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TOPIC: MacDuff, John - The Deer and the Water-Brooks (Other Topics in this Collection)
SUBJECT: 02 The General Scope of the Psalm
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THE GENERAL SCOPE OF THE PSALM
"If the Book of Psalms be, as some have styled it, a mirror or looking-glass of pious and devout affections, this Psalm, in particular, deserves as much as any one Psalm to be so entitled, and is as proper as any other to kindle and excite such in us. Gracious desires are here strong and fervent; gracious hopes and fears, joys and sorrows, are here struggling. Or we may take it for a conflict between sense and faith; sense objecting, and faith answering." (Matthew Henry)
In these few words, the Father of commentators, with his customary discernment, has given us the key to the true interpretation of this sacred song. It may be regarded, indeed, as the Old Testament parallel to the 7th chapter of the Epistle to the Romans, in which another inspired writer truthfully and powerfully portrays the same great struggle between corruption and grace, faith and sense, "the old and the new man."
There are two antagonist principles in the heart of every believer, corresponding to the great forces which act in the material world. The tendency of his new nature is to gravitate towards God—the Divine Sun of his being—the center of his fondest affections—the object of his deepest love. But "there is a law in his members warring against the law of his mind" (Rom. 7:23)—the remains of his old nature, leading him to wander in wide and eccentric orbit from the grand Source of light, and happiness, and joy! "What will you see in the Shulamite?" asks the Spouse in the Canticles, personating the believer, (at a time, too, when conscious of devoted attachment to the Lord she loved). The reply is, "As it were the company of two armies." (Sol. Song 6:13.) Sight on the one hand, Faith on the other. The carnal mind, which is enmity against God, battling with the renewed spiritual mind, which brings life and peace. Affections heaven-born, counteracted and marred by affections earth-born. The magnet would be true to its pole but for disturbing moral influences. The eagle would soar, but it is chained to the cage of corruption. The believer would tread boldly on the waves, but unbelief threatens to sink him. He would fight the battles of the faith, but there is "a body of death" chained to his heavenly nature, which compels him to mingle denunciations of himself as "a wretched man" with the shouts of victory. (Rom. 7:24, 25)
We may imagine David, when he composed this Psalm, wrapped in silent contemplation—the past, the present, and the future suggesting mingled reflections. The shepherd, the king, the fugitive! Sad comment on the alternations of human life! humbling lesson for God's Anointed! It furnishes him with a true estimate of the world's greatness. It has taught him the utter nothingness of all here as a portion for the soul. Amid outward trial and inward despondency, FAITH looks to its only true refuge and resting-place. His truant heart softened and saddened by calamity, turns to its God—"As the deer pants after the water-brooks, so pants my soul after you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God: when shall I come and appear before God?" (Ver. 1, 2.) But the wave is beaten back again! He remembers his sins and his sorrows, and (more galling to his sensitive spirit) the taunts of ungodly scoffers. "My tears have been my food day and night, while they continually say unto me, "Where is your God?" (Ver. 3.) Moreover, he is denied the solace of public ordinances. He can no longer, as once he could, light the decaying ashes of his faith at the fires of the altar. Memory dwelt with chastened sadness on the hours of holy convocation. "When I remember these things, I pour out my soul in me: for I had gone with the multitude, I went with them to the house of God, with the voice of joy and praise, with a multitude that kept holy day." (Ver. 4.) But, once more, the new-born principle regains the mastery. He rebukes his own unbelief, urges renewed dependence on God, and triumphs in the assurance of His countenance and love. "Why are you cast down, O my soul? and why are you disturbed in me? hope in God: for I shall yet praise him for the help of his countenance." (Ver. 5.) But again the harp is muffled! Unbelief musters her ranks; remembrances of sin and sorrow crowd upon him. "O my God, my soul is cast down within me." (Ver. 6.) Faith, however, has its antidote at hand, and the momentary cause of depression is removed. The memory of former supports and mercies inspires with confidence for the future, and he immediately adds, "I will remember YOU (in this the place of my Exile) from the land of Jordan, and of the Hermonites, from the hill Mizar."
But the storm-clouds are still wreathing his sky—no, it seems as if the tempest were deepening. Fresh assaults of temptation are coming in upon him—there seems no light in the cloud, no ray in the darkness. "Deep calls unto deep at the noise of your waterfalls; all your waves and your billows are gone over me." (Ver. 7.) But again, his own extremity is God's opportunity; Faith is seen cresting the resurgent waves. Lifting his voice above the storm, he thus expresses his assurance in God's faithfulness, "Yet the Lord will command his loving-kindness in the day-time, and in the night his song shall be with me, and my prayer unto the God of my life." (Ver. 8.) No, he resolves in all time to come to provide against the return of seasons of guilty distrust and misgiving. He dictates and transcribes the very words of a prayer to be employed as an antidote in any such recurring moments of despondency. He resolves to rise above frames and feelings, and to plant his feet on the Rock of Ages, which these fluctuating billows can never shake—"I will say unto God my rock, Why have you forgotten me? why go I mourning because of the oppression of the enemy?" (Ver. 9.) The old nature makes one last and final effort, before abandoning the conflict. Unbelief rallies its strength. A former assault is renewed. "As with a sword in my bones, my enemies reproach me; while they say daily unto me, Where is your God?" (Ver.10.) But he reverts to his prayer! He adopts his own liturgy for a time of sorrow. "Why are you cast down, O my soul? and why are you disturbed within me? hope you in God; for I shall yet praise Him." (Ver.11.) He seems to be "answered while yet speaking;" for he closes with the joyful declaration, "Who is the health of my countenance, and my God." (Ver. 11.) He had made a similar assertion in a former verse (ver. 5), "I shall yet praise him for the help of his countenance;" but now he can add the language of triumphant assurance, "MY God!" The conflict is ended—sense quits the field, and faith conquers. He began the Psalm in trouble, he ends it with joy. Its notes throughout are on the minor key, but these merge at last into a strain of triumph. He began comparing himself to the stricken deer—the helpless, breathless, panting fugitive—he ends it with angels' words—with the motto and watchword in which a seraph might well glory—heaven knows no happier—"MY GOD!"
"He looked," says Matthew Henry, "upon the living God as his chief good, and had set his heart upon Him accordingly, and was resolved to live and die by Him; and casting anchor thus at first, he rides out the storm."
O child of God! touchingly expressive picture have we here of the strange vicissitudes in your history. The shuttle in the web of your spiritual life, darting here and there, weaving its chameleon hues; or, to adopt a more appropriate emblem, your heart a battlefield, and "no discharge in that war" until the pilgrim-armor be exchanged for the pilgrim-rest—sense and sin doing their utmost to quench the fires of faith, and give the enemy the advantage—yes, and they would succeed in quenching these, did not the Lord of pilgrims feed with the oil of His own grace the languishing flame. "Sometimes," it has been well said, "in the Voyages of the Soul, we feel that we can only go by anxious soundings—the compass itself seeming useless—not knowing our bearings—nearing here Christ—then perhaps the dim tolling bell amid the thick darkness warning us to keep off." (Cheever's "Windings"). But fear not; He will "bring you to the haven where you would be." The voice of triumph will be heard high above the water-floods. The contest may be long, but it will not be doubtful. He who rules the raging of the sea will, in His own good time, say, "Peace, be still, and immediately there will be a great calm." Have you ever watched the career of the tiny branch or withered leaf which has been tossed into a little virgin stream on one of our high table-lands or mountain moors? For a while, in its serpentine course, it is borne sluggishly along, impeded by protruding moss, or stone, or lichen. Now it circles and saunters here and there on the lazy streamlet—now floating back towards the point of departure, as if uncertain which direction to choose. A passing breath of wind carries it to the center, and the buoyant rivulet sings its way joyously onward, bearing its little cargo through copse, and birch, and heather. But again it is obstructed. Some deep inky pool detains it in the narrow ravine. There it is sucked in, whirled and twisted about, chafed and tortured with the conflict of waters; or else it lies a helpless prisoner, immured by the rocks in their fretting caldrons. But by and by, with a new impulse it breaks away along the rapid torrent-stream, bounding over cascade and waterfall, home to its ocean destiny.
So it is with the Soul! It is often apparently the sport and captive of opposing currents. It has its pools of darkness, its eddies of unbelief, its jagged rocks of despair, but it will eventually clear them all. "All motion tends to rest, and ends in it. God is the center and resting-place of the soul; and here David takes up his rest, and so let us. We see that discussing of objections in the consistory of the Soul, settles the Soul at last—Faith at length silencing all risings to the contrary. Then whatever times come, we are sure of a hiding place and a sanctuary."(Sibbes)
Yes! your life, notwithstanding all these fluctuations, will end triumphantly. It may, as in this Psalm, be now a paean, then a dirge; now a Miserere, then a Te Deum. The Miserere and Te Deum may be interweaved throughout; but the latter will close the Life-story—the concluding strain will be the anthem of Victory. You may arrest the arrow in its flight—you may chain the waterfall, or stay the lightning, sooner than unsay the words of God, "He that has begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ." (Phil 1:6.)
Remember, God does not say, that "good work" is never to be impeded. He has never given promise in Scripture of an unclouded day—uninterrupted sunshine—a waveless, stormless sea. No, "the morning without clouds" is a heavenly emblem. The earthly one is "a day, in which the light shall neither be clear nor dark." (Zech. 14:6.) The analogy of the outer world of nature, at least under these our chequered and ever-varying skies, teaches us this. Spring comes smiling, and pours her blossoms into the lap of Summer. But the skies lower, and the rain and battering hail descend, and the virgin blossoms droop their heads and almost die. Summer again smiles and the meadows look gay; the flowers ring merry chimes with their leaves and petals, and Autumn with glowing face is opening her bosom for the expected treasure. But all at once drought comes with her fiery footsteps. Every blade and floweret, gasping for breath, lift their blanched eyelids to the brazen sky; or the night-winds rock the laden branches and strew the ground. Thus we see it is not one unvarying, unchecked progression, from the opening bud to the matured fruit. But every succeeding month is scarred and mutilated by drought and moisture, wind and rain, storm and sunshine. Yet, never once has Autumn failed to gather up her golden sheaves; yes, and if you ask her testimony, she will tell that the very storm, and wind, and rain you dreaded as foes, were the best auxiliaries in filling her yellow garners.
If the experience of any one here present be that of "the deep" and "the water-flood"—"the stormy wind and tempest," think ever of the closing words of the Psalm, and let them "turn your mourning into dancing; take off your sackcloth, and gird you with gladness!" You may change towards God, but He is unchanging towards you. The stars may be swept from our view by intervening clouds, but they shine bright as ever—undimmed altar-fires in the great temple of the universe. Our vision may be at fault, but not their radiance and undying glory. The Being "not confined to temples made with hands," who met this wrestler of old in the forest of Gilead, and poured better than Gilead's balm into his bosom, is the same now as He was then. And if you are a wrestler too, He seems through the moaning of the storm to say, "Though you fall, yet shall you not be cast down utterly, for the Lord upholds you with his right hand."
"My God!" Oh, if that be the last entry in the Diary of religious experience, be not desponding now because of present passing shadows, but "thank God and take courage." It is written that "at evening-time it shall be light." (Zech. 14:7.) The sun may wade all day through murky clouds, but he will pillow his head at night on a setting couch of vermilion and gold. "Though you have laid among the pots, yet shall you be as the wings of a dove covered with silver, and her feathers with yellow gold." (Psalm. 68:13). It was said by aged Jacob, in his prophetic death-song, regarding that very tribe on the borders of which the royal exile now sang, "GAD, a troop shall overcome him: but he shall overcome at the last" (Gen. 49:19). Was not this the key-note of his present elegy? Faith could lift its head triumphant in the clang of battle, amid these troops of spiritual plunderers, and sing, "Though a army should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear: though war should rise against me, in THIS will I be confident" (Psalm. 27:3)