Some General Observations
A FEW GENERAL observations about the psalms are in order before beginning our study. Some of these observations have been alluded to in the preface but need to be developed more clearly. Others provide important groundwork for understanding the context of the biblical psalms. All can provide us depth and nuance in interpreting specific psalms as well as the whole collection and in understanding the lives of faith that both produced and continue to employ these ancient compositions.
Collection and Authorship
AS MENTIONED IN the preface, the composition of the individual psalms covers a period of more than eight hundred years. Add to this the time involved in gathering and shaping the Psalter collection and you have almost a millennium. This in itself is remarkable. Consider the differences that have occurred in English language and culture since the time of Geoffrey Chaucer (600 years) and you have only two-thirds of the time span involved in the creation of the psalms! One has only to read the prologue to Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales to discover a clear example of how much language and culture can change in six centuries.
Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote
The droote of Marche hath perced to the roote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour
Whan Zephyrus eke with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in evry holt and heath
The tendre croppes and the younge sunne
Hath in the Ram his halfe course eronne
And smalle foules maken melodie
That slepen all the nicht with open eye
So priketh him nature in her courages
Than longen folkes to goon pilgrimages
And palmeres for to seken stranges strandes
To ferne halwes couth in sondry landes
And specially from evry shires end
Of England to Canterbury they wende
The hooly blissful martyr for to seke
That them hath holpen whan that they were sick.
The book of Psalms then represents the end result of a long history of composition, transmission, collection, and arrangement. It contains some of the earliest and some of the latest texts in the Old Testament and is in a sense a microcosm of the whole Old Testament corpus. This is not a book that trickled off the tip of the pen of a single author. It is, like so many of the Old Testament books, a collection of compositions by many different authors in many different times and settings. It even bears within itself evidence of earlier psalms collections. Psalms 3–42 surely represent an earlier collection of Davidic psalms, as their headings attest. Psalms 120–134 all share the common heading “Psalm of Ascent,” probably a much later collection of psalms sung by pilgrims on their way to Jerusalem. The Asaph psalms (50; 73–83) and the psalms of the Sons of Korah (42; 44–49; 84–85; 87–88) probably represent the remains of collections of songs written by these two guilds of temple singers.
At a later date, toward the end of the B.C. period, more and more psalms were assumed to have been written by David. The Greek translation of the Old Testament (the Septuagint, abbreviated LXX) expands Davidic authorship by supplying a number of additional psalm headings in which David is explicitly mentioned. The Qumran Psalms Scroll, treasured and preserved by the sectarian community who lived at a desert commune on the northwest edge of the Dead Sea from the second century B.C. until A.D. 70, “davidizes” the Psalter even further by adding more Davidic headings, new psalms attributed to him, and a prose statement celebrating David as prophet and author of 4,050 psalms and songs. It is little wonder that by the time of the New Testament writings, this growing collection, despite clear reference to other authors throughout, could be referred to as David (Heb. 4:7). Indeed, the Jewish rabbis came ultimately to affirm the Davidic authorship of all the 150 canonical psalms.
This assumption that David composed all the psalms in the book of Psalms remains with us today despite clear evidence for other authors in the psalm headings themselves and the lack of certainty whether these references (where they exist) always indicate authorship. The easy and exhaustive assumption of Davidic authorship can obscure references in some psalms to events or settings long after the death of David and inhibit rather than aid our interpretation of them. Also at risk is our appreciation of the long history of psalm composition that parallels the life of the nation Israel from beginning to end, from monarchy to Exile and beyond.
A VARIETY OF names has been applied to this book, each of which reflects a distinct way of viewing the collection over the ages. One of the earliest titles took its departure from the Davidic character of nearly half of the psalms. As early as the New Testament period, then, it was possible to refer to this collection as “David,” in deference to its primary author. This is not surprising in light of the growing tendency (at Qumran and among the rabbis) to attribute more and more psalms to David. It is, however, not a completely apt title for such a diverse collection, and it is not unexpected that this form of reference did not last, despite the continuing assumption, up to the present, of the Davidic authorship of the psalms.
What this early designation may indicate is the existence of a precanonical form of the book of Psalms that was made up almost entirely of Davidic psalms. The first two books of the Psalter (Pss. 3–72) may well embody this early Davidic collection, the conclusion of which is marked out by a postscript (the only such postscript in the whole Psalter) in 72:20: “This concludes the prayers of David son of Jesse.” While it is true that even these two books are not exclusively Davidic (Book 2 contains one psalm ascribed to Asaph and a series attributed to the Sons of Korah), the collection both begins and ends with Davidic psalms, and the concluding postscript emphasizes the Davidic character of the whole.1
Almost equally contemporary to the Davidic title is the practice of referring to the individual compositions with the general designation “psalms.” This form of designation is also known in the New Testament (Acts 13:33). The term psalm is derived from the Greek psalmos, which was the regular LXX translation for the Hebrew genre term mizmor, which appears frequently in the psalm headings. Mizmor means “a composition/song performed to musical accompaniment”; psalmos is similar in meaning, designating a “song sung to the accompaniment of the harp.” The Hebrew is not as specific as the Greek in describing the nature of the accompanying instrument, nor does it claim to describe all the compositions included in the book of Psalms.
It is from the Greek reference to the individual psalms that the more current title for the collection as the book of Psalms is taken. Despite its longevity, however, this title remains somewhat inadequate as a designation for all the diverse compositions included in the book. It is certainly not clear that all the canonical psalms were originally intended to be accompanied by the harp. The psalm headings offer a large variety of types of compositions and indicate a number of instruments to be employed in accompaniment. Regardless of these deficiencies, the title book of Psalms does have the advantage of being a more inclusive general designation with the weight of extensive historical and traditional usage.
Within the Hebrew Bible, from the earliest period, the common designation for the collection of canonical psalms was tehillim (“praises”). The term is taken from the same root hll, from which the frequent call to praise Yahweh (hallelujah) that punctuates the final third of the Psalter is derived. Once again, however, the term seems inadequate to describe the full range of the contents of the Psalter, since the book is replete with laments, wisdom psalms, historical poems, and other compositions that defy this designation.
It is interesting in light of this Hebrew title that the final third of the book of Psalms is dominated by the appearance of praise and thanksgiving psalms, in strong contrast to the first two-thirds of the book, where lament psalms strongly predominate.2 The decision to characterize the whole collection as “praises” may be influenced by this decisive movement from lament to praise, so clearly illustrated by the final grouping of the Hallelujah Psalms (146–150). While the title does not adequately indicate the nature of all the compositions in the book, it does capture the effect of the theological arrangement of the psalms in the book, which in the final analysis does become a book of praise in full awareness of and in spite of the experience of lament and sorrow in life. This is an important point to which I will return at a later point in a discussion of the shape of the Psalter and its theological import.
So, these different ways of titling the book of Psalms offer us competing ways of understanding the contents of this book. For the Christian Scriptures, the attempt was and is to employ the title “Psalms” in order to provide a more general description of the nature of the psalms that emphasizes their character as songs to be sung. This is hardly surprising in light of the early use of musical versions of the psalms for singing as an important part of Christian worship (cf. Eph. 5:19; Col. 3:16) and the continuation of that practice through the use of metrical psalms throughout the centuries since. In contrast, the Hebrew title (tehillim) highlights the overall effect of the collection with its movement from lament to praise, establishing the confidence and hope that despite the suffering realized in life, Yahweh’s final word is always deliverance and benefit worthy of our most extravagant praise.
As for the use of the title “David” to characterize the whole Psalter, it is true that David assumes an important role in relation to the collection of the psalms. From the significant number of psalms attributed to him (whether in the canonical collection, the LXX, or the Qumran Psalms Scroll), to the editorial shaping of the first two books as the prayers of David (cf. 72:20), to the distribution of Davidic psalms through the whole canonical collection, to the influence of the Davidic covenant on the editorial shaping of the final Psalter, the book of Psalms is in a real sense (without assuming the Davidic authorship of all 150 psalms) the Book of David.
As to the exact referent of the allusion in Hebrews 4:7, my study of the shaping of the final canonical collection (see the essays on “The Shape of the First Three Books” and “The Shape of the Psalter as a Whole” in vol. 2 of this commentary) suggests that the author of Hebrews may have had in mind an earlier form of the book of Psalms complete only through Book 2 (Ps. 72) or Book 3 (Ps. 89), where the Davidic motif is most strongly maintained. The subsequent addition of Books 4 and 5 (perhaps as late as the end of the first century A.D.) would have changed the character of the whole and opened the door to new titles, reflecting alternative ways of understanding the Psalter.
The Historical Use of the Psalms
MOST OFTEN TODAY, when we think of the psalms, we understand them as ancient models of private prayer spoken by individuals to God. The fact that we can still consider all 150 psalms the products of David, regardless of evidence to the contrary, is proof that belief in the private, personal nature of the psalms is still alive today. As the prayers of ancient individuals, the psalms can either be inspiring models that we adapt profitably for our own personal life of prayer, or they can be puzzling or even offensive proclamations from an alien land—difficult if not impossible for us to relate to.
It is true that over the centuries of their use the psalms have been viewed this way and have come to serve fruitfully as models for our own prayer life, and our tendency is to think of the psalms in this way—as if they were simply written by private individuals for use in their personal prayer closets, so to speak. But such a view misunderstands the very public nature of most of these compositions and misses out on a wealth of interpretive detail that can be drawn from their original function and setting.
Origin in Temple Worship
SCHOLARS GENERALLY AGREE today that most of the psalms (some even say all) were composed, not for private prayer, but for public performance in the temple worship of ancient Israel. If this is so, then even the individual psalms were not composed simply for private use but were intended to be presented—performed, if you will—within community worship. Many of the notices in the psalm headings lend support to this view. Some appear to be instructions to the music director (lamnaṣṣeaḥ, “to the director”), describing the type of composition (mizmor, maśkil, tehillah, šir hammaʿalot, etc.), appropriate instrumentation (binginot, “for the strings”; haggittit, “the Gittite harp”), the tune (ʿal ʾayyelet haššahar, “according to the Gazelle of the Dawn”; ʿal yonat-ʾelem-reḥoqim, “according to the Dove of the Distant Terebinth”), and even the musical tuning to be followed (ʿal haššeminit, “according to the eighth”). It is clear from these notices that many of the psalms were traditionally used as performance pieces during the worship services of ancient Israel.
Some of the psalm headings even include mention of specific worship settings. For instance, the heading of Psalm 100 contains the phrase “For the todah [thanksgiving offering].” The best explanation seems to be that this psalm was composed to accompany the presentation of the todah or thanksgiving offering celebrating divine deliverance from some distress. A similar reference is found in Psalms 38 and 70: “For the hazkir [memorial offering].” Following the same pattern, Psalm 30 was performed “At the Dedication of the House,” possibly a reference to the dedication of the temple of Solomon or some later restoration of that edifice after the Exile. Psalm 92 declares itself “A psalm. A song. For the Sabbath day.”
Another support for this idea of public use of the psalms in worship is the mention in the headings of twenty-four psalms of several guilds of temple singers (Asaph: 50; 73–83; the Sons of Korah: 42; 44–49; 84–85; 87–88; Heman: 88; and Ethan: 89), who are described in the accounts of 1 and 2 Chronicles as part of the official worship structure of the temple from the time of David and Solomon on. The name of another singer known from Chronicles, Jeduthun (cf. 1 Chron. 16:41–42; 2 Chron. 5:12), also appears several times in the psalm headings, but always in connection with another author name (Pss. 39 and 62: “a psalm of David”; 77: “a psalm of Asaph”), so that the significance of the word yedutun in these circumstances must be questioned. The appearance of so many names so clearly associated with the official organization of the musical worship of the Jerusalem temple adds weight to the view that many of the psalms originated as public performance pieces produced by groups of singers with official oversight of the temple service.
Other psalms open windows into Israel’s worship practices within the body of the psalm itself. In Psalm 42, for example, the speaker recalls “how I used to go with the multitude, leading the procession to the house of God, with shouts of joy and thanksgiving among the festive throng” (42:4). A similar procession is described in 68:24–27:
Your procession has come into view, O God,
the procession of my God and King into the sanctuary.
In front are the singers, after them the musicians;
with them are the maidens playing tambourines.
Praise God in the great congregation;
praise the LORD in the assembly of Israel.
There is the little tribe of Benjamin, leading them,
there the great throng of Judah’s princes,
and there the princes of Zebulun and of Naphtali.
Elsewhere the psalmists mention moments of worship as the context of praise, lament, and thanksgiving.
With my mouth I will greatly extol the LORD;
in the great throng I will praise him. (109:30)
I wash my hands in innocence,
and go about your altar, O LORD,
proclaiming aloud your praise
and telling all your wonderful deeds. (26:6–7)
How can I repay the LORD
for all his goodness to me?
I will lift up the cup of salvation
and call on the name of the LORD.
I will fulfill my vows to the LORD
in the presence of all his people. . . .
I will sacrifice a thank offering to you
and call on the name of the LORD.
I will fulfill my vows to the LORD
in the presence of all his people. (116:12–14, 17–18)
Add to these explicit references the abundant indications of worship performance within the text of the psalms themselves and you have clear evidence of the use of the psalms in the temple worship system. The antiphonal structure of Psalm 136 is best explained by the liturgical demands of worship, where two choirs respond to each other, or leader and congregation answer back and forth. Similarly, in 24:7–10, we hear the voices of worshipers inside the temple compound query the approaching throng that demands entrance:
Lift up your heads, O you gates;
be lifted up, you ancient doors,
that the King of glory may come in.
Who is this King of glory?
The LORD strong and mighty,
the LORD mighty in battle.
Lift up your heads, O you gates;
lift them up, you ancient doors,
that the King of glory may come in.
Who is he, this King of glory?
The LORD Almighty—
he is the King of glory.
All these indications of the liturgical use of the psalms make it difficult to deny that many (if not all) of the psalms originated and enjoyed a long history in the temple worship of ancient Israel. Despite our present tendency to regard the psalms of the canonical collection as private prayers written by individuals in response to personal circumstances, the singing of the psalms through the centuries has continued to reflect the more communal nature of these songs as worship hymns.
From Public Performance to Private Piety
HOW IS IT, then, that these performance pieces intended for presentation in communal worship came to be regarded as private prayers and were used instead as models for the personal prayers of the faithful? Some particularly significant national event would seem to be required to account for such a distinctive shift in use of the psalms—some crucial experience that created a change of national perspective so strong that the original connection of the psalms with temple worship might be forgotten, or at least obscured.
Two such events come readily to mind and have been frequently offered as the occasion behind this change in the understanding and use of the psalms. Both events involve the destruction of the Jerusalem temple and the loss of the temple worship system in which the psalms figured so prominently. Both required a process of national reidentification in response to extreme cultural dislocation. The two events are separated by some 650 years and herald the two major transitional periods in the development of Judaism out of ancient Israelite faith and practice.
The end of the first temple. The first of these two events is the destruction of the first temple (known as the temple of Solomon) at the hands of the invading Babylonian army in 586 B.C. and the subsequent national dislocation of the nation of Israel in the Exile. The temple was razed to the ground, temple worship no longer existed, and the vast majority of Israelite population was transported out of their native land to live out their days in the alien environment of the far reaches of the Babylonian Empire. The kingdom to which they had claimed citizenship no longer existed.
Their passports cancelled, standing on unfamiliar and hostile ground, forced to take stock of their rather naive earlier faith in Yahweh’s unconditional protective care for his covenant people, exilic Israel underwent a painful reidentification process in order to develop a new understanding of what it meant to be a faithful follower of Yahweh. The devastating pain of the Exile and its effect on the Israelites and their use of the psalms can be heard clearly in the harsh and grating language of Psalm 137.
By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept
when we remembered Zion.
There on the poplars
we hung our harps,
for there our captors asked us for songs,
our tormentors demanded songs of joy;
they said, “Sing us one of the songs of Zion!”
How can we sing the songs of the LORD
while in a foreign land? (137:1–4)
Unfortunately, we have little historical material that describes the life of exilic Israelites during this time. Ezra, Nehemiah, Daniel, and Esther offer but tantalizing glimpses of Israel in captivity, practicing their faith in a hostile environment. We do know that most of the Old Testament as we now have it was written or shaped during this period. We can discover traces of the reidentification process that led the exilic Israelites into Judaism in the way the historical books Samuel through Kings interpret the monarchical experience and explain why it came to ruin. We can learn about the issues that concerned the exilic community when we read the prophets, especially their hopes for the future.
We even know that it was during the Exile that the synagogue arose as a local center for Jewish political, social, and religious cohesion. Isolated in the midst of a foreign nation, far from everything familiar and comforting, exilic Jews faced the siren’s call of assimilation to the majority culture and founded the synagogue as a hedge against the loss of their identity—their very soul. It is true that by the time of Jesus in the first century A.D., the synagogue was a well-established institution with regular Sabbath services. But exactly when it began is still something of a mystery, and what its services were like remains a matter of conjecture and debate.
What we do know is that the synagogue became the site for the collection, interpretation, preservation, application, and transmission of the growing biblical corpus. In light of the exilic experience, the Jewish community, gathered around synagogues throughout the world, selected and shaped the holy writings of Hebrew Scripture to help their dispersed nation understand what it meant to be faithful followers of their ancestral God, Yahweh, in their new circumstances.
Among the materials collected, sifted, and preserved as part of this incipient collection of Scripture were most certainly the psalms. When the Jerusalem temple was destroyed in 586 B.C., temple worship—and, by extension, the performance of the psalms—ceased as well. It is in this setting that the first step in the remarkable shift in the way the psalms were perceived and used was taken. It became important to record them, preserve them, and transmit them safe until their use would be restored. If you could no longer sing them in communal worship, you could study them for what Yahweh wished to teach you, and their laments, praises, and thanksgivings served as models of personal piety that remained at the same time poignant reminders of what had been lost and hopeful imagining of what would one day be restored. The early collections in the Psalter (David, Asaph, Sons of Korah) may reflect this initiative to collect and preserve. The notations in the psalm headings reflect similar concern to pass on details of performance to future generations of the faithful.
In other words, in response to the loss of the temple and temple worship the perception of the psalms began to shift from public performance pieces to written Scripture, to be studied for insight into the ongoing life of the exilic Jewish community. While it is likely that the exilic experience began the process of understanding the temple worship psalms as written Scripture, it is less likely that the seventy-year period between the destruction of the first temple by the Babylonians and the restoration of worship in the second temple during the time of Ezra and Nehemiah was sufficient to obliterate completely the memory of the psalms as temple worship songs. It is clear that new, postexilic psalms were added to the preexilic collections, since some have found their way into the canonical Psalter (e.g., Ps. 137). The Ascent Psalms (120–134) are most certainly psalms sung by exilic Jews on pilgrimage to the restored Jerusalem temple. Thus, with the resumption of temple worship, the psalms resumed their place as an important part of the communal worship experience.
So, if the exilic period does not represent the final impetus for the psalms becoming Scripture rather than performance pieces, when did sufficient time exist to allow for the transition? When would the psalms be so removed from communal worship performance that the musical notations and instructions in the psalm headings could become vague and obscure terminology, as they clearly have in the LXX? This leads us to the discussion of the second cataclysmic event that forced a further reidentification process on worldwide Judaism.
The demise of the second temple. As the first event described involves the destruction of the first temple by the Babylonians, so the second event, some 650 years later, was precipitated by the destruction of the second temple (also known as Herod’s temple), this time by the Romans in A.D. 70. As in the first instance, the destruction of the second temple also meant the cessation of temple worship and the use of the psalms in this context. The effects of this second disruption were much more far-reaching than the first. The second temple was built only seventy years after the destruction of the first. From the time of the Roman destruction until the present day, however, there has been no restoration of the temple or temple worship—almost two thousand years later!
The destruction of the second temple and the long-term cessation of the temple worship system confronted worldwide Judaism with another reidentification problem equivalent to that faced in the Exile. Prior to A.D. 70, the Jewish community had retained hopes of reestablishing the national identity they had lost in the sixth century B.C. This dream was fostered by the success of the Maccabees and Hasmoneans in the second and first centuries B.C. and encouraged numerous rebellions against foreign rule by Zealot groups in the first century A.D. It was one such rebellion, beginning about A.D. 67, that occasioned the Roman suppression that resulted in the destruction of the second temple.
Not all parts of the Jewish community agreed that violent overthrow of foreign overlords was the appropriate response. At least one influential member of first century A.D. Judaism, Yoḥanan ben Zakkai, argued forcefully that dedicated piety and pacifistic waiting for divine intervention ought to replace the Zealots’ violent attempts to overthrow Roman rule and to force Yahweh’s hand by their bold action. Yoḥanan refused to participate in the rebellion and withdrew to the Roman occupied coastal town Yavneh. From there he was highly influential in the restructuring of Judaism in the aftermath of the destruction of the second temple. It was also here that the final debates regarding the contents of the last section of the Hebrew Bible, the Writings (of which the Psalms are a part), were carried out in the concluding decades of the first century.
Yoḥanan’s program was simple, but it has provided the defining structure of orthodox Judaism ever since. According to Yoḥanan, faithful followers of Yahweh, wherever they live, are to demonstrate their faith through regular prayer, good deeds, and study of Scripture, while waiting for God to intervene in their behalf, in his own time. These “sacrifices” of pious living form an adequate replacement for the lacking temple worship system until God sees fit to restore the temple. Yoḥanan’s discouraged active rebellion against Rome but encouraged the Jewish community to maintain their distinct identity as a religious minority set apart from majority culture by their dress, customs, and religious practices.
Yoḥanan’s encouragement to pacifist submission to Roman rule was not easy for any of the Jewish community to accept—especially the Zealots. But when the Bar Kokhba rebellion between A.D. 132 and 135 met equally swift retribution from Rome and was mercilessly crushed, the wisdom of Yoḥanan’s teaching sank home at last. Through this change in focus from communal worship to personal piety and public performance in the temple to study and meditation on Scripture, the authority for everyday Jewish life shifted from the priestly celebrants involved in temple worship to the rabbis, learned scholars who immersed themselves in Scripture and thus were best able to interpret its application to the ongoing needs of life.
It is in this environment that the final impetus to reunderstand the psalms as written texts of Scripture to be studied and meditated upon, both as models for personal prayer and as sources of divine guidance for daily living, took place. What had begun in response to the devastations of the Exile was now brought to completion in response to the lasting destruction and reorientation of A.D. 70. From this point on, the psalms, while retaining in their headings memories of their liturgical usage in temple worship, were firmly established and even emphasized as texts to be read and studied as the Word of God to humans.
In my opinion, the canonical arrangement of the book of Psalms preserves clues of these two formative historical events in its shaping. The core of the first three books (Pss. 1–89), with their shared focus on authorship collections, reflects the response to the first cataclysmic event of the Exile. The final two books (Pss. 90–150) and the final shaping of the whole Psalter are a later response to the events occurring toward the end of the first century A.D.
Christian Adoption of the Psalms
UP TO THIS point I have been speaking of the use of the psalms within the Jewish community. With the advent of Christianity in the last half of the first century A.D., Christian use of the psalms shares some similarities with Jewish usage while at the same time exhibiting some distinctives. I have already mentioned that the early Christians were known to sing the psalms as part of their worship (Eph. 5:19; Col. 3:16). This is hardly surprising, given the origin of early Christianity within Judaism and the common practice of Jewish Christians to worship regularly in the synagogue and temple.
Christians also shared with their non-Christian Jewish contemporaries a desire to employ Scripture as a means to understand God’s will for their present circumstances. For Jew and Christian alike ancient Scripture continued to speak a guiding message into each new time and circumstance. Both communities searched the prophets to understand present history. This is particularly illustrated by the scriptural interpretation of the Qumran community, who explained details of their own sectarian history by recourse to a pastiche of biblical passages distinctively interpreted in their pesherim (commentaries), including the Qumran Psalms Scroll and the fragmentary commentaries on the psalms discovered among the Dead Sea Scrolls.
In the Christian New Testament, no book is cited more often as a warrant for understanding the life of Jesus than the book of Psalms. Particularly influential are Psalms 2 and 22, which mirror the two sides of Jesus that the church came to regard as key to understanding his work: his messianic sonship (Ps. 2) and his vicarious, sacrificial death (Ps. 22). But pride of place certainly goes to the messianic interpretations of Psalm 110, the most frequently cited psalm in the entire New Testament. Thus, in the end, while Jews and Christians shared a reverence for the psalms as Scripture and a method of engaging them for contemporary guidance, the Christian use of the psalms to buttress their claims about Jesus must have represented a major point of separation.
Through the past nineteen centuries, Christian use of the psalms has continued to recognize the three distinctive elements of their character that we have mentioned above. (1) The psalms serve as guides to personal, private prayer. (2) They continue to find their way into Christian worship through liturgy and through metrical versions for singing. When the psalms themselves are not sung directly, they often form the basis of many hymns and praise choruses. (3) Finally, the psalms still serve as a scriptural resource for the divine Word of God speaking to our present circumstances.
The Poetry of the Psalms
Understanding Poetic Conventions
I DON’T KNOW what you think about poetry. Many people either love it or hate it. Some find it moving and compelling, while others simply do not understand it. Some respond to poetry emotionally, while others appreciate the technical skill by which poets choose and arrange their words to create alternative worlds of powerful vision.
Regardless of your evaluation of the poetic form, if you are like most people, you have some sense of it—some idea of what makes it poetry and not prose. Your experience may be limited to childhood nursery rhymes and juvenile doggerel. Or you may have studied poetry broadly and deeply, in school or privately. You may even be a poet yourself.
A poem is not a laundry list or a legal document. Nor is it a novel or a letter, although these latter may have “poetic” moments—when they share some of the distinctive qualities of poetry. Part of this distinctive character of poetry we recognize intuitively. To this I will return directly. But mostly we recognize poetry because it corresponds to a body of conventions that sets it apart—that distinguishes poetry from other forms of written (and spoken) communication. Most of these conventions we have learned, either picking them up casually through exposure to poetry or formally through a direct process of instruction.
In the Western world, dominated by Eurocentric ways of thinking, three primary conventions have characterized classic poetic composition: rhyme, rhythm, and meter. Rhyme, the use of similar or identical sounds to conclude multiple lines of poetry, is perhaps the more obvious poetic technique:
I never saw a purple cow.
I never hope to see one,
But, I can tell you anyhow,
I’d rather see than be one!3
The arrangement of rhymes within a poem—whether on successive or more distant lines, or even within a line—enables the poet to introduce variety into the composition, to establish controlled, regular movement, or in some instances to define the nature of the poetic form and distinguish it from other similar ones. All sonnets, for example, are made up of fourteen lines of poetry of identical meter. How the lines are grouped and how the rhymes are distributed among the lines reflect formal patterns that clearly distinguish English (Shakespearean) sonnets from their Italian (Petrarchan) counterparts.
A second obvious (though less obvious than rhyme!) poetic convention that characterizes classic Western poetry is rhythm—the attempt to regularize various combinations of stressed and unstressed syllables in poetic lines. Such concerns are actually reflective of the originally oral character of poetry, since this kind of stress and lack of stress is only operative in spoken language. All spoken language naturally employs a variety of combinations of stressed and unstressed syllables (to avoid any stress in speech is to be monotone and is considered peculiar or unnatural). Classical Western poetry differs from normal speech by limiting the appearance of stress and unstress to a controlled and regular pattern.
Two frequently employed forms of poetic rhythm can serve to illustrate the point. In the first example the rhythm is made up of a series of single unstressed syllables [x], each of which is followed immediately by a single stressed syllable [/]. The result, if exaggerated slightly, produces a rather rocking rhythm and is formally described as iambic rhythm. (Notice also the use of rhyme in alternating lines.)
Dactylic rhythm provides a suitable contrast to the previous example. In this second form of rhythm, a single stressed syllable is followed immediately by two unstressed syllables.
Other common types of poetic rhythm include trochaic (a single stressed syllable followed by a single unstressed syllable [/ x]) and anapestic (two unstressed syllables followed by a single stressed syllable [x x /].
Along with rhythm, meter provides the basis for a formal analysis of poetic rhythm in combination with line length. In metrical description, each occurrence of the regular rhythmic pattern is considered a foot. The name of the pattern (iambic, anapestic, dactylic, etc.) combined with the number of feet in a given line is considered the meter of that line. Our first example above is composed of single unstressed syllables followed by single stressed syllables. This is the iambic pattern. Lines 1 and 3 each contain four repetitions (feet) of this pattern and are therefore described as iambic tetrameter. Lines 2 and 4 have only three feet and represent what is called iambic trimeter.
Shakespeare’s favorite meter was iambic pentameter—five repetitions of the iambic pattern described above in each line. Most of his plays employ this convention, subtly spreading the lines with their characteristic meter across the dialogue. Other poets have employed a variety of metrical combinations to achieve creative effects. Witness the opening passage of Longfellow’s The Highwayman, which uses varied meter to mimic the galloping gait of the highwayman’s steed.
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees
The moon was a ghostly galleon, tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor
When the highwayman came riding, riding, riding,
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.
We might think of these conventions as “rules” that must be followed to create poetry. As children we often follow them slavishly to create youthful celebrations of fancy, fantasy, and love. Only later do we come to a more mature understanding that these “rules” of poetry are in reality only our after-the-fact attempts to describe what poets do and so to bring order to our understanding of poetry. Poets are wont to rebel against too much convention as stultifying to their artistic creativity. One important “rule” of poetic convention is that rules may be stretched and even broken to achieve a desired effect.
Modern poetry frequently departs from all these poetic conventions. Blank verse, for example, retains both rhythm and meter (iambic pentameter) but avoids rhyme altogether. Free verse, on the other hand, demonstrates no regular rhythm, rhyme, or meter, preferring to conform the poetic structure of a poem only to the expressive needs of the poet. Obvious poetic conventions are left behind along with the most recognizable landmarks of poetry. The distinction between poetry and prose becomes more difficult to observe and to articulate.
It may be difficult, but for the most part it remains possible to recognize poetry. A poem is still a poem and not a grocery list. Even without signposts it may be possible to tell what part of the country you are in. So, even without obvious rhyme, rhythm, and meter, one can distinguish a poetic composition from its more prosaic counterpart. It is at this point that those more intuitive characteristics I mentioned before become important. Let me mention just two of these that I have found helpful: imagery and compression.
Because poetry is essentially an oral medium, relying on a memorable word and a receptive ear, it is filled with vivid imagery to tease the ear and engage the visual and emotional receptors of the brain rather than the merely rational. While it is true that prose can and does employ imagery, poetry far exceeds prose in the amount of imagery it exhibits. For prose, imagery is a subsidiary tool trotted out in support of the author’s primary object. With poetry, however, imagery is the dominant stock in trade to cement the poet’s ideas securely in the mind and heart of the hearers.
Together with imagery compression offers a second intuitive way we distinguish poetry. I know of no better illustration of compression than to observe carefully how most modern translations of the Bible present poetry and prose on the printed page. If you turn in your Bible to, say, Genesis 6 (the beginning of the Flood narrative), you will find the page covered with type from margin to margin—perhaps in columns, but still consistently filled with type.
Now turn to Psalm 119, Proverbs 14, or Isaiah 60. You will immediately notice considerably more white space on these pages—less type. The difference is that, while the Genesis text is prose, these last three are set in poetic lines. The lines of poetry are relatively equal in length and considerably shorter than the sentences found in the prose section. That begins to give a sense of what I mean by compression. Poets choose their words carefully. They seek just the right words to communicate their meanings with power and punch. Not just any word will do.
Prose is more expansive, achieving clarity of meaning by adding words and sentences to define and refine meaning. But poetry tends to be more concise, relying on the power of words rightly chosen and arranged to communicate the desired effect. The result is compression—tightly constructed lines of similar length, with an economy of carefully selected words.
Because of compression, poetry often seems condensed and powerful. Reading a poem can be a little like eating a spoonful of honey directly from the jar. The experience can be overpowering and unsettling. Each word is important and contributes to the whole. None can be lightly exchanged without altering the effect of the whole. That is part of the purpose of poetry. The careful selection and arrangement of words can have a powerful effect on the reader—recreating a spiritual, emotional, and intellectual world in which one is challenged to see, feel, and understand differently.
But because of compression, poetry is also less able to explain and refine its meaning than is prose. Poetry must rely on the effect of its words and images to carry meaning. Thus, poetry can sometimes be more ambiguous and difficult to follow. Because of the compression of meaning into few words, things are not “spelled out,” and the concentrated words may offer more than one possibility for interpretation. That is the beauty (and sometimes the frustration) of poetry. Often, it can take as much care to understand good poetry as it does to construct it!
The Art of Hebrew Poetry
FROM THE PREVIOUS discussion it is clear that poetry operates within a set of conventions that shape it, provide boundaries for it, and ultimately distinguish it from other forms of oral and written speech—in particular, prose. These conventions, whether overt and obvious (e.g., rhyme, rhythm, and meter) or more subtle (e.g., use of imagery or compression), provide the artistic structures that challenge the poet’s task. Ultimately these conventions, along with a poet’s acceptance, implementation, and even resistance to them, conspire together to define the borders of the poetic act that allows us, the readers, to recognize a poem for what it is.
It would be simpler, I suppose, if all cultures adopted the same set of poetic conventions. (Simpler, but not so creatively rich and exciting!) We would then be able to transfer our poetic understanding and appreciation (or lack thereof!) across cultural and linguistic boundaries. But different cultures and different peoples—separated by place and time—step to distinctively different poetic rhythms and conventions. In each society, poetry operates by canons of conventions distinct from prose, but those conventions are not necessarily shared from society to society, culture to culture.
The Hebrew poetry of the Bible, of which the book of Psalms is an important part, is no exception. It conforms to a group of poetic conventions that give it shape and character, and these conventions distinguish it from Hebrew prose. In some of its more subtle characteristics (e.g., use of imagery, compression), Hebrew poetry has much in common with universal poetic expression. Even some of its more specific stylistic features (to be discussed below) find counterparts in the poetry of other cultures. But by and large, most of the explicit conventions of Western poetry discussed above are missing in Hebrew poetry.
Rhyme. For example, Hebrew poetry shows no clear evidence of a purposeful use of rhyme. Occasional occurrences of apparent rhyme are normally the result of parallel structures employing similar verbal forms with the same inflected endings. Such rhymes are the result of grammar and happenstance, not the choice of the author to produce rhyme combinations. Moreover, such occurrences are infrequent.
Meter. While certainly rhythmical, Hebrew poetry has no generally recognized or persuasively demonstrated system of meter. It is generally agreed that Hebrew poetry did exercise certain limitations on the length of lines. Thus it is possible to observe a relative balance between poetic lines. The use of ballast components to compensate for ellipses in parallel lines is another indication that poetic lines conformed to similar expectations of length. Having admitted this, however, it remains unclear precisely what factors were at work in determining line length.
Of the numerous attempts made to describe and delineate such a metrical system for Hebrew poetry, two deserve particular notice.
Stressed syllables. The earlier of the two systems remains as the more persuasive. Here meter is related to the number of stressed syllables in each poetic line. In spoken communication, almost every word bears some stress in pronunciation. The stressed-syllable system makes a distinction between word stress (the stress placed on individual words when spoken singly) and tone stress (the stress placed on groups of words combined together in rapid speech or especially in phrases encountered in singing). Ancient oral poetry was akin to song, and probably much psalmic poetry was intended to be performed with music. Note the combination of words and syllables into phrases in the following examples. In each, phrases are produced composed of two or more independent words that share a single stress in rapid speech. In Psalm 1:1, for example, loʾ-ha-lak, loʾ-ʿa-mad, and loʾ-ya-šab are all combinations of the negative loʾ and a perfect verb form.
ʾaš-re | ha-ʾiš | ʾa-šer |
loʾ-ha-lak | ba-ʿa-ṣat | re-ša-ʿim |
u-be-de-rek | haṭ-ṭa-ʾim | loʾ-ʿa-mad |
u-be-mo-šab | le-ṣim | loʾ-ya-šab |
The phrases grouped together with hyphens (-) represent units that would receive a single stress in singing or rapid speech. Such stress on phrases is called tone stress.
This first theory of Hebrew meter suggests that lines of poetry demonstrate regular patterns of tone stress in their lines. In Psalm 1:1, the number of words in each line, and therefore the number of word stresses, vary from line to line, but the tone stress remains fixed (three per line).
The system is somewhat akin to our own concept of musical “time” with a number of beats per musical passage. A 3/4 time is distinctively different from 4/4 time, as you can tell from singing “Away in a Manger” (3/4) and then “Jingle Bells” (4/4). Clearly the beats accord with musical phrasing, not with individual word stress.
This discussion makes the system sound clear and convincing. I wish it were only so simple. In the real world of Hebrew poetry, it is often difficult, if not impossible, to determine a continuing pattern of meter. Some attribute this to textual corruption in transmission and seek to restore the pattern by textual emendation. It is, however, problematic in my opinion to prove a theory by emending the text when it does not correspond to one’s expectations. It has too often happened that difficult texts are changed “because of the meter,” as the critical notes in BHS frequently demonstrate. Elsewhere it may be that certain elements were intended to stand outside the meter of a poem or that we simply have got the lines or word combinations wrong.
The description of meter based on tone stress does seem to work sometimes, but it cannot be consistently demonstrated in all cases. Thus it remains a tantalizing possibility. Perhaps the most persuasive assessment of the findings is that Hebrew poetry does seem to preserve relative balance in stressed meaning units grouped as phrases. This might reduce the need for perfection in poetic description—perfection that probably exceeds our ability to grasp it, given the long history of transmission of the biblical text and the ancient silence on Hebrew poetic technique.
Having said this, it is clear that relative similarity of line length is present in most Hebrew poetry. It is also clear that intentional patterns involving different line length can be observed and are in some instances significant. One of the clearest of these is the “limping meter” associated with the biblical laments. This form is composed of a three- or four-stress line followed immediately by a line with only two stresses, as in Lamentations 1:1:
ya-še-bah | ba-dad | ha-ʿir-rab-ba-ti-ʿam |
ha-ye-tah | ke-ʾal-ma-nah | |
rab-ba-ti | ba-go-yim | śa-ra-ti-bam-me-di-not |
ha-ye-tah | la-mas |
Some scholars think this rather hobbling rhythm mimicked or even accompanied a limping dance that visibly demonstrated the grieving and suffering of the lamenters.
Syllable counting. The second theory of meter in Hebrew poetry revolves around counting the number of syllables in poetic lines. The idea is that poets created lines containing identical numbers of syllables or at least some regular and recognizable pattern of syllables. This system developed as an alternative to the earlier theory of word stress and in response to that system’s failure to explain consistently all features of biblical poetry.
It is obvious that syllable counting is related to relative balance of line length, but it seeks to bring greater precision to its description. Several significant difficulties face the proponents of this view. (1) Since Hebrew was originally written without indications of vowels, the syllabic structure of this ancient language has always had a certain degree of ambiguity. Add to this the fact that the consonantal text reflects several different dialects of Hebrew across a period of a thousand years or more, and the complexity of the issue becomes immense.
(2) The vocalic system represented in our current Hebrew text was not fully developed until the sixth or seventh century A.D. There are three competing systems of vocalization known (the Tiberian system that is generally employed, the Babylonian system, and the Palestinian system). These alternate attempts to fix pronunciation demonstrate some significant differences in their interpretation of specific texts.
These vocalic systems represent the way these biblical texts were pronounced in the sixth century A.D., and it is clear that pronunciation only imperfectly fits the consonantal text at many points. As a result, attempts to describe the original syllabic structure of poetic texts almost always involves hypothetical reconstruction based on some theory as to how Hebrew was pronounced at the date when the text in question was assumed to have been produced.
Such hypothetical reconstruction is exceedingly complex and offers too much opportunity for manipulation of the text to support one’s theory of syllable counting. This can lead to circular reasoning where the system is “proved” by the emendation of texts because of the demands of the system. For this reason there has been much disagreement, even among proponents of the method, and the theory lacks consistent ability to persuade.
Conclusions. What these two attempts to describe the nature of Hebrew poetic meter do demonstrate is the existence of relative balance in poetic line length. Both systems are able to find supportive examples because there does appear to be some limitation to the length of lines. Lines do not simply run on forever but stay within relative bounds. Beyond this, neither system has yet to provide consistent explanation of all existing texts. While the system based on tone stress seems more persuasive in my opinion, we may have to accept the fact that, because of the historical distance and theoretical ambiguity that stand between us and the text, a full understanding of the ins and outs of Hebrew meter will probably continue to elude our grasp.
Techniques of Hebrew Poetry
OBVIOUSLY, THE HEBREW poets had at their disposal the broad range of literary and stylistic techniques known to poets throughout the ages. Metaphor, simile, personification, onomatopoeia, and more offered each biblical poet ample opportunity to shape and texture individual compositions personally. But without such familiar poetic features as rhyme and meter, Hebrew poetry can often strike us as strange and uncomfortable. As we enter the world of the psalms, therefore, we may feel we have taken a wrong turn and are moving through alien terrain. So, to understand and appreciate the poetry of the biblical psalms, we will need to construct a new map of the land; we will need to become familiar with a new set of conventions that reflect the world of Hebrew poetry in general and of the psalms in particular.
Parallelism. It has long been recognized that the most distinctive characteristic of Hebrew poetry is to be found in the frequent linking of successive lines of poetry in a manner that emphasizes grammatical, structural, and thematic similarities between them. This relationship between lines has been traditionally called parallelism. The sense of this description is that after the statement of an initial line, a second (and sometimes a third) line is generated that shares some obvious grammatical-structural similarities with the first and yet redirects the focus of the first through alternate words and expressions. The close grammatical-structural similarity between lines provides continuity that emphasizes the parallel character of the two lines, while the distinctive phraseology of each phrase lifts the phenomenon beyond mere repetition and offers the opportunity for expansion or advancement on the original line’s meaning.
At least from the time of Robert Lowth’s De sacra poesi Hebraeorum . . . (1753), a relatively standard terminology has been used to describe the variations of parallelism within Hebrew poetry. It is generally agreed today that these terms only inadequately describe the categories under consideration, and in some cases they are even misleading. Although they are well entrenched in the discipline, I will presume to replace them with more accurately descriptive terms here while noting the traditional terms at the first appearance of each.
Affirming parallelism.6 This first of the traditional forms of parallelism comes closest to repetition or restatement. In this case, the second line restates the first in a similar or positive fashion while employing distinctive phraseology. This can approach almost exact repetition in some instances.7
So God created the ʾadam in his image;
in the image of God he created him.
—Genesis 1:27
In this example, except for the rearrangement of parallel elements, the second line restates the first with little advance or addition. Perhaps the phrase “in the image of God” clarifies the more ambiguous “in his image” of the first line, but the overall effect here is repetition for emphasis rather than advancement or refinement of thought.
In other cases the positive parallel of elements between lines is preserved, but the terminology employed in each is more distinctive.
Wash away all my iniquity
and cleanse me from my sin.
—Psalm 51:2
There is close and positive structural parallel between these two lines: similar imperative verbs (“wash away” vs. “cleanse me”) and similar noun constructions (“my iniquity” vs. “my sin”). There is also positive parallel in the meaning of these two lines; washing away my iniquity is much the same as cleansing me from my sin. However, the second line does not simply restate the meaning of the first but advances or expands it by adding new nuances to the thought world created.
Sometimes the advancement offered by the second (or third) line can be quite unexpected and significant. If we return to Genesis 1:27, we will discover that a third line adds another affirming parallelism to the first two.
So God created the ʾadam in his image;
in the image of God he created him;
male and female he created them.
By comparing the related structural elements in these lines (“God created/he created/he created”; “the ʾadam/him/them”; “in his image/in the image of God/male and female”), we conclude that the new phrase in the third line (“male and female”) is intended to expand (in an unexpected way) our understanding of what it means to be created in God’s image. This is clearly not simple repetition but an important advancement in the thinking of the poet!
Thus, in affirming parallelism, a second or third line of poetry restates a preceding line in a positive fashion that maintains continuity with the structure and meaning of the first, while in subtle (or not so subtle) ways expanding and advancing the thought begun there through the introduction of alternate expressions into the growing thought world created by the combination. Recognition and appreciation of the art and subtlety of this form of poetic expression will require additional study and exposure. A few examples are provided below to illustrate the variety of synonymous constructions encountered in the Hebrew Bible.
Their mischief returns upon their own heads,
and on their own heads their violence descends.
—Psalm 7:16
My hand shall always remain with him;
my arm also shall strengthen him.
—Psalm 89:21
Like those forsaken among the dead,
like the slain that lie in the grave.
—Psalm 88:5
Opposing parallelism.8 A second form of parallelism in Hebrew poetry is clearly distinguished from the first. In this construction, the second line maintains clear continuity with the structure and meaning of the first but relates to it in a negative rather than a positive fashion. A few examples should bring clarity to this description.
A wise son causes a father to rejoice;
a foolish son is a pain to his mother.
—Proverbs 10:1
The similarity of structure and meaning is obvious: A certain type of son has a particular effect on a parent. At this level, the parallel between lines is almost exact. But rather than the positive restatement characteristic of affirming parallelism, these lines demonstrate a decidedly negative or contrasting relationship. The “wise son” and resultant “joy” of relationship in line 1 is contrasted with the “foolish son” and the consequent “pain” in line 2.
The contrasting character of opposing parallelism has great potential for instruction because it presents in brief compass both a positive example and a negative caution that point the student to the more prosperous of two paths (wisdom and folly; righteousness and wickedness) that the biblical sages recognize as the basic opportunities of life. As a result of this didactic potential, opposing parallelism is frequently found throughout the biblical wisdom literature—especially in Proverbs, where it appears as the most common feature of chapters 10–29.
He who keeps the commandment keeps his life;
he who despises the word will die.
—Proverbs 19:16
The heart of the sage is in the house of mourning,
but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth.
—Ecclesiastes 7:4
If he withholds the waters, they dry up;
if he sends them out, they overwhelm the land.
—Job 12:15
This form is not limited to the wisdom literature, however, but appears regularly in the psalms and other Hebrew poetry. Here are a few more examples to illustrate the varied nature of opposing parallelism.
Yahweh watches over the sojourners,
he upholds the widow and the fatherless;
but the way of the wicked he brings to ruin.
—Psalm 146:9
The first two lines represent affirming parallelism and expand on the theme of God’s care for and protection of the helpless in society (“watches/upholds”; “sojourners/widow and fatherless”). In a parallel but opposing manner the third line (“brings to ruin”) introduces the contrasting fate of the wicked at the hand of a God concerned with justice.
The wicked borrows and cannot pay back,
but the righteous is generous and gives;
for those blessed by Yahweh shall possess the land,
but those cursed by him shall be cut off.
—Psalm 37:21–22
Two sets of opposing parallel lines appear within this single verse. In the first set the wicked and righteous clearly oppose each other, as do their respective relationship to finances (borrowing without repayment vs. generous giving). In the second set, the poet contrasts the futures of those who are blessed or cursed by Yahweh. The rather harsh contrast introduced by the use of the parallel phrase “cut off” (normally implying death!) adds a new dimension to the blessing of the land that Israel experienced and ultimately lost in the Exile. Loss of the land is here understood to represent not merely geographical dislocation but physical and, even more importantly, spiritual death!
Advancing parallelism. The third form of parallelism traditionally recognized is really not parallel at all. In this type, the second line has lost all semblance of similarity of structure, syntax, or meaning with the preceding line and unabashedly charges ahead, advancing and furthering the poet’s thought. The name traditionally applied (synthetical parallelism) is, therefore, doubly misleading. There is no more parallel here than there is synthesis. The philosophical term synthesis that is pressed into thankless service here assumes a preceding thesis statement with a countering antithesis, which then interact to create a new and better response or synthesis.
It has long been recognized that this terminology in relation to Hebrew poetry is confusing at best and misleading at worst. Although the term is entrenched in usage, I prefer in the discussion that follows to use the more accurately descriptive term advancing parallelism, fully realizing that in this case parallelism is an inadequate descriptor.
In advancing parallelism, then, after an initial line, a second (or third or, in some cases, even more!) line continues the thought, theme, or narrative of the poem without any obvious concern to maintain grammatical, structural, or thematic similarity to the initial line. The poem simply continues to develop its theme, while parallelism fades from view. This lack of parallel structure may be limited to a single set of poetic lines or may be more extensive in nature, affecting several verses or even whole compositions.
Again, let’s consider several examples to get a sense of the varied appearance of advancing parallelism.
Our God is in the heavens;
he does whatever he pleases.
Their idols are silver and gold,
the work of men’s hands.
—Psalm 115:3–4
In each of these couplets, the second line builds on the preceding line without being parallel to it grammatically, structurally, or thematically. The first couplet goes on to describe the exalted freedom of the God who resides in the heavens—a freedom that is certainly related to his exalted position and perhaps even derived from it, but it is not expressed in any sense of parallelism. The second couplet begins by describing the inanimate stuff (albeit rich) from which idols are constructed, but it continues in the second line to drive home their inferiority to the free God of the heavens by emphasizing the idols’ creation by human hands. Again, there is relationship, connection, and continuity between line 1 and line 2, but no clear, or even subtle, parallelism.
You have put more joy in my heart
than they have when their grain and wine abound.
In peace I will both lie down and sleep;
for you alone, Yahweh, make me dwell in safety.
—Psalm 4:7–8
Once again the second line of the first couplet simply carries the thought begun in the first on to its proper conclusion, emphasizing the great joy the psalmist experiences in relation to Yahweh in contrast to those who find their joy in the abundant grain and wine he provides. The next couplet employs the second line to describe the basis of the psalmist’s security in Yahweh that makes it possible to lie down and sleep peacefully, even in the face of personal attack and distress described earlier in this psalm.
Advancing parallelism clearly offers a poet maximum flexibility in the creation of lines that develop, direct, and advance the movement of a poem. Freed from the relative constraints of the demands of parallel structure, the poet can introduce more complex and extended argumentation that goes beyond the more restrictive, two-line format characteristic of parallelism. As a consequence of this freedom, compositions can become more flowing, less fragmented, and more unified (and in some instances longer!). For this reason alone, advancing parallelism is a frequent player in Hebrew poetry. Some psalms are even primarily composed of synthetical lines with little or no attention to parallelism at all. Take a look at Psalms 110 and 111 in this regard. Neither makes much use of parallel forms. The interior dialogue sections of the book of Job and parts of Ecclesiastes owe much of their subtly and complexity to their ability to advance, expand, and sustain the discussion through frequent use of advancing parallelism.
So, in advancing parallelism, Hebrew poets broke with the strictures of similarity with the preceding line and experienced their greatest freedom to advance, direct, redirect, and structure the thought of a poem. How differently poets can proceed from the same starting line is illustrated in the examples below.
O sing to Yahweh a new song;
sing to Yahweh, all the earth.
—Psalm 96:1
O sing to Yahweh a new song,
for he has done marvelous things!
—Psalm 98:1
O sing to Yahweh a new song,
his praises in the assembly of the faithful.
—Psalm 149:1
Here, the same initial line gives rise to three distinctively different treatments. The first (96:1) offers a variation on the synonymous form by expanding the second line (“all the earth”) to compensate for the omission of an element (“a new song”) from the first. This expansion to replace an ellipsis is sometimes referred to as a ballast line or element.
The third set of couplets is another example of ellipsis with compensation in the second line. Here, however, it is the lead phrase (“Sing to Yahweh”) that is omitted in the second line. It is perhaps more correct to say that this phrase is understood (by both poet and reader) to govern both lines. As a result of this ellipsis, the remaining phrase (“his praises in the assembly of the faithful”) is greatly expanded over its parallel (“a new song”) while the lines together remain synonymous in relationship.9
In the middle example (98:1), the initial line is continued synthetically in the second. The poet goes beyond the opening invocation to praise Yahweh with a justification of Yahweh’s praiseworthiness (“for he has done marvelous things!”). These very different directions from the same starting point demonstrate just how much flexibility the Hebrew poetic system afforded creative poets seeking new and unique forms of expression.
Here is another group of similar examples.
Turn to me and be gracious to me;
give your strength to your servant,
and save the son of your handmaid.
—Psalm 86:16
Turn to me and be gracious to me,
for I am lonely and afflicted.
—Psalm 25:16
Turn to me and be gracious to me,
as is your wont to those who love your name.
—Psalm 119:132
Once again, the same opening line generates three distinctive responses. In the first (86:16), the poet continues with two lines that are synonymously related to each other but not to the first line. The synonymous couplet explores how the psalmist desires God to turn and be gracious (by strengthening and saving). In the second example (25:16), the successive line explains why the psalmist needs God to return (“for I am lonely and afflicted”), while the focus of the third passage (119:132) is the divine character that undergirds the poet’s hope for a gracious divine response.
Climactic parallelism. There is one additional Hebrew poetic form that has received attention of late under the rubric of parallel structure. Again, there is some discussion whether climactic parallelism, as this feature has been called, is an altogether happy designation. As will be clear from the examples that follow, there is continuity of thought and syntax between the related lines. In fact, at least part of the initial line is repeated verbatim in successive ones. The question in my mind, however, is whether the few examples we have of this form constitute an independent type of parallelism or whether they rather illustrate an expansion and adaptation of the more recognized forms. Let’s look at two examples.
Ascribe to Yahweh, O heavenly beings,
Ascribe to Yahweh glory and strength,
Ascribe to Yahweh the glory of his name;
Worship Yahweh in holy array.
—Psalm 29:1–2
The interrelation of the lines in this example is obvious. The threefold repetition of the opening imperative phrase (“Ascribe to Yahweh”) binds the first three lines together, while the fourth and final line offers a summation of the whole complex. Lines 2 and 3 form together a clear example of affirming parallelism, with “glory of his name” in line 3 providing expansion and subtle redirection of the theme introduced by “glory and strength” in line 2. It is not simply glory and strength that is at issue here, but the glory and strength that proceed from the divine name (and thus the character and essence) of Yahweh.
It is only the placement of line 1 with its identical phrase that lifts this composition to a new level of poetic intensity. The completion of the initial phrase is postponed by the intrusion of the “heavenly beings” called to acknowledge and exalt the name of Yahweh. This delay intensifies the interest of the hearer/reader, who must wait for the resolution until the end of the next line. The intensity is heightened even further by the thrice repeated command, “Ascribe to Yahweh. . . .”
A similar use of triple repetition to intensify the effect of poetic lines is found in our next example.
The floods have lifted up, O Yahweh,
The floods have lifted up their voice,
The floods lift up their roaring.
—Psalm 93:3
Here the floods most likely represent the chaotic waters subdued by Yahweh at creation (associated in more general ancient Near Eastern mythology with precreation deities). These powerful waters, which represent a potent threat to the very human poet and reader, rise up in tumult and appear to endanger the very fabric of the orderly creation established by God—the creation on which the very existence of humans depends. Perhaps the scene is intended to reflect the Flood narrative of Genesis 6–9, where the chaotic waters restricted by Yahweh at creation are unleashed once more and threaten to dissolve creation once and for all.
As in the previous example, lines 2 and 3 are synonymously parallel, with line 3 intensifying the growing effect of line 2 by substituting the powerfully descriptive “roaring” for the more pallid “voice.” Line 1 provides additional intensification—delaying the completion of the initial phrase (“The floods lift up”) by inserting the vocative address to Yahweh. The result is a poetic depiction of the gradual ascent of the powerful clamor made by the tumultuous waters in their opposition to God.
You may now understand why I questioned at the outset whether these examples illustrate an independent form of parallelism. There are so few examples of this type offered, and those examples exhibit strong characteristics of affirming parallelism (lines 2 and 3 in the examples above) and advancing parallelism (the relation of line 1 to lines 2 and 3). It seems best, in my estimation, to view climactic parallelism as a particularly artful adaptation of traditional forms of parallelism for purposes of intensification.
Summary. For the purposes of our general discussion, then, the three traditionally recognized forms of parallelism (affirming, opposing, and advancing) constitute the basic literary arsenal of the ancient Hebrew poet and provide the peculiar flavor that makes this poetry distinctive. Our discussion has for the most part remained rudimentary, and there remains much for the student of Hebrew poetry to learn through direct experience and observation. Only through such personal exploration can one gain a more complete sense of the subtle, nuanced variations of form that demonstrate biblical poets’ skill and mastery in pursuing their craft.
Before we leave the discussion of Hebrew poetry, however, I will discuss five other conventions or techniques. While these stylistic features are not unique to the Bible, their use adds dimension and breadth to our understanding of the psalms and biblical poetry.
Word pairs. The phenomenon of parallelism in Hebrew poetry highlights the close relationship that can exist between parallel words and phrases in the related lines. As we have seen, a significant word in one line can be augmented or expanded by its parallel in the next. In some instances this expansion may represent mere stylistic variation. But on most occasions the second word adds a significant semantic or theological dimension to the first. This is particularly clear in the first example I used of affirming parallelism (Gen. 1:27). The phrase in line 1 (“in his image”) is only slightly varied in line 2 (“in the image of God”), but it is significantly expanded both semantically and theologically in line 3 by the parallel phrase “male and female.”
The important theological advancement accomplished in these three lines is illustrative of the kind of use that can be made of parallelism. James Kugel is certainly right when he stresses the “seconding” effect of parallel lines: “A, and what’s more, B.” The sum of the two parts is always more, in his opinion, than mere repetition.10 One must always take into consideration this expansive nature of parallelism in interpreting couplets. In most instances the poet is building a semantic context in which the subtle nuances of two or more words brought together in parallelism expand the possibilities for understanding.
The same expansion can also be subtly understood in opposing parallelism. Here the negative parallel can once again add nuances to our understanding of the original word. Take, for example, the concluding verse of Psalm 1:
For God knows the way of the righteous,
but the way of the wicked will perish.
—Psalm 1:6
The initial line leaves open what it might mean for the path of the righteous to be known by God. But the negative parallel in the following line makes it clear that God’s knowing is a source of protection and preservation not experienced by the wicked. Thus, the semantic world in which the ideas of the poet operate are significantly expanded by juxtaposing these two phrases and their nuances. Thus, it is important for an interpreter to recognize that more than repetition is at work behind the words chosen to be in parallelism. Through the chosen words the biblical writer creates an expanded semantic thought world.
Traditional word pairs. The choice of word pairs for parallelism can sometimes become a matter of fixed, traditional association. Through long usage, certain words become connected as expected parallels balancing their respective lines. “Wisdom” is normally balanced by “folly.” The “wicked” are most often paralleled by the “righteous.” “Heaven” is most often linked with “earth.” “Man” (ʾadam) finds its reflex in many instances in “son of man” (ben ʾadam). Many other commonly employed word pairs have been recognized as operative in Hebrew poetry.11
Traditional word pairs such as these can even play a role in textual criticism, as attempts to restore the fragmentary Canaanite religious texts from Ugarit (Ras Shamra) demonstrate. These texts, written in an alphabetic cuneiform script on clay tablets, were discovered in the late 1920s in excavations at a site on the coast of northern Syria. Among other documents, these texts include poetic religious documents from the third millennium B.C. in a language closely resembling ancient Hebrew. The poetry used in these ancient texts also employs parallel lines and exhibits extensive use of traditional word pairs.
When a clay tablet has been damaged so that parts of lines are no longer legible, it is often possible to make a confident reconstruction based on the plausible anticipation of fixed word pairs. Occasionally such a scholarly conjecture has been proven correct by the discovery of additional copies of the text where the lines in question are still extant or by comparing repeated passages elsewhere in the same tablet. It has now become common practice for biblical textual critics to suggest emendation of incoherent or difficult poetic passages on the basis of expected completion of fixed pairs.
The frequent appearance of so many fixed pairs in parallel lines ought perhaps to caution us against making too much of the possibilities for theological expansion in such cases. Is the poet’s choice of terms driven by a desire to nuance the literary context? Or is it determined by the expectations of the fixed word pair? Such caution is probably appropriate. However, the use of words as fixed pairs does not prohibit their use singly in other contexts or even in connection to other words in parallel lines. “Man” (ʾadam) is not always paralleled by “son of man” (ben ʾadam), nor is “wicked” inexorably connected to “righteous.” Fixed pairs represent only one possible word choice that Hebrew poets could use to good effect.
Merism. Sometimes psalmists use word pairs describing opposites or extremes to refer inclusively to all that lies between. This is known technically as merism or merismus. Some obvious examples include great and small, rich and poor, far and near. Such merisms often appear as fixed word pairs in parallel lines of Hebrew poetry. It can be helpful to understand the more inclusive intent that lies behind a merism.
You will not fear the terror of the night,
nor the arrow that flies by day,
nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness,
nor the destruction that wastes at noonday.
—Psalm 91:5–6
The intent of these verses and their obvious merisms is not to note those times of the day when those who trust in Yahweh should be unafraid—suggesting by implication that there are other times when fear is entirely appropriate. The clear affirmation of the psalmist is rather that there is never a time that Yahweh fails to protect those who fear him. The use of merismus brings this point home in a particularly artistic and forceful manner.
Merismus also plays a significant role in Psalm 103:11–12.
For as the heavens are high above the earth,
so great is his steadfast love toward those who fear him;
as far as the east is from the west,
so far does he remove our transgressions from us.
The tension produced and maintained by “heaven” and “earth,” “east” and “west,” magnify the absolute character of God’s redemptive forgiveness. Heaven and earth mark the boundaries of God’s creative work; elsewhere together they represent all that God has made. Coupled with east and west, they suggest that God in his mercy has removed our transgressions and their consequences to the furthest distances of the creation.
Chiasm. Closely related to parallelism and drawing often on the connecting links between word pairs is the frequent use of chiastic structure in Hebrew poetry. For our purposes, chiasm is a poetic technique in which a set of sentence elements are introduced in a particular order in one line, while the parallel elements are stated in reverse order in the succeeding line. Consequently, if beginning and ending elements in line 1 were to be connected by straight lines to their parallel elements in line 2, a large X would result.
So—God—created—the—ʾadam | in—his—image |
in—the—image—of—God | he—created—him |
Since in the Greek language the letter Chi has the form of an X, this poetic technique is called chiasm.
Because chiasm is dependent on word order in the original language (in this case Hebrew), discovering this kind of structure in successive lines of translated poetry is sometimes problematic since the order and arrangement of words and phrases can often be modified in the translation process. One must exercise care, therefore, to make certain that a chiasm apparent in the translated text actually reflects a chiasm present in the original language. In the case above, the chiasm is original as the transliterated Hebrew of the passage demonstrates.
wayyibraʾ ʾelohim ʾet haʾadam | beṣalmo |
beṣelem ʾelohim | baraʾ ʾoto |
A particularly impressive chiasm stretching across three lines is found in Psalm 90:1–2.
-0- O my Lord,
A a refuge you have been for us
B in each and every age
C before mountains were birthed;
C′ and [before] you formed earth and heaven,
B′ from everlasting to everlasting,
A′ you are God.
Here the complexity and length of the form make it difficult to exhibit the chiastic schema in the traditional parallel format. An alternate style used to demonstrate chiasm extending over several lines is to indicate parallel elements by means of balanced indentation and by labeling related elements A and A′, B and B′, and so on.
In this particular instance, the opening vocative “O my Lord” stands outside the chiastic structure and is thus labeled -0- since it has no balancing reflex. The rest of the chiasm appears as a gradual indentation to the right (A, B, C) and then a return to the left (C′, B′, A′). The chiastic nature of this construction is obscured by the presentation but becomes more apparent when the labels are arranged in the traditional format.
A | B | C |
C′ | B′ | A′ |
Chiasm was used not only to structure individual elements within successive lines of poetry, but it can also be extended to larger segments and even to whole compositions, including longer narratives. For example, consider Genesis 3, where the initial order in which important characters are introduced (serpent—woman—man) are reversed when God confronts their disobedience (man—woman—serpent), and are reversed again in God’s pronouncement of consequences (serpent—woman—man).
Where a whole composition (and not just parallel lines) is considered chiastically arranged, parallels are most often deduced not at the level of balanced words or phrases, but often on the basis of balanced meanings expressed by related lines. This can sometimes lead to strained and forced connections that ultimately fail to convince. The interpreter is on surer ground when it can be demonstrated that related meaning is paralleled by related words/phrases and sentence structure. For numerous serious explications of the structure of individual psalms including extensive chiasms, see the stimulating and insightful works of Pierre Auffret.12 Chiasm has also been the object of intensive investigation by Wilfred G. E. Watson.13
Inclusio. Repetition is a particularly common feature of oral poetry. It aids the memory, recalls previous detail, enhances anticipation where the composition is familiar, and can serve to drive home the essential point of the composition. I have alluded previously to the appearance of repeated passages in Ugaritic poetry and how these repetitions can offer opportunity to emend broken passages. One particularly clear case of triple repetition occurs in the Krt Epic, when messengers are described as they are being instructed in the communication they are to deliver to a distant king, then again as they carry out their embassy verbatim, and finally when they return to report the successful completion of their task.14
Among the various forms of repetition employed in Hebrew poetry, one of the most artful and striking is the inclusio, where identical or nearly identical phrases frame the beginning and ending of a composition. The effect is to create a sort of literary envelope marking the extreme boundaries of a poem. Perhaps the most beautiful example of the form from the biblical Psalter is found in Psalm 8:1, 9:
O Yahweh, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
O Yahweh, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!
The inclusio sets the context within which the thrust of the poem is played out. The awesome power and majesty of Yahweh provides the framework against which human insignificance is scrutinized. The stark contrast between divine magnificence and human poverty provides an almost dumbfounded recognition of the exalted honor received by the gracious election of God. But everywhere the focus is on the God who gives, not the human who receives. And the inclusio clarifies this theme both before and behind.
Other inclusios are found in Psalms 103 and 104, where the phrase “Bless Yahweh, O my soul!” both begins and ends each psalm, and in Psalm 118, where the operative phrase is “O give thanks to Yahweh, for he is good; his steadfast love endures forever!” In addition, several of the Hallelujah Psalms begin and end with this characteristic call to praise (Pss. 106; 113; 135; 146–150).
In other words, inclusios encapsulate a psalm, emphasizing the dominant theme that is expected to remain. The reader (or hearer) is led back to the beginning at the end, and all encountered between must be understood in the light of this twin witness.
Repeated refrains. A second form of repetition that appears prominently in some psalms is the use of a repeated refrain. In this technique, a line or series of lines is repeated almost verbatim at intervals throughout the poem. The result is somewhat akin to a chorus alternating with the verses of a hymn or ballad. A straightforward example of the repeated refrain is found in Psalm 49, where the verbatim refrain “Man cannot abide in his pomp; he is like the beasts that perish” appears at the midpoint (v. 12) and conclusion (v. 20) of this psalm.
Refrains punctuate their compositions and break the flow of the poetry. Thus, they provide an obvious means of structuring compositions into smaller components. In Psalm 49, after an introductory preface (vv. 1–4), the remainder of the psalm is divided into two equally weighted components of eight verses each (vv. 5–12, 13–20). The repeated refrain serves to drive home the poet’s pessimistic evaluation of human self-reliance, since humans and animals alike perish regardless of their wealth or status. As a result, the wise will rely wholly on Yahweh, who can ransom their souls from Sheol. Like the inclusio, therefore, refrains can serve to emphasize (repeatedly) the key point or focus of a psalm.
A more complicated refrain is featured in Psalm 107. Once again this refrain serves to structure the psalm into smaller components. The introductory verses (vv. 1–3) call those whom Yahweh has redeemed and gathered in from where they have been scattered throughout the world to sing praises for Yahweh’s enduring goodness and steadfast love. The body of the poem is then structured into a series of vignettes illustrating how groups of these scattered peoples met trouble on their way, cried out to Yahweh, and experienced redemption.
The refrains that conclude these sections (vv. 6+8, 13+15, 19+21, 28+31) contain sections that are verbatim repetitions. Each is subtly adapted to its particular section by the addition of phrases reflecting the characteristic experience of that group of witnesses.
Then they cried to Yahweh in their trouble,
and he delivered them from their distress;
he brought them out of the darkness and gloom
and broke their bonds asunder.
Let them thank Yahweh for his steadfast love,
for his wonderful works to the sons of men!
For he shatters the doors of bronze
and cuts in two the bars of iron.
—Psalm 107:13–16
The italicized portions mark the variations directed to the experience of the first group of witnesses. Compare now the second refrain:
Then they cried to Yahweh in their trouble,
and he delivered them from their distress;
he sent forth his word and healed them
and delivered them from destruction.
Let them thank Yahweh for his steadfast love,
for his wonderful works to the sons of men!
And let them offer sacrifices of thanksgiving
and tell of his deeds in songs of joy!
—Psalm 107:19–22
Another example of a refrain is found in Psalms 42 and 43, where the appearance of the repeated phrases “Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my help and my God” (42:5, 11; 43:5) has led to the recognition that these two psalms probably represent an originally unified composition.
The most extreme demonstration of repetition in the Psalter occurs in Psalm 136, where each half verse is followed by the fixed response “for his steadfast love endures forever.” Without these repeated refrains, the psalm presents a straightforward narrative of God’s history with his people Israel, including his creative acts (v. 1–9) and his powerful protection against the enemies of his people (vv. 10–26). The constant refrain confirms the liturgical use of this composition in antiphonal performance in worship and may suggest that other repeated refrains likewise provided opportunities for the congregation (or choir) to add their affirmation to the poet’s declarations in the body of these psalms.
In the Psalter, psalms with repeated refrains are found concentrated in the second book (Pss. 42+43; 46; 49; 56; 57; 59; 62; 67), with only a single example each in the third (80) and fourth (99) books. The fifth and final book offers two examples (107; 136).
Acrostic psalms. The last important stylistic feature of Hebrew poetry we will consider is the use of the acrostic arrangement in a number of psalms. In general, an acrostic poem is one in which lines are so arranged or created that the initial letters of successive lines produce a recognizable pattern. As children, many of us have indulged our romantic and poetic bent by creating acrostics out of the names of our current romantic interests. In one instance, the LXX records in Greek such an acrostic composition highlighting the name of the Hasmonean ruler Alexander Janneus.15
As far as Hebrew acrostics go, however, the pattern exhibited is much less free and variable. The initial letters of successive lines consistently follow the order of the Hebrew alphabet’s twenty-two characters, beginning with aleph, bet, gimel, dalet, . . . and continuing in order to completion with sin and taw. Thus, Hebrew acrostics will usually demonstrate twenty-two lines or (in the case of more than one line for each letter) multiples of twenty-two lines. In some cases a twenty-third line beginning with the letter pe is added at the end of an acrostic psalm (see Pss. 25; 34), so that the first line begins with aleph, the middle with lamed, and the final line with pe. As a result, the combination of these letters—ʾlp—spells out the name of the initial alphabetic character as well as the Hebrew verb “to train,” since one purpose of an alphabetic acrostic might be as a mnemonic aid to learning.16 Alphabetic acrostics have especially enjoyed association with the wisdom tradition in ancient Israel.
There are in the Hebrew Psalter eight acrostic psalms (9–10; 25; 34; 37; 111; 112; 119; 145). The first of these involves the recognition that Psalms 9 and 10 represent an originally unified composition that has at some point in its history been divided in two.17 The acrostic pattern is clear in the lines of Psalm 9 and in the concluding verses of Psalm 10 (vv. 7–18) but is somewhat disturbed and imperfect at the beginning of Psalm 10 (vv. 1–6), where the original unity of these two psalms has been obscured by separation. The remainder of these eight psalms exhibit the alphabetic pattern clearly.
Seven of the acrostics found in the Psalter offer but a single occurrence of each alphabetic character. The number of poetic lines introduced by each letter may vary (compare Pss. 111 and 112 with Ps. 37), but there is only one line beginning with aleph, one beginning with bet, and so on. The single exception to this norm is the massive Psalm 119, in which each of the twenty-two letters is represented by no fewer than eight lines beginning with the same letter. The effect is visually impressive, and the similar beginning of lines, once pointed out, can even be observed by those unfamiliar with the Hebrew language.
Why the Hebrew poets chose this particular form of acrostic composition as their traditional pattern is unknown. Unfortunately, no contemporary discussion of biblical poetic technique has been preserved for us. The pattern does, however, set the poet an additional challenge for mastery. To arrange one’s thoughts in such a way as to ensure that each successive line begins with the appropriate letter of the alphabetic sequence is no mean task. To do so with artistic skill and power is remarkable. The skill required, however, is probably no more exacting than that involved in composing a sonnet in which fourteen lines of poetry concluding in a final couplet must conform to a particular pattern of rhyme, meter, and arrangement (depending on which sonnet style the poet is following). Either task could be daunting for anyone less than a skilled poet. Some critics, in fact, find the artistry of Psalm 119 less than satisfactory. It is in their view overlong, stultifying, repetitious, and dull.
Outside the Psalter, acrostic compositions occur in Lamentations. Of the five chapters of the book, all but the last are acrostic psalms of lament. Chapters 1, 2, and 4 exhibit single occurrences of each letter, while chapter 3 offers three-lined stanzas in which each line begins with the same letter. Another particularly effective biblical acrostic appears in Proverbs 31:10–31 (the “noble wife” passage).
Hebrew alphabetic acrostics are also known to us from the Dead Sea Scrolls discovered near Qumran. The important Qumran Psalms Scroll (11QPsa) contains three such alphabetic acrostic psalms, two previously known to us in Greek form (Ps. 155 and Sir. 51:13–30) and the other (“Apostrophe to Zion”) entirely new to us.
Acrostic compositions are particularly difficult to observe in translation. However, most translations indicate the acrostic nature of a psalm in some external way. In some cases a note is attached at the bottom of the page. Elsewhere the convention is to mark each line with the appropriate Hebrew character in the margin or between stanzas. Otherwise, without knowledge of the Hebrew language, it is practically impossible for an interpreter to identify alphabetic compositions.
Summary
THE ARTISTIC TOOLBOX available to Hebrew poets is as varied and nuanced as that of any other nation. While a few of the techniques used may seem unfamiliar to us and therefore awkward, an appreciation of the skill and style of Hebrew poetry can only increase with continued exposure and acquaintance with those conventions that provide challenge and shape to their literary enterprise.
The Hebrew poets and psalmists were products of their day and culture. There is much sentiment abroad today in our own postmodern environment that views convention with suspicion and disrespects those who choose to express themselves within a set of defining structures, such as Hebrew poetry represents. There is a tendency to exalt those who resist—even seek to annihilate—conventional structures as heroes (or antiheroes). As a result, too often the consummate skill and artistry of the biblical poets is underappreciated and even denigrated.
The amazing fact for me is that these ancient poetic compositions, with all their alien form and content, continue to attract and repulse, inspire, confront, and challenge their readers across all the intervening centuries. To those who learn a little and listen with ears even moderately open, the poetry of the psalms will crack open a window to the soul of a people who lived in honest recognition of personal and communal pain, joy, and the contradictions of life these both illuminate. It is a window that, once opened and peered through, can never be slammed fully shut again, and the vision gained, willingly or not, will make us different people. For this we can give credit and thanks, at least in some small part, to the unique and traditional style of Hebrew poetic expression.
Types of Psalms
HAVING CONSIDERED THAT the psalms are poetic compositions created according to a recognizable set of poetic conventions, we are left to ask, “What kinds of compositions did these ancient Hebrew poets write?” In the Western world we find sonnets, and odes, the humorous limerick, as well as other poetic forms. What types of poems are characteristic of Hebrew poetry?
Ancient Psalm Types
IF YOU WILL look closely at the psalm headings (especially in the original Hebrew), you will discover a number of terms (such as mizmor, higgayon, miktam, tepillah, maśkil, šir, šir hammaʿalot, tehillah perhaps yedidot, and the even more obscure ʿedut) that seem to describe types of psalms. It seems probable, then, that the ancient Hebrew poets who wrote and transmitted the psalms had some sense of the category of composition each psalm represented and were able to designate them appropriately.
It is unfortunate that we nowhere possess a contemporary Hebrew discussion of poetic technique and psalm types. While the psalmists must have known how to compose psalms of various types, they clearly felt no need to leave us any description of what constitutes the characteristics of a particular type of psalm—a higgayon, for example—and what distinguishes it from a miktam or a maśkil. As a result, we are mostly left in the dark, having to rely on our own surmises from literary analyses of the psalms themselves and by comparison of psalms that bear the same designations in their headings. Scholarly investigation into this subject has been done with somewhat mixed results.
By and large, psalms with the same ancient designations fail to manifest any constellation of formal similarities except in the most general sense. While it may be true (as many suggest) that the fifteen Songs of Ascent (Pss. 120–134) are a collection of pilgrim songs, the literary character of these psalms ranges from prayers for deliverance (120; 123; 125; 126; 129; 130) through worship liturgies (121; 132; 134) to a thanksgiving hymn (124), praises of Zion (122), acts of submission (131), and descriptions of the blessings of the faithful (127; 128; 133). While the whole collection bears a stamp of similar themes and language, there is no clear way to distinguish the prayers of deliverance found here from others outside the collection.
Other of these ancient terms apparently do mark out psalms of more consistent character. The term miktam, for example, is found in the heading of six psalms (16; 56; 57; 58; 59; 60). Of these six, the five contiguous psalms (56–60) fall within the modern category of laments or prayers for deliverance from trouble. The sixth (the more isolated Ps. 16) disrupts this apparent consistency, however, because it is a decidedly different expression of confidence in Yahweh. Even if one were to assume that the true nature of the miktam is exhibited by the five grouped psalms, one must admit there is no certain way to distinguish the prayers for deliverance they represent from other such prayers found throughout the rest of the Psalter.
The same is true of the tepillah psalms (17; 86; 90; 102; 142?), all of which appear also to be prayers for deliverance or healing but are indistinguishable from similar psalms found elsewhere in the Psalter. Thus, the comparison of psalms bearing the same ancient designation in their headings has offered no convincing evidence of distinctive structure or content that sets each of these types of psalms apart from other psalms designated differently.
Some have attempted to illuminate these ancient designations of poetic form by relating them to similar terms in the broader ancient Near East. The enigmatic higgayon (Ps. 7) is sometimes connected to the Akkadian šegu (“lament”), while others have derived the meaning “psalm of expiation” for miktam from the Akkadian katamu (“cover”). In all instances, these connections are tenuous at best, far from compelling, and provide little help in determining the formal distinctives that characterize these compositions.
The upshot of all this investigation is that, while we are almost certain that the ancient poets composed psalms in a variety of forms and knew the distinctive characteristics of each type (it would seem utterly ridiculous if they did not!), we are no longer able to recover with any assurance what those ancient categories were or how they differed from one another. For this reason, modern attempts to categorize the psalms have most often proceeded in a different direction, using literary analysis and comparison to develop a new taxonomy of the psalms—from the inside out, so to speak.
Modern Attempts to Categorize the Psalms
ONE OF THE most fruitful attempts to understand the psalms in the modern period began in the early 1900s and sought to describe various categories into which the biblical psalms could be sorted, based on literary analysis of the structure and contents of the psalms rather than any prior knowledge of the ancient terminology employed in the psalm headings or any assumption of authorship and provenance of the psalms. The methodology grew in response to several centuries of historical criticism on the biblical texts, which tended to disregard or certainly to question the widely held assumption of the Davidic authorship of most of the psalms. These historical critics had concluded (with a great deal of truth and insight, I believe) that it is difficult and practically impossible to place each psalm in a precise historical setting that explains its origin and illumines its references. More skeptically (and with less insight, in my opinion) many critics concluded that most of the psalms are late products of the Second Temple period and tell little about the period of the united or divided monarchy with which they have always been associated.
By way of contrast and correction, form criticism, as the newer method of inquiry came to be called, drew on increasing evidence of centuries-long periods of oral transmission of fundamental traditions and socially significant narratives in tribal societies. The form critics held that behind the written literary form of the biblical literature (which may have been fixed at a later date) stood a long history of oral transmission of Israelite narratives and traditions that originated far earlier and much closer to the events described than historical critics had assumed. In regards to the biblical psalms, this suggested that many of the psalms might well date from the divided and even the united monarchy and reflect accurately the social, political, and religious setting of those periods.
Hermann Gunkel and psalm types. Early form criticism on the psalms is traced to the fundamental work of the German scholar Hermann Gunkel (1862–1932). Gunkel was strongly influenced by the earlier work of the Brothers Grimm to collect, analyze, and categorize German folk tales that had circulated for centuries in mostly oral form. The Grimm brothers had discovered that centuries of oral repetition of these tales shaped the way they were presented.
Often these stories began and ended with formulaic phrases. We may recognize this from our own exposure to childhood fairy tales (many of which are derived from the collections of the Brothers Grimm!). Just ask any child how a fairy tale begins, and she will reply knowingly, “Once upon a time. . . .” How do they end? “And they lived happily ever after!” The Grimms concluded such stock phrases were the result of oral presentation, making the stories easier to remember for the teller, to communicate to the audience from the beginning the nature of the tale to come, and to heighten everyone’s anticipatory participation.
The literary shape that structured the fairy tales (and other kinds of literary units derived from oral tradition) was called a form (German Gattung), which explains why the kind of literary analysis and investigation that led to the discovery of more and more new forms was termed form criticism (German Gattungsforschung). Form critics hold that each form develops from a particular setting in life (German Sitz im Leben) and serves a distinct purpose and that both setting and purpose can be perceived by paying close attention to the formulaic phrases, literary structure, and content of the various examples of the type.
Compare, for example, two distinct types of musical composition known as the march and the waltz. The former is derived from a military context and is intended to move masses of soldiers forward in unison, enlivening their loyalty, and encouraging and emboldening them for the attack. Marches employ a regular rhythm matching the stride of marching soldiers (hence the name). Some marches are accompanied by lyrics that make their purpose plain. By contrast, waltzes hardly ever have lyrics. Their rhythm is lyrical and romantic, with a certain syncopation. Their distinctives are the result of their purpose: whirling dances, intended to heighten joy and romantic excitement. They allow individual movement of couples in concert with others on the dance floor. Setting and purpose dictate form.
A literary example might be various types of letters. In our contemporary world, most letters conform to a standardized structure or “form.” Usually the name and address of the recipient is given, followed by an opening greeting. The latter almost always begins with the descriptive adjective “Dear,” regardless of whether one is greeting one’s lawyer, accountant, grandmother, lover, or an unknown person (“Dear Occupant”). This standardized form has essentially lost its original function. We no longer intend to communicate endearment with this greeting, as can be realized by its frequent use to address obviously “un-dear” recipients (like creditors or the IRS). Following the salutation comes the body of the letter, and then the whole communication is concluded with a description of the writer’s sincerity (“Sincerely yours”) or affection (“Cordially,” “Affectionately”), and the signature.
Almost all letters share these common elements of form: address, greeting, body, conclusion, signature. These formal elements distinguish a letter from, let’s say, a will or a short story. It is possible, however, to distinguish further categories within the general classification of letters. These are usually marked out by the content of the body of the letter or how the formal elements described above are varied for different purposes. In informal letters between friends, the opening address is often omitted, relegated to the outside of the envelope. The greeting can also vary considerably, depending on whether you are addressing someone unknown (“To Whom It May Concern”) or an intimate associate or romantic partner (“My Dearest Darling”).
When Hermann Gunkel began to apply the method of form criticism to the biblical psalms, he opened up what led to almost a century of exciting and fruitful investigation of these texts. Prior to Gunkel’s work, most of the psalms had been considered the products of individuals in response to specific moments of personal history. Often, where no author was mentioned, David was assumed to have written a psalm, and numerous speculations were made to place the psalms within specific historical circumstances of his life. Such a move was obviously encouraged by the historical notices in thirteen psalm headings that describe some specific circumstances in David’s life thought to have provided occasion for that psalm (cf. Pss. 3; 18; 34; 51; 52; 54; 56; 57; 59; 60; 63; 142). But when no such setting is suggested in the heading of the psalm itself, any attempt to provide such a connection is always speculative, subject to considerable debate, and is, as a result, usually less than fully persuasive. Form criticism, despite its support for the early origin of many psalms, has proven little better in achieving consensus in describing the actual, specific historical circumstances of individual psalms.
The genius of Gunkel’s approach, however, is that form-critical analysis offers a means of discovering a more general Sitz im Leben that stands behind all psalms of a similar type, while stopping short of claiming to have found the specific historical occasion of the psalm. Even if the author and the specific historical setting of a psalm remain cloaked from view, the more general Sitz im Leben can be divined through clues in the text, language, and form of the psalm itself. All laments share an experience of a time of “trouble” from which the psalmist seeks deliverance, regardless of whether that trouble is disease, oppression, personal sin, military threat, poverty, injustice, or slander. It is the common response to “trouble” that influences the form or shape of the laments and makes them together into a form-critical Gattung.
It is in fact the lack of extreme specificity about historical setting and its details that frees the psalms to continue to speak powerfully to a variety of settings and circumstances throughout history. It is this adaptability that makes the psalms such an important source of spiritual insight and application even today, and this fact may well explain why a particular selection of 150 psalms came to be chosen out of several centuries worth of psalmic compositions to form the authoritative collection of canonical Scripture. The more closely a psalm is tied to a specific historical setting and its attendant details, the more difficult it becomes to use it insightfully in my own present circumstances.18
Sigmund Mowinckel and liturgical setting. As a result of his form-critical analysis, Hermann Gunkel began to isolate a variety of distinctive psalm types and to define their characteristics. I will return to a discussion of these individual types a bit later. Gunkel further categorized each type of psalm depending on the dominant voice he found displayed in the text. If the voice is first person and singular (“I”), the psalm is an individual psalm. When the speaker is first- or second-person plural (“we” or “you”), the psalm regardless of its type is considered a communal composition, expressing the insights and circumstances of the community as a whole.
Gunkel held that some individual psalms were just that: private declarations of individual persons to their God. Other psalms, while marked by the voice of an individual, nevertheless exhibited clear evidence of having been part of communal worship. Gunkel recognized the liturgy of the temple worship system could represent one important setting behind many psalms, whether individual or communal.
Other form critics, however, claimed a much more extensive role for temple liturgy in understanding the psalms. Scandanavian scholar Sigmund Mowinckel (1884–1965) went so far as to deny the private nature of any of the 150 canonical psalms. He was influenced by the Scandanavian myth and ritual school of interpretation, which held that all religious texts were shaped within the religious worship system of a people. According to this viewpoint, religious texts were used in worship to reenact significant recurring experiences (proponents called them “myths”) of religious faith.
Mowinckel sought to relate all 150 psalms to what he described as a yearly reenactment within temple worship of the enthronement of Yahweh as king of Israel and of the cosmos. The major stumbling block for such a view is that there is no clear indication in Scripture (or outside it, for that matter) that such a reenactment ever took place in Israel, nor is there any description of the nature, contents, and structure of such a festival. Consequently, Mowinckel had to draw on the yearly Mesopotamian Akitu Festival celebrating the marriage of the Mesopotamian king (representing the god Tammuz) and the high priestess of Ishtar (representing the goddess herself) as a model for the kind of celebration he assumed occurred with each new year in Israel.
According to Mowinckel, Psalms 93–99, with their prevailing theme of the kingship of Yahweh, formed the core liturgy of this enthronement festival. The Israelite king was assumed to play the role of Yahweh in the festivities, and most (if not all) of the 150 psalms were assigned a role in Mowinckel’s hypothetically reconstructed festival liturgy.
Although Mowinckel’s theory won a number of supporters, it seems problematic in my opinion. First, there is no mention or description of any such fall enthronement festival anywhere in the biblical corpus, which seems an amazing omission if an event of such proportions and significance truly existed. The Old Testament describes many other annual festivals in considerable detail, but Mowinckel’s festival remains hidden. As a result, this theory must be reconstructed according to nonbiblical parallels from Mesopotamia. Attempts to place all 150 psalms within the hypothetical framework of the festival are frequently forced and have achieved little consensus.
Second, the claim that a full understanding of the psalms can be gained only by rearranging them to fit within a hypothetical liturgical structure has several additional negative results. Such a move erodes our ability to read the psalms separately as models of individual prayer. This flies in the face of the long history of interpretation of the psalms and runs counter to the strong textual tradition maintaining the distinct identity of the 150 psalms within a particular canonical arrangement. This is a matter to which I will return in my discussion of “The Shape of the Psalter” in the second volume of this commentary.
Moreover, connecting the psalms to a specific historical festival in the life and worship of ancient Israel heightens the alien otherness of these compositions and increases to an extreme the historical and cultural distance between them and our own contemporary circumstance. This tends to make it much more difficult to interpret the psalms for application to our own lives.
As a result of these difficulties, Mowinckel’s theory and the later developments introduced by those who followed his lead have not gained universal acceptance. However, they have had the positive effect of opening our eyes to the strong rooting that many psalms have within the temple worship system of Israel and have encouraged us to notice and highlight evidence of such usage whenever it is present.19
Other scholars, including Artur Weiser, have adopted more modest modifications of Mowinckel’s festival claims. Weiser proposes a yearly covenant-renewal festival taking place at the Israelite New Year and during which the kingly authority of Yahweh over Israel was reaffirmed, employing the core Psalms 93–99. He did not try to fit all of the psalms into such a framework, admitting many psalms were independent from such concerns. Weiser’s claims are less radical and less objectionable than Mowinckel’s in my mind, especially since he relies primarily on categories derived from Israelite religious tradition and thought. The covenant motif is well established throughout the Hebrew Bible, and we do have evidence of covenant renewal ceremonies in several Old Testament passages (although never on an annual basis). His model, however, still suffers from some of the same criticisms as Mowinckel’s, including the silence on such a yearly covenant-renewal festival in biblical literature and the largely hypothetical nature of his reconstruction and the requisite rearrangement of the psalms.20
Three Primary Categories
WHILE GUNKEL’S ANALYSIS of the biblical psalms uncovered a number of distinct psalms types, three categories emerged as primary forms: praise, lament, and thanksgiving. When viewed together, these three primary psalm types exhibit a similar structure. While there are a variety of exceptions to the rule, most psalms of these types begin with an introduction, continue with a body, and draw to a conclusion. What provide the distinguishing characteristics of each category of psalm are the specific contents of these structural sections. I will make a few general remarks about these distinctions here. For a more complete discussion with examples, see the extended essays on specific types later in the commentary.
Praise. Praise psalms contain an appeal (to self or others) to praise God, coupled with numerous descriptions of his praiseworthy name, deeds, attributes, and character. The focus is on God’s role as creator, sustainer, and stabilizer of the universe—humanity’s sole assurance of continued stability and reliability in a chaotic world. For the most part praise psalms admit no hint of suffering or disorder; rather, they express an awe-filled sense of confidence in God’s power, authority, and everlasting character displayed both in the world of nature and of human affairs. Examples of the type include Psalms 8; 29; 33; and 146–150.21
Lament. By contrast, the lament psalms direct their appeal to God himself, seeking deliverance from trouble and distress. The world of the lamenting psalmist is fully aware of the possibilities and realities of suffering, disorder, sin, and oppression that are a part of living in the world. Indeed, the laments find their focus in recounting how life has run amok despite the power and grace of Yahweh. Experience of pain often drives the psalmists to question the sure foundation represented by God’s creative power and sustaining authority. They experience God as distant (or even hostile, as in Ps. 88), and like Job muster arguments to motivate him to act in their behalf. Examples of laments include Psalms 22; 74; 88; and 130.22
Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving psalms occupy a territory that lies somewhere between praise and lament. Like the laments, thanksgiving songs are only too well aware of the reality of pain in all its forms. The heart of most thanksgiving psalms is a narrative of sin, treachery, oppression, suffering, or threat that characterizes the disordered world of the psalmist. The distinction that sets these narratives apart from those present in lament psalms is one of time. For the lament, suffering describes the present and continuing experience of the psalmist, while in thanksgiving psalms the suffering and pain described lie in the past.
Alongside this very real awareness of pain and suffering in life, the thanksgiving psalms reaffirm a confidence in the saving power and grace of a God who has entered the life of the psalmist (and readers) to redeem and transform. Their grateful response to the experience of deliverance draws the thanksgiving psalms more closely to the language and spirit of the praise songs. As a result, thanksgiving and praise often become difficult to distinguish since they employ a similar vocabulary and explore a similar terrain. Ultimately, however, it is thanksgiving’s deep roots in the pain and disorder of a sinful world at odds with its creator that draws the line between thanksgiving and praise. Examples of thanksgiving psalms include Psalms 104; 107; 116; and 136.23
Other psalm types. Alongside these three primary types of psalms, Gunkel and subsequent form critics have isolated a number of distinctive psalm types present in the Psalter. There is less agreement about some of these categories than in the case of praise, lament, and thanksgiving, but several significant types of psalms ought to be included in our discussion. Some will receive fuller treatment at appropriate points within the commentary.
Royal psalms. The earlier discussion of Mowinckel’s enthronement festival has already noted the important role envisioned for the Israelite king in the festal liturgy. While Mowinckel’s specific festival of enthronement remains doubtful, a number of psalms suggest the king could exercise an important function in temple worship. These psalms, which clearly focus their concern on matters relating to the king and his political, social, and religious duties, are considered a form-critical category and are usually referred to as royal psalms.
It is generally accepted that this group of psalms was used in “ceremonies whose central figure was the king” (von Rad). There is fairly close agreement on the contents of this category, with most scholars listing nine to eleven compositions (Pss. 2; 18; 20; 21; 45; 72; 89; 101; 110; 132; 144:1–11). While these eleven psalms do share a common concern with the king that sets them apart as a category, they reflect a variety of psalm types, some of which can be fruitfully compared with other psalms of similar type. These psalms include kingly laments (Pss. 89; 144) and thanksgiving (Ps. 18), quite comparable to those included in the broader contents of these primary categories.
Other royal psalms reflect circumstances and concerns more narrowly related to the role of the king. In Psalms 2 and 132, for example, the psalmists celebrate the divine selection of the Davidic dynasty for rulership. By contrast, Psalm 89 laments the apparent demise of the Davidic kingdom in the Exile. Psalm 45 was likely written on the occasion of a royal wedding, while Psalms 20–21 and 110 are concerned to secure divine support for the king’s military endeavors. In Psalm 101, the king pledges to rule justly, while Psalm 72 seeks to pass on divine blessing to the king’s descendants and successors.
The number and variety of these royal psalms point up the important role the Israelite kings played in religious life in general and temple worship in particular. A number of Old Testament passages describe the king’s acting in priestly ways—such as offering sacrifices, leading processions—and David and Solomon in particular are revered for their roles in establishing the Jerusalem temple and temple worship system.
Liturgical psalms. While it appears unreasonable to claim that all of the 150 canonical psalms were created for use in the temple worship of Israel, it is certainly true that many psalms show clear evidence of having been shaped in this context. These psalms exhibit clear awareness of the ritual activities of Israelite worship, including sacrifice, ritual processions, pilgrimage, antiphonal singing, and physical movements of the worshipers and celebrants (prostration, bowing, movement of the hands, etc.).
Particularly clear in their liturgical character are certain of the thanksgiving psalms (Heb. todah) that offer evidence of having been recited in the temple as testimony to the deliverance from trouble provided by Yahweh. Most likely thanksgiving psalms were recited along with the presentation of the thanksgiving sacrifice (todah), which publicly testified to the offerer’s experience of deliverance. In Psalm 66:13–15 for example, the psalmist, who has thus far been calling others to praise and bless Yahweh for his terrible deeds and mighty acts, repeats the vow made earlier during the time of distress to offer sacrifice in the temple when deliverance came:
I will come to your temple with burnt offerings
and fulfill my vows to you—
vows my lips promised and my mouth spoke
when I was in trouble.
I will sacrifice fat animals to you
and an offering of rams;
I will offer bulls and goats.
Such passages illustrate how recitation of the psalms (and thanksgiving psalms in particular) could be at once individual acts of worship enacted corporately within the communal setting of temple worship.
Psalm 118 offers a further, yet more enigmatic example of liturgical activity in temple worship when, in the midst of thanksgiving, the psalmist calls out in verse 19:
Open for me the gates of righteousness;
I will enter and give thanks to the LORD.
This seems to describe a moment in liturgical action at which the psalmist approaches the temple gates and requests admittance. In the following verse (v. 20), the requirement for entry is set forth—as if from the gatekeeper:
This is the gate of the LORD
through which [only] the righteous may enter.
A number of psalms speak of entering God’s gates or courts (e.g., 100:4) or of coming into the divine presence (cf. 95:1–2; 109:30).
Even more enigmatic is the apparent liturgical instruction inserted in the midst of Psalm 118:27:
With boughs in hand, join in the festal procession
up to the horns of the altar.
While the verse is notoriously difficult and obscure, it still reflects the kind of liturgical activity in temple worship that stands behind many of the psalms.
Other psalms, rather than describing ritual liturgical activity and ceremony in temple worship, reflect the influence of such activity on their form and structure. The appearance of repeated phrases and refrains, for example, probably reflects the antiphonal singing of the temple choir guilds or perhaps moments of congregational response to choral singing. See especially the artfully varied repeated refrain that punctuates Psalm 107 after each segment describing the plight of various groups of faithful exiles, or perhaps pilgrims winding their dangerous way to the holy city (cf. 107:6–9, 13–16, 19–22, 28–32).
An even more exhaustive example of antiphonal response is to be found in Psalm 136, where every half verse is followed by an identical refrain.
Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good.
His love endures forever.
Give thanks to the God of gods.
His love endures forever.
Give thanks to the Lord of lords:
His love endures forever.
to him who alone does great wonders,
His love endures forever.
who by his understanding made the heavens,
His love endures forever. . . .
What might otherwise seem overly repetitious in a written text achieves great energy when recited orally in antiphonal form, drawing the participants into the ethos of thanksgiving and driving home the major theme of the psalm in a powerful way.
One subcategory of liturgical psalms derives from the moment at which the worshiper prepares for entry to the holy space of the Temple Mount. Before entering the steps leading up to the holy place, worshipers underwent a ritual cleansing by bathing themselves in the ceremonial mikwaʾot carved out of the limestone rock near the base of the steps. This ritual washing was a sign of the worshiper’s repentance in preparation for entering the presence of Yahweh at the temple. Psalm 15 captures this moment in a challenging recitation of the qualifications expected of those who would presume to approach the holy place.
LORD, who may dwell in your sanctuary?
Who may live on your holy hill?
He whose walk is blameless
and who does what is righteous,
who speaks the truth from his heart
and has no slander on his tongue,
who does his neighbor no wrong
and casts no slur on his fellowman,
who despises a vile man
but honors those who fear the LORD,
who keeps his oath
even when it hurts,
who lends his money without usury
and does not accept a bribe against the innocent.
He who does these things
will never be shaken.
It is possible—evenly likely—that these words were spoken by a priest challenging worshipers to prepare themselves within and without, ritually and spiritually, to come to the house of God.
Psalm 24 envisions a similar challenge to a group of worshipers approaching the temple precincts. In verses 3–5 they ask:
Who may ascend the hill of the LORD?
Who may stand in his holy place?
He who has clean hands and a pure heart,
who does not lift up his soul to an idol
He will receive blessing from the LORD
and vindication from God his Savior.
The crowd then calls out twice (vv. 7, 9) as they approach the temple gates:
Lift up your heads, O you gates;
be lifted up, you ancient doors,
that the King of glory may come in.
Those within the temple twice challenge those outside (vv. 8, 10):
Who is this King of glory?
The psalm concludes in verse 10 with the worshiping throng’s shouted profession of faith:
The LORD Almighty—
he is the King of glory.
Yahweh malak psalms. Related to the royal psalms by their emphasis on kingship, the Yahweh malak psalms are, however, distinguished by their concern with the kingly reign of Yahweh. Rather than the earthly kingship of the Israelite monarchs, this group of compositions celebrate the kingdom and rule of God.
The psalms that make up this category are for the most part found grouped together in the middle of the fourth book of the Psalter and include Psalms 93 and 95–99. The group takes its name from the exclamation “The LORD reigns!” (Heb. yhwh malak), which is repeated at the beginning of Psalms 93; 97; and 99.24 Besides this distinctive phrase, these psalms refer in other contexts to Yahweh as king or mention his kingship or kingdom (cf. 95:3; 98:6; 99:4).
Yahweh’s sovereign kingship is grounded in his creative power and authority. In 93:1–4, he establishes the world and overpowers the chaotic floods (cf. 96:10). Psalm 98:7–8 describes Yahweh’s control of the depths and heights of the earth as well as the sea and dry land.25 Yahweh is rightful king because the creation is his work. The whole earth breaks forth in joyful song in praise of the creator king (98:4, 7–8).
The theme of divine judgment is another repeated characteristic of the Yahweh malak psalms, a logical step from Yahweh’s creative sovereignty and kingship is his right to judge the earth and all that lives in it. In 96:13, the whole creation rejoices because Yahweh arrives to “judge the world in righteousness and the peoples in his truth.” There is such joy in the face of judgment because the creation, distorted by sin and evil, anticipates being set right by the king who establishes order and justice (cf. also 98:9; 99:4).
These themes and characteristic language allow us to extend the number of Yahweh malak psalms beyond the core collection in Book 4. At least four such psalms share some of this distinctive phraseology. Three of these seem closely bound to the group, while the other appears more tangential in its relationship.
The first category (Pss. 33; 47; 149), despite being far removed from the core group, seem to deserve inclusion in the Yahweh malak collection. In Psalm 33, we encounter the instruction “Sing to him [Yahweh] a new song,” a characteristic of this group. The psalm is a praise directed to Yahweh and makes references to his justice (v. 5) and creative power (vv. 6–7), counseling readers to respond in dependence and trust (vv. 12–22). While Yahweh acts in kingly ways throughout this psalm, however, he is never referred to using the term melek (“king”).
Psalm 47 shares with the core group distinctive reference to Yahweh as king (47:2, 6, 7), his exercise of kingly authority (vv. 3–5), as well as a slight variation on the characteristic exclamation “God reigns” (v. 8), employing the more generic term ʾelohim.26 The psalm further shares with the core group the emphasis on praise. Psalm 149 agrees with Psalm 47 and the core psalms by naming Yahweh as king and creator (v. 2), describing the exercise of justice (vv. 4, 6–9), and enjoining the reader to join in praising him (vv. 1–4, 6, 9).
The more tangential psalm (Ps. 144) shares certain phrases and concerns with the Yahweh malak collection but is clearly set off by its being a lament rather than a praise psalm. This psalm employs the characteristic term “new song” (144:9; cf. 33:3) in a narrative description of the psalmist’s intent to praise Yahweh (“I will sing a new song to you, O God”) rather than the more characteristic call to praise. But there is no mention of Yahweh as creator or connection to justice and righteousness. Instead, the psalmist calls on Yahweh to deliver Israel from her enemies (144:5–8, 11) and to bless her agriculturally (vv. 12–14).
The Yahweh malak psalms are an important collection in the theological emphases of the Psalter. They play a significant role in the shaping of the whole Psalter collection by providing a refocusing of emphasis from limited human kingship to enduring divine sovereignty of Yahweh.
Wisdom and Torah psalms. While a number of biblical psalms have traditionally been considered “wisdom psalms,” considerable debate has raged—especially in the last twenty years or so—regarding what in fact constitutes a wisdom text and how one might go about identifying one. It seems appropriate, therefore, to begin with a brief description of wisdom and those characteristics that are generally agreed to set it apart from other types of literary approaches.
Wisdom is first and foremost a way of looking at life—similar to what we might call a “philosophy of life.” The sages [Heb. ḥakam/ḥakamim] based their understanding of life on personal and transmitted observation and experience of life. Their concern was to enable themselves and others to understand how to relate to life appropriately so that they would achieve benefit rather than hurt. Out of this desire to observe, analyze, and teach are derived several of the most characteristic features of wisdom and its extant literature.27
(1) Perhaps most clearly wisdom literature is intended to teach. That is, it is didactic in form, tone, and contact. It often employs brief, memorable proverbs in order to communicate its findings and conclusions to those who would learn and benefit. The sages’ writings are full of admonitions and exhortations (didactic tools), encouraging conformity to the way of wisdom and righteousness.
(2) Wisdom literature also often uses comparison and contrast to illustrate the respective consequences of wisdom and folly, obedience and rebellion, righteousness and wickedness. The proverbs are perfect examples of studied contrasts in their most condensed form, but the longer excursions of the sages—Proverbs 1–9, Job, and Ecclesiastes—are also shaped by contrast. The sages saw only two options in life—two ways that characterized human response to their teaching: The way of wisdom ended in life and blessing, while the way of folly followed rebellion to its ultimate end of judgment and death.28
(3) Traditional wisdom thinking reflected in the biblical wisdom literature also believed in retribution, that is, in an observable connection between human conduct and divine judgment or blessing. Most simply stated, the view concludes that “the wise prosper while the foolish perish.” While some proverbial literature may give the impression that wisdom rather naively anticipated an immediate and consistent operation of retribution in all cases, the biblical wisdom literature, taken as a whole, recognizes and discusses at length the complexity of the issue. Ecclesiastes, Job, and some of Proverbs recognize the reality of pain, suffering, and injustice for the righteous, debating at length how a good God of order can allow this to be so. But in the end the sages did not throw out retribution entirely but allowed the debate to stand enshrined in their literature, marking the tensions of a faith that could acknowledge the firm good intent of God toward those who fear him in the face of the clear vagaries of human pain and suffering.
(4) Wisdom vocabulary, while not always a conclusive proof of wisdom origin of a text, is nevertheless a helpful indicator of wisdom interests. One frequently finds the righteous opposed to the wicked or the wise contrasted with the fool. Explicit or implicit description of two ways—one ending in blessing and life, the other in judgment and death—are strong indicators of wisdom themes. The use of the Hebrew term ʾašre (“blessed”) to describe the anticipated reward of the righteous/wise is common, as well as the phrase “fear Yahweh” to describe the appropriate relation of the wise to God.
(5) A final indicator of wisdom influence is the occasional use of the alphabetic acrostic form (see comments on acrostics in the section on “Types of Psalms,” above).
In the Psalter, one can note wisdom interests and vocabulary to various degrees in a number of psalms. Psalm 1 shows clear contrast between the behavior and destiny of the righteous and the wicked. Psalm 37 also reflects interest in the two ways and the operation of retribution. It even contains clearly proverbial segments (cf. vv. 16–17, 35–36). Psalm 49 is didactic in tone and purpose, reflecting on the folly of pursuing wealth (similar to Eccl. 3:18–21) while concluding that righteousness and wisdom will prevail.
Psalm 34, like several other psalms,29 is an alphabetic acrostic that also employs traditional wisdom terminology in phrases such as “blessed” (v. 8) and “fear the LORD” (v. 9). Since acrostic poems are employed on several occasions outside the Psalter to conclude compositions (Prov. 31:10–31; Sir. 51), it is particularly interesting to speculate on the placement of the acrostic wisdom Psalm 145, which appears toward the end of Book 5 and just before the concluding Hallel (Pss. 146–150).
Wisdom in its origins appears to have been founded primarily on what might today be called a “natural theology”—in others words, what can be known by observation and experience of the world rather than through special divine revelation. For that reason, wisdom texts often seem to ignore important elements of Israel’s traditional religious worldview. There is little discussion of the covenant with Yahweh and necessary obedience to it, nor is much attention paid to worship, sacrifice, or the temple.
It does appear, however, that at a later point (some would pinpoint the Exile) Israel’s sages came to equate the demands of wisdom with the covenant commandments of Yahweh. This is most clearly seen in the Apocrypha, where the identification of wisdom and the Torah (the revealed law and commandments) of Yahweh is complete.30 As a result, some psalms that are focused on the praise of Torah and exhortation to obedience should be included among the wisdom psalms.
These Torah psalms certainly include Psalm 1, with its encouragement to delight in the Torah of Yahweh day and night, the continuous contrast between the righteous and wicked, and the acknowledgment of the two ways of life and death. Psalm 19:7–11 also celebrates the perfection of Torah, which, like the creation in the earlier verses of the same psalm, reveals the nature of Yahweh and offers the righteous blessing and reward. Finally, one should not forget the expansive Torah Psalm 119, which in each of its 176 verses of its alphabetic acrostic form offers some reflection on the excellence of the divine Torah.
Like the royal psalms, wisdom and Torah psalms frequently overlap other psalms types. Some wisdom psalms take the form of praise psalms, while others are akin to the laments (e.g., Ps. 34) or thanksgivings (e.g., Ps. 73). With the exception of the acrostics, it is ultimately the content, vocabulary, and thematic concerns that mark these compositions off as wisdom psalms.
In an additional similarity to the royal psalms, psalms reflecting wisdom concerns, themes, and vocabulary appear in significant locations within the Psalter, giving rise to the idea that they were purposefully placed to provide a structuring framework to the whole Psalter.31 It is probably no accident that Psalm 1 stands at the beginning of the Psalter as an introduction. Neither is it coincidental, in my view, that wisdom concerns appear in Psalm 73, at the beginning of Book 3 of the Psalter, in Psalm 90 at the beginning of Book 4, and in Psalms 107 (vv. 41–43) and 145 (an alphabetic acrostic) at the beginning of Book 5.32
Miscellaneous types. Other terms are sometimes used to describe categories of psalms less common than those discussed above. I will discuss these types in conjunction with the commentary on specific psalms. Let me give a brief listing and examples of some of the more significant of these:
• psalms of confidence (trust): e.g., the familiar Pss. 23 and 91, along with 11; 62; and 131
• historical psalms: e.g., Pss. 78; 105; and 106
• entrance liturgies: e.g., Pss. 15 and 24 (esp. vv. 7–10)
• minor categories such as oracles, psalms of integrity, vows, and instructions
The Psalm Headings: Superscripts and Postscripts
SUPERSCRIPTS AND POSTSCRIPTS are well known in ancient writings, from Mesopotamian clay tablets, to Egyptian papyrus scrolls, to the literary scrolls and codex texts of the Greeks and Romans. These editorial comments appended to the beginning (superscripts) or the end (postscripts) of a literary composition provide information or instructions about the composition (or, in some cases, its assumed author or circumstances); they are not an integral literary part of it. In general one can say that in biblical literature and in related Canaanite literature from Ugarit, superscripts provide comments or instructions regarding the particular composition to which the superscript is attached, while postscripts are directed to larger organizational concerns.33
A Single Postscript
A SURVEY OF the biblical psalms turns up a large number of widely varied superscripts attached to individual compositions, but only a single clearly distinguished postscript. This lonely postscript is attached to the end of Psalm 72, in verse 20:
This concludes the prayers of David son of Jesse.
This verse apparently marks the conclusion of a preceding collection of Davidic prayers; as a result it tells us little about the particular psalm to which it is attached.
There is some discussion and debate, however, about what comprises the collection to which this verse refers. Some suggest it has been misplaced from an original position at the conclusion of Book 1 (Pss. 1–41), since all the psalms in the first book are Davidic, excepting the introductory Psalms 1 and 2, as well as Psalms 10 and 33, which have a tradition of being combined with the psalm that immediately precedes them (Pss. 9 and 32 respectively). Others limit the reference of the postscript to the immediately preceding Davidic psalms (Pss. 51–65; 68–70). Still others take it as referring to the combined collection of Psalms 1–72, which are dominated by the earlier Davidic collection in Book 1 and a significant contingent of Davidic psalms toward the end of Book 2 (51–65; 68–70).34
Perhaps the decisive factor in the discussion is the fact that this postscript appears directly after the expansive doxology (blessing pronounced on God) in 72:18–19. This doxology, as will be discussed below, is one of several similar doxologies that apparently were employed to mark the conclusions of the five books of the Psalter collection. If the postscript was intended to mark the final group of Davidic psalms in Book 2, it should have preceded the doxology. Whether the postscript ever graced the end of the first Davidic collection is a matter of pure speculation. Even if that were the case, its present placement at the end of Book 2 and after the doxology is not simply an accident but seems intended to mark the conclusion of the combined Psalter collection to that point.
The fact that Davidic psalms dominate Book 1 and bracket the combined two books at beginning and end, along with the Davidic emphasis provided by the thirteen psalms with historical notices connected to David’s life, would seem sufficient warrant for the postscript’s message. It is clear that this postscript makes no exclusive claim of Davidic authorship for the psalms contained in the combined first two books, since groupings of Davidic psalms appear throughout the three books of the Psalter that follow.35
Concluding Doxologies
AS BRIEFLY MENTIONED above, four somewhat similarly structured and worded doxologies appear at the conclusion of Psalms 41; 72; 89; and 106, which have long been thought to mark the segmentation of the Psalter into five “books.” While it is not entirely correct to describe these doxologies with the term postscript since they contain no explicit instruction or explanation regarding the texts or collection to which they are appended, closer observation reveals that the doxologies do function similarly to the one true postscript mentioned above. Like 72:20, the doxologies are concerned with more than the composition to which they seem attached, and their concern is to mark the conclusion of the segment that precedes.
These doxologies appear in the earliest Hebrew manuscripts of the Psalter and are included in the Greek translation of the LXX as well. At an early date some of the rabbis and other interpreters of Scripture related the five Psalter divisions thus delineated to the five books of Moses in the Torah.36 Some scholars have suggested that the fivefold division came about to order the psalms so they could be read in the synagogue along with the Torah selection. Attempts to show how psalms and Torah readings were intended to fit have been forced and less than persuasive, in my opinion.37
Regardless of why five divisions were created in the Psalter, it seems unquestionable now that the doxologies were employed for this purpose. In Mesopotamia, doxology was employed similarly to structure hymn collections.38 Thus, it appears that structural elements attached at the end of a psalm should be understood as marking the conclusion of a series of psalms rather than just the composition to which they are attached.39
You may have noticed in the above discussion that no mention was made of a fifth doxology concluding the final book of the Psalter. The solution to this seeming omission is the generally accepted observation that the final Hallel (Pss. 146–150) stands at the conclusion of the whole Psalter collection and admirably fulfills the role of concluding praise of Yahweh.
Superscripts
UNLIKE THE POSTSCRIPTS that are concerned to organize, arrange, and ultimately to conclude what precedes, superscripts introduce the single composition to which they are attached and provide information about it. Most of the psalm headings contain a variety of terms that explain the presumed “author” of the psalm and the ancient category or type of psalm it represents; in many instances they go further to give instructions about the manner of performance (melody to be employed, instruments for accompaniment, tuning of the instruments, and setting in worship).
Twenty-four of the 150 canonical psalms have no heading.40 An additional ten psalms are introduced only by the cultic shout “Hallelujah,” which also concludes a few of these “untitled” psalms.41 That leaves the vast majority of psalms (126) bearing some sort of psalm heading. These headings may be as brief as a single word—e.g., ledawid (“to/for/of/by/concerning David”; cf. Pss. 25–28; 138; 144) or mizmor (“psalm”; cf. Ps. 98)—or may be quite complex and extended (e.g., the headings to Pss. 60 and 88).
Authorship. Of the psalms, 101 bear in their headings the name of some specific person or group of persons. Those mentioned are: David (73 psalms), Asaph (12), the Korahites (11), Solomon (2), Moses (1), Ethan (1), and Heman (1). The exact nature of these references to persons continues to be debated. It has traditionally been assumed they are attributions of the author of specific psalms. The debate centers on the significance of the Hebrew preposition le- attached to each of these names. This preposition has a variety of nuances, including “of, by, for, to, concerning, about.” This ambiguity has led others to suggest these names might represent the style of composition (as “in the style of David”), the one providing authorization for a composition (“by the authority of David”), the person to whom the composition was dedicated (“[dedicated] to/for David”), or in some instances the person(s) responsible for performing the psalm in temple worship (“for the Korahites”).42
It is impossible to resolve this issue decisively. Even the appearance in a significant number of psalms of historical notices connecting each psalm to a specific context in David’s life does not necessarily presume Davidic authorship, since they may just as well be “about David . . . when he was in the Desert of Judah” (Ps. 63).
Ancient types of psalms. Also included in many psalm headings are terms describing ancient categories of psalms. These include: mizmor (57 psalms), šir (30), maśkil (13), miktam (6), tepillah (5), tehillah (Ps. 145), šiggayon (Ps. 7). Some would include halleluyah43 (16) in this list, although it is not clear that this phrase represents a psalm heading, since it often appears at the conclusion of psalms and may represent a liturgical shout within worship and would thus be an integral part of the literary composition. (For further discussion of these ancient psalm types, see “Types of Psalms,” above.)
Musical instructions. Other terms within the psalm headings seem clearly to reflect instructions concerning the musical presentation of these psalms in temple worship.44 These can be divided into the following:
(1) reference to the director: the frequently occurring phrase lamnaṣṣeaḥ (“To the director . . .”)
(2) instructions regarding melody or tuning of the harp: usually introduced by the Hebrew preposition ʿal, as in Psalm 6: ʿal haššeminit (“. . . according to sheminith”—a tuning of the harp); Psalm 9: ʿalmut labben (“To the tune of To the Death of the Son”)
(3) instrumentation: introduced by the Hebrew preposition be-, as in Psalm 6: binginot (“with stringed instruments . . .”)
(4) context within worship: introduced by the Hebrew preposition le, as in Psalm 92: leyom haššabbat (“for the Sabbath day”); Psalms 38 and 70: lehazkir (“for the memorial offering)”; Psalm 100: letodah (“for the thank offering”).
Historical notations. Thirteen psalms45 include with their headings reference to some event in the life of David presumed to be the context for the psalm’s composition. While most of the events mentioned can be found in the narratives of Samuel—Kings, others are more ambiguous or obscure.
Origin of the Psalm Headings
SCHOLARS HAVE ATTEMPTED to describe the historical development of the psalm headings.46 There has been a general willingness to distinguish temporally between the origin of the liturgically oriented references of the headings and the more narrative historical notices relating to David’s life. Normally the historical notices are understood to be later than the liturgical elements. Some have suggested that attributions of authorship may have been added independently of the liturgical notices—and probably at a later date. Others go so far as to view the different elements of the liturgical instructions as representing several distinct layers of additions built up over a longer period of time—a view that has yet to win general acceptance.47
The most usual scenario suggested sees three layers of accretion. (1) The liturgical elements were added—perhaps while the psalms were still in use in temple worship (thus the references to the director), but perhaps representing notes appended when the psalms were gathered into more literary collections before inclusion in the Psalter. (2) Traditions of “authorship” were added, with collections developing around specific authors. (3) The historical notices were appended—possibly as the result of exegetical interpretation of the texts in light of the presumed author’s life setting.
Several features of the psalm headings in the LXX add some weight to this suggestion. The Greek translation of the liturgical terms and notices evidence a degree of uncertainty and confusion. The rather standard instruction “To the director” is translated eis to telos (“To the end [of time]”). This and other equally awkward renderings suggest the translators had only an imperfect understanding of these liturgical terms. This likely means that the liturgical elements were early enough for their meaning to have been partially obscured by the time of the Greek translation—at least those terms specifically related to temple worship.
By contrast, the LXX not only acknowledges the author designations in the Hebrew psalm headings but adds to them considerably, increasing the number of Davidic psalms and including attributions to persons and historical contexts that do not appear in the Hebrew versions.48 This suggests that the author attributions and historical references were later than the liturgical elements and were still in a state of some fluidity. The appearance among the Qumran psalms scrolls and fragments of additional psalms, Davidic attributions, and historical notices not included in the canonical Psalter supports this developing view.
Consequently, it appears that the psalm headings developed over a considerable period of time. Certain elements—probably the liturgical instructions—were appended quite early, while others (designation of authors and historical notices) continued to be added over time. If the evidence of the Qumran scrolls suggests continued fluidity in psalm collection and the addition of psalm headings, then this process does not seem to have been completed before the mid-first century A.D.49