re political psalms, full of weighty
advice, to his sons after him, like the 115th Psalm.

There are psalms of the most exquisite tenderness, like the 23d Psalm,
written perhaps while he himself was still a shepherd boy, and he looked
upon his flocks feeding on the downs of Bethlehem, and sang, "The Lord is
my shepherd, I shall not want," &c. And lastly, though I should not say
lastly, for the variety of this wonderful man's psalms is past counting,
there are psalms of triumph and thanksgiving, which are miracles of
beauty and grandeur. Take, for instance, the 34th, one of the earliest,
when David was not more than twenty-five years old, when Abimelech drove
him away, and he departed and sang, "I will bless the Lord at all times.
. . . My soul shall make her boast in the Lord. . . . I sought the Lord,
and he heard me, and delivered me out of all my fear. Lo the poor man
crieth and the Lord heareth him. . . . The angel of the Lord tarrieth
round about them that fear him, and delivereth them." And, as the
grandest of all, as, indeed, it was meant to be, that wonderful 18th
Psalm which David, the servant of the Lord, spake to the Lord in the day
when the Lord delivered him out of the hand of all his enemies. "I will
love thee, O Lord, my strength. The Lord is my strong rock and defence:
my Saviour, my God, and my might, in whom I will trust, my buckler, the
horn also of my salvation, and my refuge." This is, indeed, David's
masterpiece. The only one which comes near it is the 144th. The
loftiest piece of poetry, taken as mere poetry, though it is more, much
more, in the whole world. Even in our translation, it rushes on with a
force and a swiftness, which are indeed divine. Thought follows thought,
image image, verse verse, before the breath of the Spirit of God, as wave
leaps after wave before a mighty wind. Even now, to read that psalm
rightly, should stir the heart like a trumpet. What must it have been
like when sung by David himself? No wonder that those brave old Jews
hung upon the lips of their warrior-poet and felt that the man who could
sing to them of such thoughts, and not only sing them, but feel them
likewise, was indeed a king and a prophet sent to them by God. A
prophet, I say. They loved his songs not merely on account of the beauty
of their poetry. Indeed, one hardly likes to talk of David's psalms as
beautiful poetry. It seems unfair to them. For though they are
beautiful poetry, they ar