I will sing a new song to You, O God; upon a ten-stringed harp I will play to You, Who gives victory to kings, Who rescues David, His servant, from the cruel sword. Rescue me and deliver me from the hand of foreigners whose mouths speak lies and whose right hand is a right hand of falsehood. (Verses 9-11)
I waited patiently for the Lord. He inclined to me and heard my cry. He drew me up from the pit of destruction, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure. He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God. Many will see and fear and put their trust in the Lord. Psalm 40 1-3 Italics, mine
What was the old song? The one that played over and over in your head? What does pit dweller music sound like? A mournful dirge. How dry I am, how dry I am. It's plain to see just why I am. At the bottom, our songs dry up. Stuck and alone with the tape recorder in our heads. We all have one. And most of us could recite verbatim the mantra looping our condition: You'll never get out of this mess because you deserve what's happening to you. Or...God doesn't care or you wouldn't be here in the first place. Or...I might as well stay here, because God will never have me now. Or...fill in the blank. You aren't good enough, no one really gives a flip about you, things never work out for you, or you can never give up whatever it is that keeps you in the pit. Sing, sing, sing.
Some of us are trapped in a dungeon built of the circumstances of our lives. The right hand of the enemy of our souls beating our lives down with illnesses, financial difficulties or relationship woes. We didn't cause any of the problems, but we are still in the pit created by them. Like someone drowning in waves too strong for us, we sing a rescue song when we can take a clear breath. Without a lifeguard, we drown.
It's hard to patiently wait for rescue. The refrain of many of our songs is more a cry for help. I have been in a pit so deep that I could barely whisper, "God help me. Jesus save me." All songs quieted in the struggle. Dungeon walls echoing only my breathing. Barely able to hope for His hand reaching into my space. My feet set in the quick sand of the miry bog, trapped in a noiseless vacuum. It'd been a long time since I'd heard the music of my God. And because my song had been about another love, an idol, for a time, I couldn't remember exactly how to sing love songs to my God. But there came a day when Jesus knew it was enough. And, wonder of wonders, a tiny ray of light peeked through the crevices and spread enough light on me that I hoped. Its rays showed me the pit for what it was. My slavery exposed so that I knew my predicament. Understood the lies. "Jesus." It was all I could say. But it was music to His ears. His right hand reached down into the pitiful, filthy place where I sat mired by the muddy grime of my circumstances and pulled me up out of the joyless prison.
At first the light hurt my eyes. And the shame of my clay-soaked clothes made me hide my face from His. I spent many days prostrate. Still no songs. Just weeping out my repentance. Hating that He had to come and get me there, this child of His Who believed the lies and was trapped by them. Jesus let me...cry, that is. Let me feel the heartache of the breach. Not for my punishment, but so that I'd never, ever, ever want to be away again. So that the next time the enemy spews his lies, tries to trick me into going into a foreign land not ruled by my King, I know not to go, because I can't sing the Lord's song in a foreign land (Psalm 137:4).
There came a day, though, when I awoke with the strains of a new song whirring in the recesses of my heart. It is the song of one who is finally free! Thank You, Thank You, Thank You! I sang as I danced around the room. Water washing off the debris, running through me like a pristine river, taking with it my shame. Cleansed, restored--it made my feet stomp and my heart beat, the rhythm of this love song. Jesus gave me the words for it, showed me how to play the melody that transcends the lies of my enemy. "Sing it loud!" my Savior cried. And He danced with me far away from the edge of the pit.
I waited patiently for the Lord. He inclined to me and heard my cry. He drew me up from the pit of destruction, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure. He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God. Many will see and fear and put their trust in the Lord. Psalm 40 1-3 Italics, mine
What was the old song? The one that played over and over in your head? What does pit dweller music sound like? A mournful dirge. How dry I am, how dry I am. It's plain to see just why I am. At the bottom, our songs dry up. Stuck and alone with the tape recorder in our heads. We all have one. And most of us could recite verbatim the mantra looping our condition: You'll never get out of this mess because you deserve what's happening to you. Or...God doesn't care or you wouldn't be here in the first place. Or...I might as well stay here, because God will never have me now. Or...fill in the blank. You aren't good enough, no one really gives a flip about you, things never work out for you, or you can never give up whatever it is that keeps you in the pit. Sing, sing, sing.
Some of us are trapped in a dungeon built of the circumstances of our lives. The right hand of the enemy of our souls beating our lives down with illnesses, financial difficulties or relationship woes. We didn't cause any of the problems, but we are still in the pit created by them. Like someone drowning in waves too strong for us, we sing a rescue song when we can take a clear breath. Without a lifeguard, we drown.
It's hard to patiently wait for rescue. The refrain of many of our songs is more a cry for help. I have been in a pit so deep that I could barely whisper, "God help me. Jesus save me." All songs quieted in the struggle. Dungeon walls echoing only my breathing. Barely able to hope for His hand reaching into my space. My feet set in the quick sand of the miry bog, trapped in a noiseless vacuum. It'd been a long time since I'd heard the music of my God. And because my song had been about another love, an idol, for a time, I couldn't remember exactly how to sing love songs to my God. But there came a day when Jesus knew it was enough. And, wonder of wonders, a tiny ray of light peeked through the crevices and spread enough light on me that I hoped. Its rays showed me the pit for what it was. My slavery exposed so that I knew my predicament. Understood the lies. "Jesus." It was all I could say. But it was music to His ears. His right hand reached down into the pitiful, filthy place where I sat mired by the muddy grime of my circumstances and pulled me up out of the joyless prison.
At first the light hurt my eyes. And the shame of my clay-soaked clothes made me hide my face from His. I spent many days prostrate. Still no songs. Just weeping out my repentance. Hating that He had to come and get me there, this child of His Who believed the lies and was trapped by them. Jesus let me...cry, that is. Let me feel the heartache of the breach. Not for my punishment, but so that I'd never, ever, ever want to be away again. So that the next time the enemy spews his lies, tries to trick me into going into a foreign land not ruled by my King, I know not to go, because I can't sing the Lord's song in a foreign land (Psalm 137:4).
There came a day, though, when I awoke with the strains of a new song whirring in the recesses of my heart. It is the song of one who is finally free! Thank You, Thank You, Thank You! I sang as I danced around the room. Water washing off the debris, running through me like a pristine river, taking with it my shame. Cleansed, restored--it made my feet stomp and my heart beat, the rhythm of this love song. Jesus gave me the words for it, showed me how to play the melody that transcends the lies of my enemy. "Sing it loud!" my Savior cried. And He danced with me far away from the edge of the pit.
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