mud. None of the three sang from victory; all three sang in the middle of it. That means your circumstance does not disqualify you. You do not have to wait to praise until things go well again, until you are healed, until the pit lies behind you. The question "who is like You?" may rise up from exactly the place where you sit now — and it is precisely there, rising up out of distress, that it sounds purest. For whoever praises God when everything is going well may be praising the tailwind. Whoever praises Him from the bottom is praising Him.
*A note on the source text. "All my bones shall say, who is like You" — Psalm 35:10 (the Rescuer of the weak against the strong; the call to arms 35:1-3). Old age and "who is like You" — Psalm 71:9, 17-19. The mud pit, the rock, and the new song; "nothing can be compared to You" (ein aroch) — Psalm 40:2-6. The closing Hallel — Psalm 146–150; "let everything that has breath praise YHWH" — 150:6. The new song of the Lamb — Revelation 5:9. The divine Name as YHWH.*
David knew what it was to be hunted. For years a king chased him, cave after cave through the wilderness, with only one goal: to kill him. And in Psalm 35 you hear a man running who turns around and cries out to the only one who can still save him: contend, YHWH, with those who contend with me; take up shield and buckler and rise for my help; draw the spear, block the way of those who pursue me; say to my soul, I am your salvation. He does not ask God for a pious feeling; he asks God to arm Himself and go stand on the path behind him like an armed man. Around him liars who testify against him about things he knows nothing of, who repay evil for good until he stands entirely alone. And out of that exhausted, wasted man — a body worn down to the bone by running and fear — escapes a confession that sits deeper than the mouth: all my bones shall say, YHWH, who is like You? Not his lips, not his heart: his skeleton. And it is not God's power in general that he sings of, but one thing very precisely: who is like You, who rescues the weak from one stronger than he, the poor and needy from the one who robs him? There is no god like this, his bones cry out, for no other ever took the side of the victim against the strongest one in the room.
And the same question rises up from the other end of a life: old age. Psalm 71 is the prayer of an old man whose body is failing him, and it is achingly honest. Do not cast me off in the time of old age, he prays; do not forsake me when my strength is spent. For his enemies smell his weakness the way predators smell a wounded animal: God has forsaken him, they say among themselves, pursue and seize him, for there is no one to rescue him. But the old man has one thing they cannot take from him, something he has built his whole life long: from my youth, O God, You have taught me, and to this hour I declare Your wonders. And now, with gray hair and a trembling voice, he asks not for rest but for more time — give me a little longer, until I have told of Your arm to the generation to come, Your power to all who are yet to be. And then his whole long life gathers itself into a single line: You who have done great things, O God — who is like You? The bones have grown brittle, the voice trembles, but the question has not changed a comma since he was young. There are things that do not wear out.
And it rises also from the bottom, literally. Psalm 40, again from David, begins in a pit. I waited patiently for YHWH, he sings, and He bent down to me and heard my cry; He drew me up from the pit of destruction, out of the mud and mire, and He set my feet upon a rock and made my steps firm. It is the image of a person sunk to the waist in a mudhole — an old cistern with a layer of sludge on the bottom, where there is no way out because every movement pulls you deeper. And then a hand from above that hoists him out and sets him down on stone, so that for the first time in days he feels what is solid. And what does someone who is freed like that do once he has ground under his feet again? He sings. He has put a new song in my mouth, David says, a song of praise to our God. And when he wants to say why: many are Your wonders, YHWH my God, and nothing can be compared to You. Up out of the mud — and the first thing the rescued man does is sing out the incomparability.
Laid side by side, these three trace something beautiful. The question "who is like You" does not come from just one corner. It rises from persecution, when the strongest tramples the weakest (Psalm 35). It rises from old age, when strength drains away and the vultures start circling (Psalm 71). It rises from the bottom of a mudhole, when a person is up to his neck in ruin (Psalm 40). Not only on the good days, then — not only on the far shore of a split sea, with dry feet and a tambourine — but also in distress, also in decline, also at the bottom. It is the same question every time, and that is exactly where the gain lies: a God you can only sing of when things are going well is a fair-weather god, an idol cut to size. But a God whose incomparability rises up also out of the mud, also out of breaking bones, is a God who carries the whole person — the day and the night, the strength and the decline.
And at the very end of the book of Psalms, the question stops being a question and becomes an outburst. The last five psalms, 146 through 150, know no more enemy, no more mud, no more complaint; they do nothing but praise. Each of the five begins and ends with the same word — hallelujah, praise YHWH — as if the book, after everything it has endured, can only manage to bring out this one thing. And it swells until it no longer fits on a single voice: praise Him with trumpet blast, with harp and lyre, with tambourine and dance, with strings and pipe, with clashing and resounding cymbals. The orchestra grows and grows until the whole of creation joins in, and then the very last line of the whole book falls, as wide as the sky: let everything that has breath praise YHWH. Hallelujah. The book of Psalms ends not with a closing argument, but with a hand held out to everyone who breathes: join in. The question "who is like You" finds its answer not in a definition but in a choir — every living creature, every breath drawn in and blown out again, lifted up into praise. Who is like YHWH? Ask everything that breathes. It already knows the answer; it only needs to burst out with it.
ExpertThe four shapes of the question
Now that the book of Psalms lies behind us, all four grammatical shapes of incomparability stand before us at once — for the poets use them interchangeably. The first is the question: mi kamocha, "who is like You" (Psalm 35:10; 71:19; 89:7) — a question that expects no answer because it is itself the answer. The second is the negation: ein kamocha, "there is no one like You" (Hannah's "none holy as YHWH"). The third is the comparison-verb, negated: ein aroch elecha, "nothing can be compared to You," ranked, set beside You (Psalm 40:6) — the image of a scale on which nothing outweighs God. And the fourth, which will thunder above all in the prophets, is God's own self-declaration: "I am YHWH, and there is no other." Four forms, one confession. And Psalm 35 adds a bodily accent the others lack: not my mouth, but "all my bones shall say, who is like You" — the incomparability confessed all the way down to the skeleton.
ExcursusThe new song
A recurring refrain runs through the psalms: "sing to YHWH a new song." David sings it when he has been pulled out of the mud pit (Psalm 40:4); it sounds in Psalm 96, in 98, in 149. Each time something new has happened — a rescue, a victory — for which the old songs fall short, and a new one must be added. That line does not stop at the last verse of the Psalms. It runs all the way to the end of the Bible, where the redeemed stand around the throne and sing "a new song" — and the reason for that very last new song is no longer a split sea or an emptied mud pit, but a slaughtered Lamb who with His blood has bought people for God out of every tribe and tongue. Every new song in the psalms is a rehearsal for that one. The mud pit of Psalm 40 was small; the pit out of which the last new song rises is death itself.
HeartPraising with your bones
There is great comfort in that phrase of David's: not "my mouth" but "all my bones shall say, who is like You." For there are days when the mouth cannot manage it. Days when you are too tired to sing, too sick, too old, too defeated; when the words do not come and the song stays stuck in your throat. On such days it is good to know that praise sits deeper than the voice — that even your bones can say it, that a life which, even in silence, even limping, keeps clinging to this God, is itself a song of praise.
And look at the three we heard: a hunted man, an old man with failing strength, a person up to his neck in the mud. None of the three sang from victory; all three sang in the middle of it. That means your circumstance does not disqualify you. You do not have to wait to praise until things go well again, until you are healed, until the pit lies behind you. The question "who is like You?" may rise up from exactly the place where you sit now — and it is precisely there, rising up out of distress, that it sounds purest. For whoever praises God when everything is going well may be praising the tailwind. Whoever praises Him from the bottom is praising Him.
*A note on the source text. "All my bones shall say, who is like You" — Psalm 35:10 (the Rescuer of the weak against the strong; the call to arms 35:1-3). Old age and "who is like You" — Psalm 71:9, 17-19. The mud pit, the rock, and the new song; "nothing can be compared to You" (ein aroch) — Psalm 40:2-6. The closing Hallel — Psalm 146–150; "let everything that has breath praise YHWH" — 150:6. The new song of the Lamb — Revelation 5:9. The divine Name as YHWH.*