With pen in his hand and tune in his ear, he writes unguardedly, the song his soul sings to its Maker that night. The song that resembles nothing my soul has ever dreamed of singing. Arise, O Lord, to judgement. Awake, O Lord, and judge me according to my righteousness.
Arise, O Lord, and judge me? Judge me according to my righteousness? Or lack thereof, I should say. For, every day, I do what I do not want to do and I do not do what I want to do. More often than not, I am who I do not want to be and I am not who I want to be.
David, saved and sainted, but sinner nonetheless, how is this his cry, his song? What did he know that I do not? What had he seen of his Lord that I have not seen of mine?
To pray that my Lord would arise to judge me, what would that take? The gentle assurance that my Father's love is limitless? The faithful assurance that His grace is enough? The joyful sound of His delight-song over me?
Could it be that David somehow knew the depths of the divine love? Did he feel the Closeness I long for? Did he behold the Face I seek? Did he dwell in that perfect Presence?
Lord, come judge me is a prayer I cannot imagine praying. But oh to know the love of a Father so delighted in me that judgement brought no fear or shame. Oh to know and rely on the depths of that love day to day.
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