Scripture Reading: Psalms 121–125; 128–130

Not every step is steady.

Some days, the road rises too quickly, and breath catches before the next prayer can even form. There are seasons when the hills ahead feel less like sacred destinations and more like towering barriers. And yet, the psalms in this collection—known as the Songs of Ascents—were not written for the already arrived. They were sung by pilgrims climbing toward Jerusalem, their hearts anchored in worship even as their feet bore the weight of dust, danger, and distance.

These are not songs for those who walk easily.
They are songs for the weary. For those ascending through grief, pressing on through uncertainty, or lingering in valleys where silence echoes louder than hope. And yet, across every landscape—through steep climbs and long pauses—one truth remains unshaken: grace!

Grace for the climb.

Grace for the waiting. 

Grace for the wounds. 

Grace that steadies, shields, blesses, and lifts.

This is more than a pilgrimage across terrain.
It is a journey of the soul and at every step—whether trembling or bold—grace goes before us, and God meets us there.

Eyes Up (Psalm 121) 

The pilgrim stands at the base of the hills, eyes lifted toward a horizon that feels both sacred and uncertain. The road ahead is familiar only in its difficulty—winding, weathered, worn with the footprints of those who have gone before. Yet this ascent is not fueled by physical stamina alone; it is stirred by a question spoken from deep within the soul: “I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come?” (Psalm 121:1)

This is not the inquiry of one who doubts, but the declaration of one who knows where not to look. The hills, though beautiful, hold no saving power in themselves. Their height may inspire, but their shadows conceal real danger—bandits in the crevices, heat in the daylight, fear in the stillness of night. The help the pilgrim seeks must come from a source far beyond the terrain. And with a breath that carries both resolve and reverence, the answer rises: “My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth” (Psalm 121:2).

It is not the path itself that sustains, nor the journey’s destination, but the Lord—the Maker of all things—who walks with His people. The journey will twist and rise and fall again, yet the One who formed the soil beneath the sandals of the faithful is neither absent nor aloof. He does not supervise from a distance or glance intermittently from a heavenly watchtower. Rather, God attends closely to every step. “He will not let your foot be moved; he who keeps you will not slumber” (Psalm 121:3). There is no night too long to exhaust Him, no moment too ordinary to escape His care.

Unlike earthly guardians who nod off at their posts, the Lord who keeps Israel remains fully alert, fully aware, and fully committed. “Behold, he who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep” (Psalm 121:4). The Hebrew word repeated throughout this psalm—shamar, meaning “to keep”—is not the language of distant observation, but of covenantal protection. It is the language of the God who shields, who guards, who surrounds His people with faithfulness.

And so, the psalmist continues, not as one merely hopeful, but as one entirely convinced: “The Lord is your keeper; the Lord is your shade on your right hand. The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon by night” (Psalm 121:5–6). From the scorching heat of affliction to the silent unease of nighttime fears, the Lord offers complete coverage. His nearness is not an occasional comfort, but a constant shelter, extending into every hour and every vulnerability.

The promise does not end with external protection; it reaches into the very essence of being. “The Lord will keep you from all evil; he will keep your life” (Psalm 121:7). This is not a guarantee of a pain-free journey, but a reassurance that no evil will have the final word over those who are kept by God. Even when the heart trembles and the footing feels unsure, the soul remains secure in Him. As the psalm draws to its close, the scope of God’s keeping expands beyond the present moment, reaching across every departure and every return: “The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in from this time forth and forevermore” (Psalm 121:8).

Through Christ, that promise holds even more weight.
The One who called Himself the Good Shepherd does not merely guide from a distance; He walked the same earth, endured its heat and its hardship, and ascended the hill of Calvary so that we could be kept not only in this life, but in the life to come. “And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20). Because Jesus does not slumber or sleep, we are free to walk—even when the climb is steep and the way unclear.

Heart Anchored (Psalm 122) 

The climb continues, but now the pilgrim’s pace quickens—not from urgency, but from joy. After the long anticipation, after the dusty miles and weary sighs, the gates of Jerusalem rise into view. The longing that once lived in the feet now overflows from the heart: “I was glad when they said to me, ‘Let us go to the house of the Lord!’” (Psalm 122:1)

This is not a detached duty or a religious obligation; it is a homecoming. The worshiper enters the city not with mere formality, but with deep gladness. Jerusalem—elevated, consecrated, built as a unified whole—is more than geography; it is where the presence of the Lord dwells in a unique and holy way. “Our feet have been standing within your gates, O Jerusalem!” (Psalm 122:2)

For generations, this city had drawn the tribes of Israel upward for appointed feasts, and not just for celebration, but for reorientation. Here, they gathered to remember who they were and whose they were—to give thanks “to the name of the Lord” (Psalm 122:4). Jerusalem was not merely a center of tradition; it was a spiritual anchor, reminding every soul that their lives were not governed by fear, division, or chaos, but by the God who rules with righteousness. “There thrones for judgment were set, the thrones of the house of David” (Psalm 122:5).

And so, the psalmist urges, “Pray for the peace of Jerusalem!” (Psalm 122:6)—not simply for the absence of war, but for the presence of shalom: a deep, covenantal wholeness rooted in God’s order. This is not a casual prayer tossed heavenward; it is a call for collective intercession. To pray for Jerusalem was to long for a society rightly aligned with God’s justice, rightly centered on His worship, and rightly at peace with one another. “Peace be within your walls and security within your towers!” (Psalm 122:7)

The psalmist does not stop with petitions for the city alone, but for the people within it—friends, neighbors, fellow sojourners: “For my brothers and companions’ sake I will say, ‘Peace be within you!’” (Psalm 122:8). The love of God naturally spills outward, stirring a longing not only for sacred spaces, but for the well-being of those who share them. True worship does not isolate; it unites. It softens the heart, aligns the affections, and restores perspective. And in the final verse, the motivation becomes clear: “For the sake of the house of the Lord our God, I will seek your good” (Psalm 122:9).

In Christ, the longing for the house of the Lord is both fulfilled and transformed.
No longer limited to stone and sanctuary, worship now lives in Spirit and truth (John 4:24), as Jesus—the cornerstone rejected by men but chosen by God—becomes the foundation of a living temple (1 Peter 2:4–6). As believers, we do not journey toward a physical Jerusalem to encounter God, for through Jesus, we have become His dwelling place. Yet even so, our hearts still rise at the thought of gathering. There is still joy when we say, *“Let us go”—*whether to a Sunday fellowship, a quiet morning devotion, or a whispered prayer in the dark.

For the house of the Lord is no longer bound to location. It is wherever He is—wherever His name is honored, His Word is opened, and His people seek His peace. And it is there, in that sacred togetherness, that we find our hearts anchored once more.

Eyes Fixed (Psalm 123) 

The gate may be behind them, but the climb is not over. Even within Jerusalem’s walls, the pilgrim lifts their eyes again—not now toward the hills, but to the throne. Their gaze ascends beyond architecture, beyond ritual and routine, to the God who reigns in the heavens. “To you I lift up my eyes, O you who are enthroned in the heavens!” (Psalm 123:1)

This is not a fleeting glance or a distracted look—it is a steady fixation. The psalmist speaks not of a passing need, but of a posture of the soul: one who waits, who watches, who leans in. “Behold, as the eyes of servants look to the hand of their master, as the eyes of a maidservant to the hand of her mistress, so our eyes look to the Lord our God, till he has mercy upon us” (Psalm 123:2).

It is a humbling metaphor. The image of a servant is not one of status, but of surrender—complete attentiveness to the movement of the Master’s hand. In ancient households, servants did not act independently; they waited for the smallest signal, the subtlest motion, the quietest gesture. To look to the Lord like this is to live in active, expectant dependence—not simply asking for mercy, but anticipating it.

And yet, mercy is not always immediate. The tone shifts in verse three as the psalmist pleads, “Have mercy upon us, O Lord, have mercy upon us, for we have had more than enough of contempt” (Psalm 123:3). The voices of mockery are loud—those who dwell in ease, who scoff at the faithful, who treat reverence as weakness and devotion as delusion. “Our soul has had more than enough of the scorn of those who are at ease, of the contempt of the proud” (Psalm 123:4).

It is here that the psalm reaches its aching center—not in defiance, but in endurance. The eyes of the worshiper remain lifted, even when insult rains down. There is no retaliation, no sharp reply—only the quiet resolve to keep looking, to keep trusting, to keep waiting until the hand of the Lord moves.

This kind of gaze does not come easily. It requires a heart trained in hope, eyes disciplined in discernment, and a soul shaped by surrender. It is not a weak thing to wait upon the Lord; it is an act of holy strength. And in Christ, we see the fullness of that mercy—not only extended, but embodied. “But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us… raised us up with him and seated us with him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus” (Ephesians 2:4–6).

So when the voices of pride grow loud, when you feel surrounded by contempt, do not lower your gaze. Fix your eyes—not on the mockery, nor on the mountain, nor even on yourself—but on the Lord your God, who is enthroned in the heavens and who bends down to strengthen those who wait on Him. 

He sees. 

He knows.

He moves in mercy.

Rescued Mid-Stream (Psalm 124) 

Every pilgrim knows the journey could have ended before it began. Every worshiper who ascends does so with the quiet awareness that survival was not guaranteed. And Psalm 124 dares to say it aloud—to trace the what-ifs and almosts and might-have-beens. “If it had not been the Lord who was on our side…” (Psalm 124:1)

The psalmist repeats the line, urging Israel to truly consider it: “Let Israel now say—if it had not been the Lord who was on our side when people rose up against us…” (Psalm 124:1–2). This is not abstract reflection; it is a deliberate act of remembering. The enemies had come close—too close. Their anger had flared like floodwaters breaking past their banks. “Then they would have swallowed us up alive, when their anger was kindled against us; then the flood would have swept us away, the torrent would have gone over us” (Psalm 124:3–4).

The language is vivid, terrifying—drowning, engulfing, being pulled under by forces too strong to resist. The psalmist does not minimize the danger; he magnifies the deliverance. Because the waters did rise. The trap was set and the fury was real, but so was the hand of the Lord. “Blessed be the Lord, who has not given us as prey to their teeth!” (Psalm 124:6)

Like a bird escaping the snare, Israel did not free herself by wit or strength. The escape was not orchestrated by strategy or skill—it was an intervention. “We have escaped like a bird from the snare of the fowlers; the snare is broken, and we have escaped!” (Psalm 124:7). The only reason the net failed was because the Lord Himself tore it open.

This is not nostalgia—it is spiritual armor. To remember the moments we nearly drowned, the hours we felt the enemy’s breath, the days we wondered if we would make it—is to recall that it was never our strength that brought us through. It was the Lord’s hand, steady and sure, reaching into the depths and lifting us to safety.

“Our help is in the name of the Lord, who made heaven and earth” (Psalm 124:8). The psalm ends not with fear, but with faith. The same Lord who created the cosmos is the one who intervenes when our souls are caught mid-stream, when we are too stunned to speak or too weak to swim. He is not only the Keeper of our steps—He is the Rescuer when we fall.

And in Christ, that deliverance takes on deeper hues. For we were more than prey—we were dead in our trespasses, caught in snares of sin too tangled to break. But God, rich in mercy, shattered the trap and lifted us out. “He has delivered us from the domain of darkness and transferred us to the kingdom of his beloved Son” (Colossians 1:13). The net is broken and we are free.

Mountains That Surround (Psalm 125) 

There are moments on the journey when the heart finally steadies—not because the road has grown smooth, but because something deeper has settled within. After the cry for help and the memory of deliverance, Psalm 125 speaks with quiet confidence: “Those who trust in the Lord are like Mount Zion, which cannot be moved, but abides forever” (Psalm 125:1).

It is not the strength of the pilgrim that secures them—it is their trust in the Lord. The one who believes is not described as a reed or a breeze or a flickering flame, but as a mountain. Not any mountain, but Mount Zion—Jerusalem’s sacred elevation, a symbol of God’s covenantal dwelling and immovable presence. Those who trust are not promised immunity from hardship, but they are promised permanence in God’s grip. They may bend under the wind, but they will not be uprooted.

And if being like a mountain offers assurance, what follows next offers shelter: “As the mountains surround Jerusalem, so the Lord surrounds his people, from this time forth and forevermore” (Psalm 125:2). Jerusalem, nestled among natural fortresses, was always encircled by hills that protected it from invaders. That visual becomes a metaphor for the people of God—completely encompassed by the Lord’s faithful love.

This is not a temporary arrangement. His protection does not expire with the closing of a feast or the end of a season. The Lord surrounds His people now—and always. Even when the land trembles or the heart falters, His covering does not retreat. He is not only above His people in majesty but around them in mercy.

Yet the psalm does not ignore injustice. It recognizes the tension between God’s promises and the world’s brokenness. “For the scepter of wickedness shall not rest on the land allotted to the righteous, lest the righteous stretch out their hands to do wrong” (Psalm 125:3). Evil may encroach, but it will not endure. Oppression may press in, but it will not possess the inheritance of the faithful. The Lord, in His mercy, limits the reach of the wicked so that the righteous are not worn into compromise. His restraint is as much a grace as His protection.

And in that tension, a prayer rises—not simply for safety, but for discernment and peace: “Do good, O Lord, to those who are good, and to those who are upright in their hearts!” (Psalm 125:4). The psalmist knows that not all who appear among God’s people walk uprightly. Some will veer, some will deceive, some will follow crooked paths. But the final word is not theirs. “But those who turn aside to their crooked ways the Lord will lead away with evildoers” (Psalm 125:5).

Yet for those who trust, who remain, who endure—the final word is peace. “Peace be upon Israel!” (Psalm 125:5b). Not merely the absence of struggle, but the presence of divine wholeness. 

In Christ, we find that peace fully realized. He is not only the fulfillment of Mount Zion’s hope, but the mountain Himself—the One to whom we run for refuge, and the One who now surrounds His church like a shield. “You have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God” (Colossians 3:3). 

Blessing in Every Step (Psalm 128) 

After the cries for mercy and the declarations of divine shelter, Psalm 128 blooms like a garden in full sunlight. It begins not with struggle, but with promise—spoken over those who walk in holy reverence: “Blessed is everyone who fears the Lord, who walks in his ways!” (Psalm 128:1)

This is not a transactional blessing, nor a shallow formula for comfort. It is the rich, covenantal flourishing that follows a life rooted in awe of God. To “fear the Lord” is not to tremble in dread, but to stand in reverent submission—heart bowed, footsteps aligned. 

And the blessings? They are not distant—they meet the faithful right where they are. “You shall eat the fruit of the labor of your hands; you shall be blessed, and it shall be well with you” (Psalm 128:2). There’s something deeply meaningful about life’s everyday moments—the meals we share, the work we do with our hands, the sound of children’s laughter, and the steady peace of home. These aren’t small or insignificant things. They are reminders of God’s goodness woven into daily life.

“Your wife will be like a fruitful vine within your house; your children will be like olive shoots around your table” (Psalm 128:3). This is biblical poetry, yes, but also a proclamation. The vine and the olive tree were not only signs of beauty and provision—they were enduring symbols of covenant life in Israel. The vine clung and climbed while the the olive tree took root and lasted. So too, the household shaped by God’s fear becomes a place where life grows and legacy takes root.

The psalmist does not present this picture as idealized fantasy but as a glimpse into what God delights to give—stability, joy, and generational faithfulness. And he anchors it again in the fear of the Lord: “Behold, thus shall the man be blessed who fears the Lord” (Psalm 128:4). It is not ease that defines this blessing—it is alignment with the character of God.

Then the prayer expands. “The Lord bless you from Zion! May you see the prosperity of Jerusalem all the days of your life!” (Psalm 128:5). Personal obedience spills into communal flourishing. The household blessed by reverence becomes part of the city blessed by peace. And the benediction stretches even further: “May you see your children’s children! Peace be upon Israel!” (Psalm 128:6)

This is what grace looks like when it settles into the soil of daily life—not loud or spectacular, but fruitful and faithful. It grows slowly, humbly, deeply—often unnoticed until you look back and see the harvest.

And in Christ, this blessing comes not only to those born into Israel, but to all who walk by faith. “If you are Christ’s, then you are Abraham’s offspring, heirs according to promise” (Galatians 3:29). The vine still bears fruit and the olive shoot still flourishes. The One who walked in perfect obedience now blesses those who follow in His steps—not with fleeting riches, but with the rooted joy of life in Him.

Scarred but Standing (Psalm 129) 

The journey of faith is not without wounds. There are seasons when the soul is marked by suffering so deep it seems to write itself across the body. And yet, Psalm 129 rises with a kind of holy resilience—not denying the pain but declaring survival. “Greatly have they afflicted me from my youth”—let Israel now say— “greatly have they afflicted me from my youth, yet they have not prevailed against me” (Psalm 129:1–2).

This is not an individual voice but a collective cry—Israel speaking as one. From their earliest days, oppression shadowed their steps. Egypt, Babylon, hostile neighbors, and even internal corruption pressed in. And yet, despite it all, the people of God endured. Not because they were strong, but because they were kept. “Yet they have not prevailed against me.” These words are not spoken with arrogance, but with awe.

The psalmist does not shy away from graphic imagery: “The plowers plowed upon my back; they made long their furrows” (Psalm 129:3). The pain was real and the enemy’s cruelty left visible lines—furrows etched like wounds in the soil of the soul. These were not surface injuries. They ran deep but so did grace.

“The Lord is righteous; he has cut the cords of the wicked” (Psalm 129:4). One decisive sentence shifts the weight of the psalm. It is the Lord—not time, not luck, not human resistance—who intervened. The enemy laid cords around the faithful, but the Lord broke them. The plowman furrowed the back, but the Lord broke the yoke. His righteousness is not abstract—it is active. 

God has acted and the psalmist can pray with boldness: “May all who hate Zion be put to shame and turned backward!” (Psalm 129:5). These words may sound harsh at first, but they rise from a deep longing for righteousness to be restored. This is not petty revenge—it is a cry for justice and a plea for the wicked not to prosper. The psalm continues with a vivid picture of their futility: “Let them be like the grass on the housetops, which withers before it grows up” (Psalm 129:6). On the flat roofs of ancient homes, grass might sprout quickly after a rain, but with no real soil to root it, it would wither before maturity.

Those who oppose the purposes of God may seem to rise for a moment—but they do not last. Their legacy fades and their harvest never fills a hand. “With which the reaper does not fill his hand… nor do those who pass by say, ‘The blessing of the Lord be upon you!’” (Psalm 129:7–8)

But for the people of God, the story is different.
Though they are scarred, they are still standing. Though afflicted, they are not abandoned. And in Christ, those furrows—those long, painful histories of suffering—become testimonies. He too was wounded, scourged, mocked, and pierced. Yet “by His wounds we are healed” (Isaiah 53:5). And we, His followers, are shaped not only by His suffering, but by His resurrection strength.

Depths to Heights (Psalm 130) 

Some steps begin in silence.

Not the silence of peace, but the kind born of desperation—when words run out, when strength fails, when the soul can only cry from the hollow place where light feels lost. Psalm 130 opens in that place, not with bold declarations, but with broken honesty: “Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord!” (Psalm 130:1)

The psalmist speaks from spiritual drowning, where hope sinks and fear clings like seaweed around the ankles. The depths are not merely circumstantial—they are internal. Shame, regret, sorrow—these weigh heavier than any flood. And yet, even here, the cry is not aimless. It is directed. “O Lord, hear my voice! Let your ears be attentive to the voice of my pleas for mercy!” (Psalm 130:2)

The voice that rises from the depths does not ask for fairness—it pleads for mercy. Because beneath every cry lies the truth we rarely say aloud: we have sinned. We have failed and were God to count those failures like debts tallied without grace, none could stand. “If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities, O Lord, who could stand?” (Psalm 130:3)

The answer, of course, is no one.
But the psalm does not linger there—it lifts. It takes a holy turn. “But with you there is forgiveness, that you may be feared” (Psalm 130:4). This fear is not terror—it is trembling awe. It is the reverence that erupts when a soul fully aware of its unworthiness is met by the mercy of the Lord. God does not ignore sin—but neither does He abandon the sinner who repents. He forgives in such a way that reverence is born—not presumption, but praise.

And so the soul waits. “I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I hope” (Psalm 130:5). This is not passive waiting; it is a posture of anticipation, a gaze fixed on the horizon of God’s promises. The psalmist clings to the word of the Lord, not because of what he sees around him, but because of what he knows to be true about God’s character. “My soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen for the morning…” (Psalm 130:6)

The image is tender: the watchman, bone-weary but alert, scanning the eastern sky for the first sliver of dawn. The night has been long, but morning is certain and so too, the one who waits on the Lord leans into that certainty—not in haste, but in hope.

“O Israel, hope in the Lord!” (Psalm 130:7). The psalm, which began as a personal cry, now widens into a national invitation. The God who lifts the individual from the depths is the same God who redeems an entire people and what anchors that hope is not performance, but mercy: “For with the Lord there is steadfast love, and with him is plentiful redemption” (Psalm 130:7).

“And he will redeem Israel from all his iniquities” (Psalm 130:8). This is a promise and in Christ, it has been fulfilled. Jesus descended into the deepest depths—bearing the full weight of sin and sorrow—and rose to heights unimaginable so that we might never be forsaken. “In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of his grace” (Ephesians 1:7). 

Reflection 

The Songs of Ascents were never meant to be sung alone. They were the shared songs of a people climbing together—hearts reaching for God, feet tired from the road, and voices lifted in worship. Though the journey was shared, each psalm carried its own landscape. Some felt like breathless climbs, others like restful shade. Some overflowed with joy; others carried the weight of sorrow. Yet through every verse, through every rise and valley, one truth remained constant: the Lord was with His people at every step.

Prayer

Lord,
Thank You for walking with us through every part of the journey. When our steps falter, You remain our Keeper. When we cry from the depths, You draw near with mercy. When we are wounded, You sustain us and when the path ahead feels uncertain, You remind us that we are surrounded by Your grace.

Teach us to walk in Your ways—not only when the road is clear, but when it winds through hardship, waiting, or silence. Fix our eyes on You. Anchor our hearts in holy reverence and let Your peace settle over our homes, our cities, and our souls.

May the Songs of Ascent shape the rhythm of our lives—always rising, always trusting, always drawn closer to You.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

What stood out to you the most in the Scripture readings this week? I look forward to reading about your thoughts below!

I also look forward to sharing reflections in 2 Samuel 1-4 tomorrow!

In Christ,

Mrs. O 🤍