Psalm 22: The Cry Abandoned and the Praise That Follows

The psalmist opens at the bottom: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, so far from my cries of anguish? The complaint is not philosophical but personal — not 'why does God allow suffering' but 'where are you, the God I have trusted?'

The oscillation begins immediately. Our ancestors trusted you and were delivered. They cried to you and were saved. But I — I am a worm, not a man, scorned by humans, despised by the people. All who see me mock me; they sneer and wag their heads: He trusted in the Lord; let the Lord rescue him.

The psalmist turns to memory: You brought me out of the womb; you made me trust in you, even at my mother's breast. This is not argument but appeal — you have always been there, do not be far from me now. The crisis intensifies: bulls surround him, lions roar at him, he is poured out like water, his bones are all dislocated, his heart has turned to wax, his mouth is dry as dust. Dogs surround him; a band of evil men has encircled him; they have pierced his hands and feet.

He asks God not to be far off. Not to be far. The plea has no conditions.

Then, without explanation or narrative transition, the psalm turns. For he has not despised or scorned the suffering of the afflicted one; he has not hidden his face from him but has listened to his cry for help. The reversal is stated as past fact — already accomplished — though nothing in the psalm's surface describes how or when.

The ending expands to cosmic scope: All the ends of the earth will remember and turn to the Lord; all the families of nations will bow down before him. Future generations will be told about him. People not yet born will hear that he has done it.

The psalm moves from one person's darkness to the whole world's praise. It provides no explanation for the suffering. It provides instead a shape — the shape of a faith that does not pretend the darkness is not dark, but also does not end there.