The Psalmist’s Wrath and Redemption

Beneath the lectern’s brazen chains,
Like manacles on Samson’s veins,
The Psalmist kneels on hallowed stone,
His heart a threshing floor, alone.
Each curse he binds, like sheaves of wheat,
Confession spills, a mercy seat.
His whispered sins, like myrrh, ascend,
A fragrant smoke where altars mend.
The air hums low with seraph’s dread,
His soul, a scroll, in anguish read.

Unclasp the irons—scripture wakes!
A torrent like the Jordan breaks.
The Psalmist wails, his sins a flood,
His guilt a stain of crimson blood.
No lamb he slays, no meek refrain—
His voice a gale, his cry a bane.
He hurls his curses, sharp as thorns,
Like David’s sling at Goliath’s scorn.
His enemies, like chaff, shall flee,
Their doom a blaze on Kedar’s tree.
Deliverance rides on cherub’s wing,
A sword of fire, a victor’s spring.

O chains of law, or freedom’s flame?
The lectern splits, consumed by name.
The Word, a lion, leaps unbound,
Its roar shakes heaven, shakes the ground.
Through ash and glory, truth shall reign,
A psalm of dust, of joy, of pain.