Emotional Meditation—By Micah Siemens
“Why do you boast of evil, O mighty man? The steadfast love of God endures all the day.”
The psalm opens with a question, but it isn’t really seeking an answer. It’s an exposure. Why do you boast of evil?—as if the very act of boasting is already evidence of something deeply broken. There is a kind of confidence that does not come from strength, but from the absence of fear, shame, or accountability. And the psalmist refuses to let that confidence go unchallenged.
What steadies me immediately is the contrast in the verse itself. Human evil may boast loudly, but it is set against something far older and far stronger: the steadfast love of God. That love doesn’t boast. It endures. All day. Uninterrupted. While harm comes and goes, God’s faithfulness remains constant, quietly holding the world together.
“Your tongue plots destruction, like a sharp razor, you worker of deceit.”
Now the focus narrows—from pride to speech. From posture to practice. The psalmist names the weapon: the tongue. Words that don’t merely slip, but plot. This is intentional harm. And the image of a razor feels painfully accurate—clean, precise, efficient. No mess. No noise. Just damage.
As I sit with this, I can’t help but think of how deeply words shape us. How lies, once spoken, linger long after the voice is gone. A razor doesn’t bruise; it cuts. And deceit works the same way—quietly severing trust, truth, and peace while pretending to be harmless conversation.
“You love evil more than good, and lying more than speaking what is right.”
This verse slows everything down. The issue isn’t a mistake. It’s love. You love evil more than good. That’s a terrifying sentence—not because it’s dramatic, but because it’s honest. Evil here isn’t accidental; it’s preferred. Chosen. And that distinction matters.
I find myself examining my own heart here—not with condemnation, but with humility. What do I love when no one is watching? What do I defend? What do I excuse? This psalm doesn’t let us stay distant observers for long. It invites reflection even as it confronts injustice.
“You love all words that devour, O deceitful tongue.”
The final image lingers: words that devour. Not just wound, but consume. This is speech that takes life rather than giving it. And the psalmist names it without softening the edge. Because sometimes, clarity is an act of mercy.
Yet even here, beneath the weight of these verses, the earlier line still echoes: the steadfast love of God endures all the day. Evil may devour, but it does not get the final word. Truth may feel quieter, slower, less impressive—but it is rooted in a love that outlasts every lie.
This first movement of the psalm teaches us how to see clearly: to name harm, to grieve deceit, and to resist the temptation to believe that loudness equals strength. As we move forward in this psalm, that clarity will become the ground for hope—but first, we’re invited to sit honestly with what is wrong, trusting that God already sees it too.
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