'The Lord is my shepherd: I shall not want. 2. He maketh me to lie
down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. 3. He
restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for
His name's sake. 4. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the
shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod
and Thy staff, they comfort me. 5. Thou preparest a table before me
in the presence of mine enemies: Thou anointest my head with oil; my
cup runneth over. 6. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all
the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for
ever.'--PSALM xxiii. 1-6.
The king who had been the shepherd-boy, and had been taken from the
quiet sheep-cotes to rule over Israel, sings this little psalm of Him
who is the true Shepherd and King of men. We do not know at what period
of David's life it was written, but it sounds as if it were the work of
his later years. There is a fulness of experience about it, and a tone
of subdued, quiet confidence which speaks of a heart mellowed by years,
and of a faith made sober by many a trial. A young man would not write
so calmly, and a life which was just opening would not afford material
for such a record of God's guardianship in all changing circumstances.
If, then, we think of the psalm as the work of David's later years, is
it not very beautiful to see the old king looking back with such vivid
and loving remembrance to his childhood's occupation, and bringing up
again to memory in his palace the green valleys, the gentle streams, the
dark glens where he had led his flocks in the old days; very beautiful
to see him traversing all the stormy years of warfare and rebellion, of
crime and sorrow, which lay between, and finding in all God's guardian
presence and gracious guidance? The faith which looks back and says, 'It
is all very good,' is not less than that which looks forward and says,
'Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.'
There is nothing difficult of understanding in the psalm. The train of
thought is clear and obvious. The experiences which it details are
common, the emotions it expresses simple and familiar. The tears that
have been dried, the fears that have been dissipated, by this old song;
the love and thankfulness which have found in them their best
expression, prove the worth of its simple words. It lives in most of our
memories. Let us try to vivify it in our hearts, by pondering it for a
little while together now.
The psalm falls into two halves, in both of which the same general
thought of God's guardian care is presented, though under different
illustrations, and with some variety of detail. The first half sets Him
forth as a shepherd, and us as the sheep of His pasture. The second
gives Him as the Host, and us as the guests at His table, and the
dwellers in His house.
First, then, consider that picture of the divine Shepherd and His
leading of His flock.
It occupies the first four verses of the psalm. There is a double
progress of thought in it. It rises, from memories of the past, and
experiences of the present care of God, to hope for the future. 'The
Lord is my Shepherd'--'I will fear no evil.' Then besides this progress
from what was and is, to what will be, there is another string, so to
speak, on which the gems are threaded. The various methods of God's
leading of His flock, or rather, we should say, the various regions into
which He leads them, are described in order. These are Rest, Work,
Sorrow--and this series is so combined with the order of time already
adverted to, as that the past and the present are considered as the
regions of rest and of work, while the future is anticipated as having
in it the valley of the shadow of death.
First, God leads His sheep into rest. 'He maketh me to lie down in green
pastures, He leadeth me beside the still waters.' It is the hot
noontide, and the desert lies baking in the awful glare, and every stone
on the hills of Judaea burns the foot that touches it. But in that
panting, breathless hour, here is a little green glen, with a quiet
brooklet, and moist lush herb-age all along its course, and great stones
that fling a black shadow over the dewy grass at their base; and there
would the shepherd lead his flock, while the sunbeams, like swords,' are
piercing everything beyond that hidden covert. Sweet silence broods
there, The sheep feed and drink, and couch in cool lairs till he calls
them forth again. So God leads His children.
The psalm puts the rest and refreshment _first_, as being the most
marked characteristic of God's dealings. After all, it is so. The years
are years of unbroken continuity of outward blessings. The reign of
afflictions is ordinarily measured by days. 'Weeping endures for a
night.' It is a rainy climate where half the days have rain in them; and
that is an unusually troubled life of which it can with any truth be
affirmed that there has been as much darkness as sunshine in it.
But it is not mainly of outward blessings that the Psalmist is thinking.
They are precious chiefly as emblems of the better spiritual gifts; and
it is not an accommodation of his words, but is the appreciation of
their truest spirit, when we look upon them, as the instinct of devout
hearts has ever done, as expressing both God's gift of temporal mercies,
and His gift of spiritual good, of which higher gift all the lower are
meant to be significant and symbolic. Thus regarded, the image describes
the sweet rest of the soul in communion with God, in whom alone the
hungry heart finds food that satisfies, and from whom alone the thirsty
soul drinks draughts deep and limpid enough.
This rest and refreshment has for its consequence the restoration of the
soul, which includes in it both the invigoration of the natural life by
the outward sort of these blessings, and the quickening and restoration
of the spiritual life by the inward feeding upon God and repose in Him.
The soul thus restored is then led on another stage; 'He leadeth me in
the paths of righteousness for His name's sake,'--that is to say, God
guides us into work.
The quiet mercies of the preceding verse are not in themselves the end
of our Shepherd's guidance; they are means to an end, and that is--work.
Life is not a fold for the sheep to lie down in, but a road for them to
walk on. All our blessings of every sort are indeed given us for our
delight. They will never fit us for the duties for which they are
intended to prepare us, unless they first be thoroughly enjoyed. The
highest good they yield is only reached through the lower one. But,
then, when joy fills the heart, and life is bounding in the veins, we
have to learn that these are granted, not for pleasure only, but for
pleasure in order to power. We get them, not to let them pass away like
waste steam puffed into empty air, but that we may use them to drive the
wheels of life. The waters of happiness are not for a luxurious bath
where a man may lie, till, like flax steeped too long, the very fibre be
rotted out of him; a quick plunge will brace him, and he will come out
refreshed for work. Rest is to fit for work, work is to sweeten rest.
All this is emphatically true of the spiritual life. Its seasons of
communion, its hours on the mount, are to prepare for the sore sad work
in the plain; and he is not the wisest disciple who tries to make the
Mount of Transfiguration the abiding place for himself and his Lord.
It is not well that our chief object should be to enjoy the consolations
of religion; it is better to seek first to do the duties enjoined by
religion. Our first question should be, not, How may I enjoy God? but,
How may I glorify Him? 'A single eye to His glory' means that even our
comfort and joy in religious exercises shall be subordinated, and (if
need were) postponed, to the doing of His will. While, on the one hand,
there is no more certain means of enjoying Him than that of humbly
seeking to walk in the ways of His commandments, on the other hand,
there is nothing more evanescent in its nature than a mere emotion, even
though it be that of joy in God, unless it be turned into a spring of
action for God. Such emotions, like photographs, vanish from the heart
unless they be fixed. Work for God is the way to fix them. Joy in God is
the strength of work for God, but work for God is the perpetuation of
joy in God.
Here is the figurative expression of the great evangelical principle,
that works of righteousness must follow, not precede, the restoration of
the soul. We are justified not by works, but for works, or, as the
Apostle puts it in a passage which sounds like an echo of this psalm, we
are 'created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before
ordained _that we should walk in them_.' The basis of obedience is the
sense of salvation. We work not _for_ the assurance of acceptance and
forgiveness, but _from_ it. First the restored soul, then the paths of
righteousness for _His_ name's sake who has restored me, and restored me
that I may be like Him.
But there is yet another region through which the varied experience of
the Christian carries him, besides those of rest and of work. God leads
His people through sorrow. 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the
shadow of death, I will fear no evil.'
The 'valley of the shadow of death' does not only mean the dark approach
to the dark dissolution of soul and body, but any and every gloomy
valley of weeping through which we have to pass. Such sunless gorges we
have all to traverse at some time or other. It is striking that the
Psalmist puts the sorrow, which is as certainly characteristic of our
lot as the rest or the work, into the future. Looking back he sees none.
Memory has softened down all the past into one uniform tone, as the
mellowing distance wraps in one solemn purple the mountains which, when
close to them, have many a barren rock and gloomy rift, All behind is
good. And, building on this hope, he looks forward with calmness, and
feels that no evil shall befall.
But it is never given to human heart to meditate of the future without
some foreboding. And when 'Hope enchanted smiles,' with the light of the
future in her blue eyes, there is ever something awful in their depths,
as if they saw some dark visions behind the beauty. Some evils may come;
some will probably come; one at least is sure to come. However bright
may be the path, somewhere on it, perhaps just round that turning, sits
the 'shadow feared of man.' So there is never hope only in any heart
that wisely considers the future. But to the Christian heart there may
be this--the conviction that sorrow, when it comes, will not harm,
because God will be with us; and the conviction that the Hand which
guides us into the dark valley, will guide us through it and up out of
it. Yes, strange as it may sound, the presence of Him who sends the
sorrow is the best help to bear it. The assurance that the Hand which
strikes is the Hand which binds up, makes the stroke a blessing, sucks
the poison out of the wound of sorrow, and turns the rod which smites
into the staff to lean on.
The second portion of this psalm gives us substantially the same
thoughts under a different image. It considers God as the host, and us
as the guests at His table and the dwellers in His house.
In this illustration, which includes the remaining verses, we have, as
before, the food and rest, the journey and the suffering. We have also,
as before, memory and present experience issuing in hope. But it is all
intensified. The necessity and the mercy are alike presented in brighter
colours; the want is greater, the supply greater, the hope for the
future on earth brighter; and, above all, while the former set of images
stopped at the side of the grave, and simply refused to fear, here the
vision goes on beyond the earthly end; and as the hope comes brightly
out, that all the weary wanderings will end in the peace of the Father's
house, the absence of fear is changed into the presence of triumphant
confidence, and the resignation which, at the most, simply bore to look
unfaltering into the depth of the narrow house, becomes the faith which
plainly sees the open gate of the everlasting home.
God supplies our wants in the very midst of strife. 'Thou preparest a
table before me in the presence of mine enemies. Thou anointest my head
with oil. My cup runneth over.' Before, it was food and rest first, work
afterwards. Now it Is more than work--it is conflict. And the mercy is
more strikingly portrayed, as being granted not only _before toil_, but
_in warfare_. Life is a sore fight; but to the Christian man, in spite
of all the tumult, life is a festal banquet. There stand the enemies,
ringing him round with cruel eyes, waiting to be let slip upon him like
eager dogs round the poor beast of the chase. But for all that, here is
spread a table in the wilderness, made ready by invisible hands; and the
grim-eyed foe is held back in the leash till the servant of God has fed
and been strengthened. This is our condition--always the foe, always the
table.
What sort of a meal should that be? The soldiers who eat and drink, and
are drunken in the presence of the enemy, like the Saxons before
Hastings, what will become of them? Drink the cup of gladness, as men do
when their foe is at their side, looking askance over the rim, and with
one hand on the sword, 'ready, aye ready,' against treachery and
surprise. But the presence of the danger should make the feast more
enjoyable too, by the moderation it enforces, and by the contrast it
affords--as to sailors on shore, or soldiers in a truce. Joy may grow on
the very face of danger, as a slender rose-bush flings its bright sprays
and fragrant blossoms over the lip of a cataract; and that not the wild
mirth of men in a pestilence, with their 'Let us eat and drink, for
to-morrow we die,' but the simple-hearted gladness of those who have
preserved the invaluable childhood gift of living in the present moment,
because they know that to-morrow will bring God, whatever it brings, and
not take away His care and love, whatever it takes away.
This, then, is the form under which the experience of the past is
presented in the second portion,--joy in conflict, rest and food even in
the strife. Upon that there is built a hope which transcends that in the
previous portion of the psalm. As to this life, 'Goodness and mercy
shall follow us.' This is more than 'I will fear no evil.' That said,
sorrow is not evil if God be with us. This says, sorrow is mercy. The
one is hope looking mainly at outward circumstances, the other is hope
learning the spirit and meaning of them all. These two angels of
God--Goodness and Mercy--shall follow and encamp around the pilgrim. The
enemies whom God held back while he feasted, may pursue, but will not
overtake him. They will be distanced sooner or later; but the white
wings of these messengers of the covenant will never be far away from
the journeying child, and the air will often be filled with the music of
their comings, and their celestial weapons will glance around him in all
the fight, and their soft arms will bear him up over all the rough ways,
and up higher at last to the throne.
So much for the earthly future. But higher than all that rises the
confidence of the closing words, 'I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
for ever.' This should be at once the crown of all our hopes for the
future, and the one great lesson taught us by all the vicissitudes of
life. The sorrows and the joys, the journeying and the rest, the
temporary repose and the frequent struggles, all these should make us
_sure_ that there is an end which will interpret them all, to which they
all point, for which they may all prepare. We get the table in the
wilderness here. It is as when the son of some great king comes back
from foreign soil to his father's dominions, and is welcomed at every
stage in his journey to the capital with pomp of festival, and
messengers from the throne, until he enters at last his palace home,
where the travel-stained robe is laid aside, and he sits down with his
father at his table. God provides for us here in the presence of our
enemies; it is wilderness food we get, manna from heaven, and water from
the rock. We eat in haste, staff in hand, and standing round the meal.
But yonder we sit down with the Shepherd, the Master of the house, at
His table in His kingdom. We put off the pilgrim-dress, and put on the
royal robe; we lay aside the sword, and clasp the palm. Far off, and
lost to sight, are all the enemies. We fear no change. We 'go no more
out.'
The sheep are led by many a way, sometimes through sweet meadows,
sometimes limping along sharp-flinted, dusty highways, sometimes high up
over rough, rocky mountain-passes, sometimes down through deep gorges,
with no sunshine in their gloom; but they are ever being led to one
place, and when the hot day is over they are gathered into one fold, and
the sinking sun sees them safe, where no wolf can come, nor any robber
climb up any more, but all shall rest for ever under the Shepherd's eye.
Brethren! can you take this psalm for yours? Have you returned unto
Christ, the Shepherd and Bishop of your souls? Oh! let Him, the Shepherd
of Israel, and the Lamb of God, one of the fold and yet the Guide and
Defender of it, human and divine, bear you away from the dreary
wilderness whither He has come seeking you. He will carry you rejoicing
to the fold, if only you will trust yourselves to His gentle arm. He
will restore your soul. He will lead you and keep you from all dangers,
guard you from every sin, strengthen you when you come to die, and bring
you to the fair plains beyond that narrow gorge of frowning rock. Then
this sweet psalm shall receive its highest fulfilment, for then 'they
shall hunger no more, neither shall they thirst any more, neither shall
the sun light on them, nor any heat, for the Lamb which is in the midst
of the Throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains
of waters, and God shall wipe all tears from their eyes.'