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Spurgeon observes that David's sons could never claim ignorance of their obligation.
They know that what remains unmentioned might be deemed intentionally excluded.
The believer's expectation rests not upon the shifting sands of human opinion or circumstance, but upon the immovable promises of Adonai.
First, the accomplishment itself: "salvation." Not partial deliverance, not merely an escape from consequences, but complete salvation—a word *yeshuah* meaning wholeness, safety, and triumph.
When passing by a fruit-tree laden with rich produce or a corn-field heavy with golden grain, the Arabs would spontaneously cry out, "Barak Allah!"—God bless you!
As storm clouds descend from the mountains toward the valleys, drawing nearer to earth with each moment, so the heavens themselves bend beneath the weight of the Almighty's presence.
His voice had grown weak, his body failing.
The Lord, in a most especial manner, keeps such merciful souls alive and preserves them.
We assume that antiquity guarantees truth, that wrinkles necessarily accompany wisdom, that longevity proves insight.
Spurgeon identifies here the surest way to excellence in spiritual knowledge.
When David declares, 'The Lord looketh down from heaven; he beholdeth all the children of men,' we grasp a truth that should steady our trembling hearts.
Thomas Guthrie, the Scottish minister, was asked about his possessions, he replied with unmistakable joy: "I am rich in nothing but children." He spoke from genuine abundance—eleven children filled his household.
First, they are grounded in a faithful covenant *diatheke*—a binding agreement sealed by Yahweh Himself, not dependent upon the wavering heart of man.
The psalmist does not approach Elohim *God* as a stranger, but as one who recalls the covenant promises, the mercies of yesterday, the deliverances already granted.
First comes *pistis* (faith): "I trust." The believer who has grasped God's Word does not cower before accusation.
Matthew Henry observed this pattern with precision: first, David gives glory to God—'Blessed art thou, O LORD'—and second, he asks grace from God.
Spurgeon reminds us that even in eternity, when the Son reclined in the Father's blessed bosom, His delights were with the sons of men.
Spurgeon, drawing from Henry Kollock's insight, urges us to imitate this practice: do not yield to formless grief, but cite your soul to account.
The psalmist's boasting is altogether different in character.
First, they robbed widows materially—devouring their houses under the facade of lengthy prayers, enriching themselves through religious pretense.
The fool observes David's circumstances and draws a devastating conclusion: if serving Yahweh and trusting in His promises yields such poverty and pain, why should anyone follow Him at all?
But Spurgeon discerned a deeper truth: the psalmist refers not merely to natural scarcity of bread, but to spiritual famine—that terrible dearth of inward hope and legal satisfaction that afflicts the soul separated from Elohim.
The double plea—goodness as God's nature and goodness as God's action—becomes the believer's anchor when knowledge fails.
The Spirit of God who *indited* (inspired) this scripture ensured that David's penman understood a glorious truth: the Gentiles should have the use of his Psalms.