In addition to the psalms already considered, which are devoted to the
devout contemplation of nature, and stand in close connection with
David's early days, there still remains one universally admitted to be
his. The twenty-ninth psalm, like both the preceding, has to do with the
glory of God as revealed in the heavens, and with earth only as the
recipient of skyey influences; but while these breathed the profoundest
tranquillity, as they watched the silent splendour of the sun, and the
peace of moonlight shed upon a sleeping world, this is all tumult and
noise. It is a highly elaborate and vivid picture of a thunderstorm,
such as must often have broken over the shepherd-psalmist as he crouched
under some shelf of limestone, and gathered his trembling charge about
him. Its very structure reproduces in sound an echo of the rolling peals
reverberating among the hills.
There is first an invocation, in the highest strain of devout poetry,
calling upon the "sons of God," the angels who dwell above the lower
sky, and who see from above the slow gathering of the storm-clouds, to
ascribe to Jehovah the glory of His name--His character as set forth in
the tempest. They are to cast themselves before Him "in holy attire," as
priests of the heavenly sanctuary. Their silent and expectant worship is
like the brooding stillness before the storm. We feel the waiting hush
in heaven and earth.
Then the tempest breaks. It crashes and leaps through the short
sentences, each like the clap of the near thunder.
_a._ The voice of Jehovah (is) on the waters.
The God of glory thunders.
_Jehovah (is) on many waters._
The voice of Jehovah in strength!
The voice of Jehovah in majesty!
_b._ The voice of Jehovah rending the cedars!
_And Jehovah rends the cedars of Lebanon_,
And makes them leap like a calf;
Lebanon and Sirion like a young buffalo
The voice of Jehovah hewing flashes of fire!
_c._ The voice of Jehovah shakes the desert,
_Jehovah shakes the Kadesh desert_.
The voice of Jehovah makes the hinds writhe
And scathes the woods--and in His temple--
--All in it (are) saying, "Glory."
Seven times the roar shakes the world. The voice of the seven thunders
is the voice of Jehovah. In the short clauses, with their uniform
structure, the pause between, and the recurrence of the same initial
words, we hear the successive peals, the silence that parts them, and
the monotony of their unvaried sound. Thrice we have the reverberation
rolling through the sky or among the hills, imitated by clauses which
repeat previous ones, as indicated by the italics, and one forked flame
blazes out in the brief, lightning-like sentence, "The voice of Jehovah
(is) hewing flashes of fire," which wonderfully gives the impression of
their streaming fiercely forth, as if cloven from some solid block of
fire, their swift course, and their instantaneous extinction.
The range and effects of the storm, too, are vividly painted. It is
first "on the waters," which may possibly mean the Mediterranean, but
more probably, "the waters that are above the firmament," and so depicts
the clouds as gathering high in air. Then it comes down with a crash on
the northern mountains, splintering the gnarled cedars, and making
Lebanon rock with all its woods--leaping across the deep valley of
Coelo-Syria, and smiting Hermon (for which Sirion is a Sidonian name),
the crest of the Anti Lebanon, till it reels. Onward it sweeps--or
rather, perhaps, it is all around the psalmist; and even while he hears
the voice rolling from the furthest north, the extreme south echoes the
roar. The awful voice shakes[E] the wilderness, as it booms across its
level surface. As far south as Kadesh (probably Petra) the tremor
spreads, and away in the forests of Edom the wild creatures in their
terror slip their calves, and the oaks are scathed and stripped of their
leafy honours. And all the while, like a mighty diapason sounding on
through the tumult, the voice of the sons of God in the heavenly temple
is heard proclaiming "Glory!"
[E] Delitzsch would render "whirls in circles"--a picturesque allusion
to the sand pillars which accompany storms in the desert.
The psalm closes with lofty words of confidence, built on the story of
the past, as well as on the contemplation of the present. "Jehovah sat
throned for (_i.e._, to send on earth) the flood" which once drowned
the world of old. "Jehovah will sit throned, a King for ever." That
ancient judgment spoke of His power over all the forces of nature, in
their most terrible form. So now and for ever, all are His servants, and
effect His purposes. Then, as the tempest rolls away, spent and
transient, the sunshine streams out anew from the softened blue over a
freshened world, and every raindrop on the leaves twinkles into diamond
light, and the end of the psalm is like the after brightness; and the
tranquil low voice of its last words is like the songs of the birds
again as the departing storm growls low and faint on the horizon. "The
Lord will bless His people with peace."
Thus, then, nature spoke to this young heart. The silence was vocal; the
darkness, bright; the tumult, order--and all was the revelation of a
present God. It is told of one of our great writers that, when a child,
he was found lying on a hill-side during a thunderstorm, and at each
flash clapping his hands and shouting, unconscious of danger, and
stirred to ecstasy. David, too, felt all the poetic elevation, and
natural awe, in the presence of the crashing storm; but he felt
something more. To him the thunder was not a power to tremble before,
not a mere subject for poetic contemplation. Still less was it
something, the like of which could be rubbed out of glass and silk, and
which he had done with when he knew its laws. No increase of knowledge
touching the laws of physical phenomena in the least affects the point
of view which these Nature-psalms take. David said, "God makes and moves
all things." We may be able to complete the sentence by a clause which
tells something of the methods of His operation. But that is only a
parenthesis after all, and the old truth remains widened, not overthrown
by it. The psalmist knew that all being and action had their origin in
God. He saw the last links of the chain, and knew that it was rivetted
to the throne of God, though the intermediate links were unseen; and
even the fact that there were any was not present to his mind. We know
something of these; but the first and the last of the series to him, are
the first and the last to us also. To us as to him, the silent splendour
of noonday speaks of God, and the nightly heavens pour the soft radiance
of His "excellent name over all the earth." The tempest is His voice,
and the wildest commotions in nature and among men break in obedient
waves around His pillared throne.
"Well roars the storm to those who hear
A deeper voice across the storm!"
There still remains one other psalm which may be used as illustrating
the early life of David. The Twenty-third psalm is coloured throughout
by the remembrances of his youthful occupation, even if its actual
composition is of a later date. Some critics, indeed, think that the
mention in the last verse of "the house of the Lord" compels the
supposition of an origin subsequent to the building of the Temple; but
the phrase in question need not have anything to do with tabernacle or
temple, and is most naturally accounted for by the preceding image of
God as the Host who feasts His servants at His table. There are no other
notes of time in the psalm, unless, with some commentators, we see an
allusion in that image of the furnished table to the seasonable
hospitality of the Gileadite chieftains during David's flight before
Absalom (2 Sam. xvii. 27-29)--a reference which appears prosaic and
flat. The absence of traces of distress and sorrow--so constantly
present in the later songs--may be urged with some force in favour of
the early date; and if we follow one of the most valuable commentators
(Hupfeld) in translating all the verbs as futures, and so make the whole
a hymn of hope, we seem almost obliged to suppose that we have here the
utterance of a youthful spirit, which ventured to look forward, because
it first looked upward. In any case, the psalm is a transcript of
thoughts that had been born and cherished in many a meditative hour
among the lonely hills of Bethlehem. It is the echo of the shepherd
life. We see in it the incessant care, the love to his helpless charge,
which was expressed in and deepened by all his toil for them. He had to
think for their simplicity, to fight for their defencelessness, to find
their pasture, to guard them while they lay amid the fresh grass;
sometimes to use his staff in order to force their heedlessness with
loving violence past tempting perils; sometimes to guide them through
gloomy gorges, where they huddled close at his heels; sometimes to smite
the lion and the bear that prowled about the fold--but all was for their
good and meant their comfort. And thus he has learned, in preparation
for his own kingdom, the inmost meaning of pre-eminence among men--and,
more precious lesson still, thus he has learned the very heart of God.
Long before, Jacob had spoken of Him as the "Shepherd of Israel;" but it
was reserved for David to bring that sweet and wonderful name into
closer relations with the single soul; and, with that peculiar
enthusiasm of personal reliance, and recognition of God's love to the
individual which stamps all his psalms, to say "The Lord is my
Shepherd." These dumb companions of his, in their docility to his
guidance, and absolute trust in his care, had taught him the secret of
peace in helplessness, of patience in ignorance. The green strips of
meadow-land where the clear waters brought life, the wearied flocks
sheltered from the mid-day heat, the quiet course of the little stream,
the refreshment of the sheep by rest and pasture, the smooth paths which
he tried to choose for them, the rocky defiles through which they had to
pass, the rod in his hand that guided, and chastised, and defended, and
was never lifted in anger,--all these, the familiar sights of his youth,
pass before us as we read; and to us too, in our widely different social
state, have become the undying emblems of the highest care and the
wisest love. The psalm witnesses how close to the youthful heart the
consciousness of God must have been, which could thus transform and
glorify the little things which were so familiar. We can feel, in a kind
of lazy play of sentiment, the fitness of the shepherd's life to suggest
thoughts of God--because it is not our life. But it needs both a
meditative habit and a devout heart to feel that the trivialities of our
own daily tasks speak to us of Him. The heavens touch the earth on the
horizon of our vision, but it always seems furthest to the sky from the
spot where we stand. To the psalmist, however,--as in higher ways to his
Son and Lord,--all things around him were full of God; and as the
majesties of nature, so the trivialities of man's works--shepherds and
fishermen--were solemn with deep meanings and shadows of the heavenly.
With such lofty thoughts he fed his youth.
The psalm, too, breathes the very spirit of sunny confidence and of
perfect rest in God. We have referred to the absence of traces of
sorrow, and to the predominant tone of hopefulness, as possibly
favouring the supposition of an early origin. But it matters little
whether they were young eyes which looked so courageously into the
unknown future, or whether we have here the more solemn and weighty
hopes of age, which can have few hopes at all, unless they be rooted in
God. The spirit expressed in the psalm is so thoroughly David's, that in
his younger days, before it was worn with responsibilities and sorrows,
it must have been especially strong. We may therefore fairly take the
tone of this song of the Shepherd God as expressing the characteristic
of his godliness in the happy early years. In his solitude he was glad.
One happy thought fills the spirit; one simple emotion thrills the
chords of his harp. No doubts, or griefs, or remorse throw their shadows
upon him. He is conscious of dependence, but he is above want and fear.
He does not ask, he has--he possesses God, and is at rest in Him. He is
satisfied with that fruition which blesseth all who hunger for God, and
is the highest form of communion with Him. As the present has no
longings, the future has no terrors. All the horizon is clear, all the
winds are still, the ocean at rest, "and birds of peace sit brooding on
the charmed wave." If there be foes, God holds them back. If there lie
far off among the hills any valley of darkness, its black portals cast
no gloom over him, and will not when he enters. God is his Shepherd,
and, by another image, God is his Host. The life which in one aspect, by
reason of its continual change, and occupation with outward things, may
be compared to the journeyings of a flock, is in another aspect, by
reason of its inward union with the stability of God, like sitting ever
at the table which His hand has spread as for a royal banquet, where the
oil of gladness glistens on every head, and the full cup of Divine
pleasure is in every hand. For all the outward and pilgrimage aspect,
the psalmist knows that only Goodness and Mercy--these two white-robed
messengers of God--will follow his steps, however long may be the term
of the days of his yet young life; for all the inward, he is sure that,
in calm, unbroken fellowship, he will dwell in the house of God, and
that when the twin angels who fed and guided him all his young life long
have finished their charge, and the days of his journeyings are ended,
there stretches beyond a still closer union with his heavenly Friend,
which will be perfected in His true house "for ever." We look in vain
for another example, even in David's psalms, of such perfect, restful
trust in God. These clear notes are perhaps the purest utterance ever
given of "the peace of God which passeth all understanding."
Such were the thoughts and hopes of the lad who kept his father's sheep
at Bethlehem. He lived a life of lofty thoughts and lowly duties. He
heard the voice of God amidst the silence of the hills, and the earliest
notes of his harp echoed the deep tones. He learned courage as well as
tenderness from his daily tasks, and patience from the contrast between
them and the high vocation which Samuel's mysterious anointing had
opened before him. If we remember how disturbing an influence the
consciousness of it might have wrought in a soul less filled with God,
we may perhaps accept as probably correct the superscription which
refers one sweet, simple psalm to him, and may venture to suppose that
it expresses the contentment, undazzled by visions of coming greatness,
that calmed his heart. "Lord, my heart is not haughty, nor mine eyes
lofty; neither do I exercise myself in great matters, or in things too
high for me. Surely I have smoothed and quieted my soul: like a weanling
on his mother's (breast), like a weanling is my soul within me." (Psa.
cxxxi.) So lying in God's arms, and content to be folded in His embrace,
without seeking anything beyond, he is tranquil in his lowly lot.
It does not fall within our province to follow the course of the
familiar narrative through the picturesque events that led him to fame
and position at court. The double character of minstrel and warrior, to
which we have already referred, is remarkably brought out in his double
introduction to Saul, once as soothing the king's gloomy spirit with the
harmonies of his shepherd's harp, once as bringing down the boasting
giant of Gath with his shepherd's sling. On the first occasion his
residence in the palace seems to have been ended by Saul's temporary
recovery. He returns to Bethlehem for an indefinite time, and then
leaves it and all its peaceful tasks for ever. The dramatic story of the
duel with Goliath needs no second telling. His arrival at the very
crisis of the war, the eager courage with which he leaves his baggage in
the hands of the guard and runs down the valley to the ranks of the
army, the busy hum of talk among the Israelites, the rankling jealousy
of his brother that curdles into bitter jeers, the modest courage with
which he offers himself as champion, the youthful enthusiasm of brave
trust in "the Lord, that delivered me out of the paw of the lion, and
out of the paw of the bear;" the wonderfully vivid picture of the young
hero with his shepherd staff in one hand, his sling in the other, and
the rude wallet by his side, which had carried his simple meal, and now
held the smooth stone from the brook that ran between the armies in the
bottom of the little valley--the blustering braggadocio of the big
champion, the boy's devout confidence in "the name of the Lord of
hosts;" the swift brevity of the narrative of the actual fight, which in
its hurrying clauses seems to reproduce the light-footed eagerness of
the young champion, or the rapid whizz of the stone ere it crashed into
the thick forehead; the prostrate bulk of the dead giant prone upon the
earth, and the conqueror, slight and agile, hewing off the huge head
with Goliath's own useless sword;--all these incidents, so full of
character, so antique in manner, so weighty with lessons of the
impotence of strength that is merely material, and the power of a living
enthusiasm of faith in God, may, for our present purposes, be passed
with a mere glance. One observation may, however, be allowed. After the
victory, Saul is represented as not knowing who David was, and as
sending Abner to find out where he comes from. Abner, too, professes
entire ignorance; and when David appears before the king, "with the head
of the Philistine in his hand," he is asked, "Whose son art thou, young
man?" It has been thought that here we have an irreconcilable
contradiction with previous narratives, according to which there was
close intimacy between him and the king, who "loved him greatly," and
gave him an office of trust about his person. Suppositions of
"dislocation of the narrative," the careless adoption by the compiler of
two separate legends, and the like, have been freely indulged in. But it
may at least be suggested as a possible explanation of the seeming
discrepancy, that when Saul had passed out of his moody madness it is
not wonderful that he should have forgotten all which had occurred in
his paroxysm. It is surely a common enough psychological phenomenon that
a man restored to sanity has no remembrance of the events during his
mental aberration. And as for Abner's profession of ignorance, an
incipient jealousy of this stripling hero may naturally have made the
"captain of the host" willing to keep the king as ignorant as he could
concerning a probable formidable rival. There is no need to suppose he
was really ignorant, but only that it suited him to say that he was.
With this earliest deed of heroism the peaceful private days are closed,
and a new epoch of court favour and growing popularity begins. The
impression which the whole story leaves upon one is well summed up in a
psalm which the Septuagint adds to the Psalter. It is not found in the
Hebrew, and has no pretension to be David's work; but, as a _résumé_ of
the salient points of his early life, it may fitly end our
considerations of this first epoch.
"This is the autograph psalm of David, and beyond the number (_i.e._, of
the psalms in the Psalter), when he fought the single fight with
Goliath:--
"(1.) I was little among my brethren, and the youngest in the house of
my father: I kept the flock of my father. (2.) My hands made a pipe, my
fingers tuned a psaltery. (3.) And who shall tell it to my Lord? He is
the Lord, He shall hear me. (4.) He sent His angel (messenger), and
took me from the flocks of my father, and anointed me with the oil of
His anointing. (5.) But my brethren were fair and large, and in them the
Lord took not pleasure. (6.) I went out to meet the Philistine, and he
cursed me by his idols. (7.) But I, drawing his sword, beheaded him, and
took away reproach from the children of Israel."