Kingdom Seekers Circle

Emotional Meditation—By Micah Siemens

“Destroy, O Lord, divide their tongues; for I see violence and strife in the city.” (v.9)

The tone shifts here—not away from pain, but deeper into it. The psalmist looks outward now, and what he sees is chaos layered upon chaos. Violence isn’t isolated; it’s woven into the streets, the systems, the daily rhythm of life. The city—meant to be a place of shared safety—has become unstable ground.

But the real wound is still waiting beneath the surface.

“Day and night they go around it on its walls, and iniquity and trouble are within it; ruin is in its midst; oppression and fraud do not depart from its marketplace.” (vv.10–11)

This is what sustained corruption feels like. It never sleeps. It circles constantly. And emotionally, that’s what drains a soul—not just one act of harm, but the sense that there is no place untouched by it. Even the marketplace, the ordinary place of exchange and trust, has been hollowed out.

Then the psalm turns—and the blade goes deeper.

“For it is not an enemy who taunts me—then I could bear it; it is not an adversary who deals insolently with me—then I could hide from him.” (v.12)

There is something devastating about this admission. Some wounds make sense. Some betrayals fit the narrative. But this one doesn’t. ‘I could bear it if it were an enemy.’ That line carries so much weight. Because betrayal from a distance hurts—but betrayal from proximity undoes.

“But it is you, a man, my equal, my companion, my familiar friend.” (v.13)

The psalm slows here, almost reluctantly. Each phrase lands heavier than the last. My equal. My companion. My familiar friend. This wasn’t casual. This was shared life. Shared language. Shared trust. And that’s what makes the betrayal unbearable. I feel this deeply. There is a particular grief reserved for the person who knew your heart and still chose harm. The kind of wound that makes you question not just others—but yourself.

“We used to take sweet counsel together; within God’s house we walked in the throng.” (v.14)

This is sacred betrayal. Faith-shared betrayal. And that adds another layer of pain. Because now even holy spaces feel compromised. Memories become haunted. What once felt safe becomes fragile. And the psalmist doesn’t rush past that. He lets the loss be named.

“Let death steal over them; let them go down to Sheol alive; for evil is in their dwelling place and in their heart.” (v.15)

These words are severe—and they’re meant to be. This is not a polished prayer. It is raw. Unfiltered. Born from the shock of being deeply wronged by someone trusted. And while we may struggle with the language, it reminds us that Scripture makes room for grief that doesn’t yet know how to sound gentle. This second movement teaches us something important: God is not offended by prayers spoken from wounded places. Betrayal doesn’t disqualify us from God’s presence. It often drives us there. Psalm 55 gives voice to a pain many of us carry quietly—the pain of realizing that the deepest cuts often come from hands we once held.

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