Psalm 22 is this raw, heart-wrenching outpouring from King David, a man whose life was a wild mix of highs and lows—shepherd, warrior, poet, king, but also a guy who knew betrayal, fear, and failure up close. He faced Saul’s murderous pursuit, his son Absalom’s rebellion, and the sting of his own mistakes. We don’t have a specific timestamp for when he wrote this, but it feels like it was born in a moment of deep crisis—maybe hiding in a cave from Saul’s men or grappling with some personal or national disaster. Back around 1000 BCE in ancient Israel, psalms like this weren’t just personal journals; they were the heartbeat of worship, sung by the whole community. This one, with its shift from gut-punching lament to soaring praise, was likely a go-to for Israel during dark times—fasting, mourning, or when enemies loomed large. The vivid imagery of “bulls,” “lions,” and “dogs” screams danger, reflecting the real threats Israel faced, whether from neighboring nations or internal chaos.
David starts with a cry that hits you right in the chest:
1 My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Why are you so far from saving me,
so far from my cries of anguish?
2 My God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer,
by night, but I find no rest.
That question—“Why have you forsaken me?”—is so raw, so universal. Anyone who’s ever felt abandoned, whether in a war zone or just lost in their own head, gets this. It’s like David’s giving voice to every sleepless night and unanswered prayer. But he doesn’t stay stuck. He pivots, leaning on God’s track record:
3 Yet you are enthroned as the Holy One;
you are the one Israel praises.
4 In you our ancestors put their trust;
they trusted and you delivered them.
5 To you they cried out and were saved;
in you they trusted and were not put to shame.
It’s like he’s talking himself through the panic—God’s been faithful before, to Abraham, to Moses, to the whole nation. Maybe He’ll show up again.
Then David gets real about the humiliation he’s facing:
6 But I am a worm and not a man,
scorned by everyone, despised by the people.
7 All who see me mock me;
they hurl insults, shaking their heads.
8 “He trusts in the Lord,” they say,
“let the Lord rescue him.
Let him deliver him,
since he delights in him.”
That stings. Being mocked for your faith, feeling like less than nothing—it’s a pain that crosses centuries. Whether it’s bullies in the ancient world or skeptics today, David’s words resonate. But he counters with a deeply personal anchor:
9 Yet you brought me out of the womb;
you made me trust in you, even at my mother’s breast.
10 From birth I was cast on you;
from my mother’s womb you have been my God.
God’s been there since day one, David says, like a constant through every storm. It’s a reminder that our connection to God isn’t some abstract idea—it’s personal, lifelong.
The psalm gets darker, more visceral, as David describes his enemies and his own body breaking down:
11 Do not be far from me,
for trouble is near
and there is no one to help.
12 Many bulls surround me;
strong bulls of Bashan encircle me.
13 Roaring lions that tear their prey
open their mouths wide against me.
14 I am poured out like water,
and all my bones are out of joint.
My heart has turned to wax;
it has melted within me.
15 My mouth is dried up like a potsherd,
and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth;
you lay me in the dust of death.
You can almost feel his exhaustion, his body giving out. The “bulls of Bashan” and “roaring lions” paint a picture of overwhelming danger, while his physical pain—bones out of joint, heart melting, mouth dry as clay—feels like a body pushed past its limits. Then it gets even more specific:
16 Dogs surround me,
a pack of villains encircles me;
they pierce my hands and my feet.
17 All my bones are on display;
people stare and gloat over me.
18 They divide my clothes among them
and cast lots for my garment.
Those lines—pierced hands and feet, clothes gambled away—are haunting, not just for their intensity but for what they foreshadow. David’s begging for rescue:
19 But you, Lord, do not be far from me.
You are my strength; come quickly to help me.
20 Deliver me from the sword,
my precious life from the power of the dogs.
21 Rescue me from the mouth of the lions;
save me from the horns of the wild oxen.
And then, like a sudden sunrise, the psalm shifts. David’s despair gives way to praise:
22 I will declare your name to my people;
in the assembly I will praise you.
23 You who fear the Lord, praise him!
All you descendants of Jacob, honor him!
Revere him, all you descendants of Israel!
24 For he has not despised or scorned
the suffering of the afflicted one;
he has not hidden his face from him
but has listened to his cry for help.
It’s like worship becomes his lifeline. He’s saying God doesn’t ignore the broken—He hears, He cares. The scope widens, and David’s personal rescue becomes a vision of something massive:
25 From you comes the theme of my praise in the great assembly;
before those who fear you I will fulfill my vows.
26 The poor will eat and be satisfied;
those who seek the Lord will praise him—
may your hearts live forever!
27 All the ends of the earth
will remember and turn to the Lord,
and all the families of the nations
will bow down before him,
28 for dominion belongs to the Lord
and he rules over the nations.
29 All the rich of the earth will feast and worship;
all who go down to the dust will kneel before him—
those who cannot keep themselves alive.
30 Posterity will serve him;
future generations will be told about the Lord.
31 They will proclaim his righteousness,
declaring to a people yet unborn:
He has done it!
This isn’t just about David or Israel anymore—it’s a prophetic glimpse of every nation, every generation, worshipping God. Suffering’s real, but it’s not the end; there’s a bigger story unfolding.
Psalm 22 is like a spotlight on Jesus. It’s called a Messianic psalm because it reads like a blueprint for the crucifixion, written centuries before it happened. That opening cry, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”—Jesus quotes it on the cross: “About three in the afternoon Jesus cried out in a loud voice, ‘Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?’ (which means ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’)” (Matthew 27:46, NIV). The mocking David describes mirrors what Jesus faced: “Those who passed by hurled insults at him, shaking their heads… In the same way the chief priests, the teachers of the law and the elders mocked him. ‘He saved others,’ they said, ‘but he can’t save himself! He’s the king of Israel! Let him come down now from the cross, and we will believe in him. He trusts in God. Let God rescue him now if he wants him, for he said, ‘I am the Son of God’” (Matthew 27:39-43, NIV). The physical agony—dry mouth, bones out of joint—lines up with Jesus’ suffering, especially when he says, “I am thirsty” (John 19:28, NIV). The piercing of hands and feet? That’s the nails of the cross, confirmed when Thomas doubts until he sees “the nail marks in his hands” (John 20:25, NIV). And the soldiers casting lots for Jesus’ clothes? It’s straight out of the psalm: “When the soldiers crucified Jesus, they took his clothes, dividing them into four shares, one for each of them, with the undergarment remaining… ‘Let’s decide by lot who will get it.’ This happened that the scripture might be fulfilled that said, ‘They divided my clothes among them and cast lots for my garment’” (John 19:23-24, NIV). Even the psalm’s shift to praise and global worship points to Jesus’ resurrection and the Gospel spreading worldwide, like in Revelation: “After this I looked, and there before me was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and before the Lamb… And they cried out in a loud voice: ‘Salvation belongs to our God, who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb’” (Revelation 7:9-10, NIV).
Psalm 22 is a journey from the pit of despair to the heights of hope. It’s David wrestling with feeling forsaken, yet clinging to God’s faithfulness. It’s Israel singing through their fears. It’s a prophetic window into Jesus’ suffering and victory. For anyone reading it today, it’s a lifeline—pain is real, but God’s been there from the start, He hears the cries, and He’s weaving a story that ends with all creation praising Him. It’s a reminder that no matter how dark it gets, the final word is “He has done it!”