_DE PROFUNDIS_
iii. 55-66
As this third elegy--the richest and the most elaborate of the five
that constitute the Book of Lamentations--draws to a close it retains
its curious character of variability, not aiming at any climax, but
simply winding on till its threefold acrostics are completed by the
limits of the Hebrew alphabet, like a river that is monotonous in the
very succession of its changes, now flowing through a dark gorge, then
rippling in clear sunlight, and again plunging into gloomy caverns.
The beauty and brightness of this very variegated poem is found at its
centre. Sadder thoughts follow. But these are not so wholly
complaining as the opening passages had been. There is one thread of
continuity that may be traced right through the series of changes
which occupy the latter part of the poem. The poet having once turned
to the refuge of prayer never altogether forsakes it. The meditations
as much as the petitions that here occur are all directed to God.
A peculiarity of the last portion of the elegy that claims special
attention is the interesting reminiscence with which the poet finds
encouragement for his present prayers. He is recalling the scenes of
that most distressing period of his life, the time when he had been
cast into a flooded dungeon. If ever he had come near to death it must
have been then; though his life was spared the misery of his condition
had been extreme. While in this most wretched situation the persecuted
patriot cried to God for help, and as he now recollects for his
present encouragement, he received a distinct and unmistakable answer.
The scene is most impressive. As it shapes itself to his memory, the
victim of tyranny is in _the lowest dungeon_. This phrase suggests the
thought of the awful Hebrew Sheol. So dark was his experience, and so
near was the sufferer to death, it seems to him as though he had been
indeed plunged down into the very abode of the dead. Yet here he found
utterance for prayer. It was the prayer of utter extremity, almost the
last wild cry of a despairing soul, yet not quite, for that is no
prayer at all, all prayer requiring some real faith, if only as a
grain of mustard seed. Moreover, the poet states that he called upon
the _name_ of God. Now in the Bible the name always stands for the
attributes which it connotes. To call on God's name is to make mention
of some of His known and revealed characteristics. The man who will do
this is more than one "feeling after God;" he has a definite
conception of the nature and disposition of the Being to whom he is
addressing himself. Thus it happens that old, familiar ideas of God,
as He had been known in the days of light and joy, rise up in the
heart of the miserable man, and awaken a longing desire to seek the
help of One so great and good and merciful. Just in proportion to the
fulness of the meaning of the name of God as it is conceived by us,
will our prayers win definiteness of aim and strength of wing. The
altar to "an unknown god" can excite but the feeblest and vaguest
devotion. Inasmuch as our Lord has greatly enriched the contents of
the name of God by His full revelation of the Divine Father, to us
Christians there has come a more definite direction and a more
powerful impulse for prayer. Even though this is a prayer _de
profundis_ it is an enlightened prayer. We may believe that, like a
star seen from the depths of a well which excludes the glare of day,
the significance of the sacred Name shone out to the sufferer with a
beauty never before perceived when he looked up to heaven from the
darkness of his pit of misery.
It has been suggested that in this passage the elegist is following
the sixty-ninth psalm, and that perhaps that psalm is his own
composition and the expression of the very prayer to which he is here
referring. At all events, the psalm exactly fits the situation; and
therefore it may be taken as a perfect illustration of the kind of
prayer alluded to. The psalmist is "in deep mire, where there is no
standing;" he has "come into deep waters, where the floods overthrow"
him; he is persecuted by enemies who hate him "without a cause;" he
has been weeping till his eyes have failed. Meanwhile he has been
waiting for God, in prayers mingled with confessions. It is his zeal
for God's house that has brought him so near to death. He beseeches
God that the flood may not be allowed to overwhelm him, nor "the pit
shut her mouth upon him." He concludes with an invocation of curses
upon the heads of his enemies. All these as well as some minor points
agree very closely with our poet's picture of his persecutions and the
prayer he here records.
Read in the light of the elegist's experience, such a prayer as that
of the psalm cannot be taken as a model for daily devotion. It is a
pity that our habitual use of the Psalter should encourage this
application of it. The result is mischievous in several ways. It tends
to make our worship unreal, because the experience of the psalmist,
even when read metaphorically, as it was probably intended to be read,
is by no means a type of the normal condition of human life. Besides,
in so far as we bring ourselves to sympathise with this piteous outcry
of a distressed soul, we reduce our worship to a melancholy plaint,
when it should be a joyous anthem of praise. At the same time, we
unconsciously temper the language we quote with the less painful
feelings of our own experience, so that its force is lost upon us.
Yet the psalm is of value as a revelation of a soul's agony relieved
by prayer; and there are occasions when its very words can be repeated
by men and women who are indeed overwhelmed by trouble. If we do not
spoil the occasional by attempting to make it habitual it is wonderful
to see how rich the Bible is in utterances to suit all cases and all
conditions. Such an outpouring of a distressed heart as the elegist
hints at and the psalmist illustrates, is itself full of profound
significance. The stirring of a soul to its depths is a revelation of
its depths. This revelation prevents us from taking petty views of
human nature. No one can contemplate the Titanic struggle of Laocoon
or the immeasurable grief of Niobe without a sense of the tragic
greatness of which human life is capable. We live so much on the
surface that we are in danger of forgetting that life is not always a
superficial thing. But when a volcano bursts out of the quiet plain of
everyday existence, we are startled into the perception that there
must be hidden fires which we may not have suspected before. And,
further, when the soul in its extremity is seen to be turning for
refuge to God, the revelation of its Gethsemane gives a new meaning to
the very idea of prayer. Here is prayer indeed, and at the sight of
such a profound reality we are shamed into doubting whether we have
ever begun to pray at all, so stiff and chill do our utterances to the
Unseen now appear to be in comparison with this Jacob-like wrestling.
Immediately after mentioning the fact of his prayer the elegist adds
that this was heard by God. His cry rose up from "the lowest dungeon"
and reached the heights of heaven. And yet we cannot credit this to
the inherent vigour of prayer. If a petition can thus wing its way to
heaven, that is because it is of heavenly origin. There is no
difficulty in making air to rise above water; the difficulty is to
sink it; and if any could be taken to the bottom of the sea, the
greater the depth descended the swifter would it shoot up. Since all
true prayer is an inspiration it cannot spend itself until it has, so
to speak, restored the equilibrium by returning to its natural sphere.
But the elegist puts the case another way. In His great condescension
God stoops to the very lowest depths to find one of His distressed
children. It is not hard to make the prayer of the dungeon reach the
ear of God, because God is in the dungeon. He is most near when He is
most needed.
The prayer was more than heard; it was answered--there was a Divine
voice in response to this cry to God, a voice that reached the ear of
the desolate prisoner in the silence of his dungeon. It consisted of
but two words, but those two words were clear and unmistakable, and
quite sufficient to satisfy the listener. The voice said, "Fear
not."[223] That was enough.
[223] iii. 57.
Shall we doubt the reality of the remarkable experience that the
elegist here records? Or can we explain it away by reference to the
morbid condition of the mind of a prisoner enduring the punishment of
solitary confinement? It is said that this unnatural punishment tends
to develop insanity in its miserable victims. But the poet is now
reviewing the occurrence, which made so deep an impression on his mind
at the time, in the calm of later reflection; and evidently he has no
doubt of its reality. It has nothing in it of the wild fancy of a
disordered brain. Lunacy raves; this simple message is calm. And it is
just such a message as God might be expected to give if He spoke at
all--just like Him, we may say. To this remark some doubting critic
may reply, "Exactly; and therefore the more likely to have been
imagined by the expectant worshipper." But such an inference is not
psychologically correct. The reply is not in harmony with the tone of
the prayer, but directly opposed to it. Agony and terror cannot
generate an assurance of peace and safety. The poison does not secrete
its own antidote. Here is an indication of the presence of another
voice, because the words breathe another spirit. Besides, this is not
an unparalleled experience.
Most frequently, no doubt, the answer to prayer is not vocal, and yet
the reality of it may not be any the less certain to the seeking soul.
It may be most definite, although it comes in a deed rather than in a
word. Then the grateful recipient can exclaim with the psalmist--
"This poor man cried, and the Lord heard him,
And saved him out of all his troubles."[224]
[224] Psalm xxxiv. 6.
Here is an answer, but not a spoken one, only an action, in saving
from trouble. In other cases, however, the reply approaches nearer the
form of a message from heaven. When we remember that God is our Father
the wonder is not that at rare intervals these voices have been heard,
but rather that they are so infrequent. It is so easy to become the
victim of delusions that some caution is requisite to assure ourselves
of the existence of Divine utterances. The very idea of the occurrence
of such phenomena is discredited by the fact that those persons who
profess most eagerly to have heard supernatural voices are commonly
the subjects of hysteria; and when the voices become frequent this
fact is taken by physicians as a symptom of approaching insanity.
Among semi-civilised people madness is supposed to be closely allied
to inspiration. The mantis is not far from the mad man. Such a man is
not the better off for the march of civilisation. The ancients would
have honoured him as a prophet; we shut him up in a lunatic asylum.
But these discouraging considerations do not exhaust the question.
Delusions are not in themselves disproofs of the existence of the
occurrences they emulate. Each case must be taken on its own merits;
and when, as in that which is now under our consideration, the
character of the incident points to a conviction of its solid reality,
it is only a mark of narrowness of thought to refuse to lift it out of
the category of idle fancies.
But, quite apart from the question of the sounding of Divine voices in
the bodily ear, the more important truth to be considered is that in
some way, if only by spiritual impression, God does most really speak
to His children, and that He speaks now as surely as He spoke in the
days of Israel. We have no new prophets and apostles who can give us
fresh revelations in the form of additions to our Bible. But that is
not what is meant. The elegist did not receive a statement of doctrine
in answer to his prayer, nor, on this occasion, even help for the
writing of his inspired poetry. The voice to which he here alludes was
of quite a different character.
This was in the olden times; but if then, why not also now? Evidently
the elegist regarded it as a rare and wonderful occurrence--a single
experience to which he looked back in after years with the interest
one feels in a vivid recollection which rises like a mountain, clean
cut against the sky, above the mists that so quickly gather on the low
plains of the uneventful past. Perhaps it is only in one of the crises
of life that such an indubitable message is sent--when the soul is in
the lowest dungeon, _in extremis_, crying out of the darkness,
helpless if not yet hopeless, overwhelmed, almost extinguished. But if
we listened for it, who can tell but that the voice might not be so
rare? We do not believe in it; therefore we do not hear it. Or the
noise of the world's great loom and the busy thoughts of our own
hearts drown the music that still floats down from heaven to ears that
are tuned to catch its notes; for it does not come in thunder, and we
must ourselves be still if we would hear the still small voice,
inwardly still, still in soul, stifling the chatter of self, stopping
our ears to the din of the world. There are those to-day who tell us
with calm assurance, not at all in the visionary's falsetto notes,
that they have known just what is here described by the poet--in the
silence of a mountain valley, in the quiet of a sick chamber, even in
the noisy crowd at a railway station.
When this is granted it is still well for us to remember that we are
not dependent for Divine consolation on voices which to many must ever
be as dubious as they are rare. This short message of two words is in
effect the essence of teachings that can be gathered as freely from
almost every page of the Bible as flowers from a meadow in May. We
have the "more sure word of prophecy," and the burden of it is the
same as the message of the voice that comforted the poet in his
dungeon.
That message is wholly reassuring--"Fear not." So said God to the
patriarch: "Fear not, Abram; I am thy shield, and thy exceeding great
reward;"[225] and to His people through the prophet of the
restoration: "Fear not, thou worm Jacob;"[226] and Jesus to His
disciples in the storm: "Be of good cheer: it is I: be not
afraid";[227] and our Lord again in His parting address: "Let not your
heart be troubled, neither let it be fearful";[228] and the glorified
Christ to His terrified friend John, when He laid His right hand on
him with the words: "Fear not; I am the first and the last, and the
Living One; and I was dead, and behold, I am alive for ever more, and
I have the keys of death and of Hades."[229] This is the word that God
is continually speaking to His faint-hearted children. When "the
burthen of the mystery," and
"the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world"
oppress, when the greater sorrows threaten to crush outright,
listening for the voice of God, we may hear the message of love from a
Father's heart as though spoken afresh to each of us; for we have but
to acquaint ourselves with Him to be at peace.
[225] Gen. xv. 1.
[226] Isa. xli. 14.
[227] Mark vi. 50.
[228] John xiv. 27.
[229] Rev. i. 17, 18.
The elegist does not recall this scene from his past life merely in
order to indulge in the pleasures of memory--generally rather
melancholy pleasures, and even mocking if they are in sharp contrast
to the present. His object is to find encouragement for renewed hope
in the efficacy of prayer. In the complaint that he has put into the
mouth of His people He has just been depicting the failure of prayer.
But now he feels that if for a time God has wrapped Himself in a
mantle of wrath this cannot be for ever, for He who was so gracious to
the cry of His servant on that ever-memorable occasion will surely
attend again to the appeal of distress. This is always the greatest
encouragement for seeking help from God. It is difficult to find much
satisfaction in what is called with an awkward inconsequence of
diction the "philosophy of prayer"; the spirit of philosophy is so
wholly different from the spirit of prayer. The great justification
for prayer is the experience of prayer. It is only the prayerless man
who is wholly sceptical on this subject. The man of prayer cannot but
believe in prayer; and the more he prays and the oftener he turns to
this refuge in all times of need the fuller is his assurance that God
hears and answers him.
Considering how God acted as his advocate when he was in danger in the
earlier crisis, and then redeemed his life, the poet points to this
fact as a plea in his new necessity.[230] God will not desert the
cause He has adopted. Men feel a peculiar interest in those whom they
have already helped, an interest that is stronger than the sense of
gratitude, for we are more attracted to our dependants than to our
benefactors. If God shares this feeling, how strongly must He be drawn
to us by His many former favours! The language of the elegist gains a
great enrichment of meaning when read in the light of the Christian
Gospel. In a deep sense, of which he could have had but the least
glimmering of apprehension, we can appeal to God as the Redeemer of
our life, for we can take the Cross of Christ as our plea. St. Paul
makes use of this strongest of all arguments when He urges that if God
gave His Son, and if Christ died for us, all other needful blessings,
since they cannot involve so great a sacrifice, will surely follow.
Accordingly, we can pray in the language of the _Dies Iræ_--
"Wearily for me Thou soughtest,
On the Cross my life Thou boughtest,
Lose not all for which Thou wroughtest."
[230] iii. 58.
Rising from the image of the advocate to that of the magistrate the
distressed man begs God to judge his cause.[231] He would have God
look at his enemies--how they wrong him, insult him, make him the
theme of their jesting songs.[232]
[231] iii. 59.
[232] iii. 60-3.
It would have been more to our taste if the poem had ended here, if
there had been no remaining letters in the Hebrew alphabet to permit
the extension of the acrostics beyond the point we have now reached.
We cannot but feel that its tone is lowered at the close. The writer
here proceeds to heap imprecations on the heads of his enemies. It is
vain for some commentator to plead the weak excuse that the language
is "prophetic." This is certainly more than the utterance of a
prediction. No unprejudiced reader can deny that it reveals a desire
that the oppressors may be blighted and blasted with ruin, and even if
the words were only a foretelling of a divinely-decreed fate they
would imply a keen sense of satisfaction in the prospect, which they
describe as something to be gloated over. We cannot expect this Jewish
patriot to anticipate our Lord's intercession and excuse for His
enemies. Even St. Paul so far forgot himself as to treat the High
Priest in a very different manner from his Master's behaviour. But we
may see here one of the worst effects of tyranny--the dark passion of
revenge that it rouses in its victims. The provocation was maddening,
and not only of a private nature. Think of the situation--the beloved
city sacked and destroyed, the sacred temple a heap of smouldering
ruins, village homesteads all over the hills of Judah wrecked and
deserted; slaughter, outrage, unspeakable wrongs endured by wives and
maidens, little children starved to death. Is it wonderful that the
patriot's temper was not the sweetest when he thought of the authors
of such atrocities? There is no possibility of denying the fact--the
fierce fires of Hebrew hatred for the oppressors of the much-suffering
race here burst into a flame, and towards the end of this finest of
elegies we read the dark imprecation, "Thy curse upon them!"[233]
[233] iii. 65.