The regular return to the psalmist’s lament, his unrelenting darkness, his inescapable sense of abandonment — in some odd way I find this comforting. I remember my own need to sit in the lament now and then. Even here, straight-backed in a hard wooden pew where the words of his anguish ricochet off cold stone walls.
Heman ends in despair. His last words do not return to hope. And yet I consider as I listen, as I recite, that though he speaks as though convinced God had stepped out of the room, he continues to pour out his heart, to talk to the one he believes had walked away.
And I wonder if he believes it at all.