Somebody Whistle

Holy Saturday

Psalm 22

Lord, my salvation, You, O God, supplied; All day and night before You I have cried.
O let my prayer before Your presence rise; Your ear incline to hear my pleading cries.

My soul is full of anxious cares and gloom; My weary life draws near the silent tomb.
I count as those that to the pit descend; I’m like the man whose strength is at an end.

As one cast off among the dead am I; I’m like the slain ones in the grave that lie;
Whom You do not remember anymore; Those cut off from Your hand where none restore.

By You within the lowest pit I’m laid; In deeps and in the place of darkest shade.
On me Your anger pressed down heavily; And all Your breaking waves afflicted me.

My former friends You have estranged from me; Yes, their abhorrence You have made me be.
Shut up am I; Imprisoned here must stay; Through deep distress my eyes both waste away.

O Lord, I’ve daily called upon Your name; Spread forth my hands Your gracious help to claim;
Will You Your wonders make the dead to know? And shall the dead arise, Your praise to show?

Shall Your great love be in the grave extolled? Your faithfulness be in destruction told?
In darkness will Your wonders be confessed? Where mem’ries fade, who knows Your righteousness?

But unto You, O Lord, for help I’ve cried; My prayer shall rise to You with morning light.
O Lord, why cast my soul away from You? Why do You keep Your face hid from my view?

From youth I’ve been distressed, about to die; Your terrors I have born, distraught was I.
Your burning anger over me has passed; Your terrors all have cut me off at last.

All day like floods, Your terrors ’round me surged; They cover me, by them I’ve been submerged.
By You I am of all my friends bereft; From those who loved me, I’m in darkness left.

CONSIDER THIS . . .

It’s Saturday