Isaiah 59:16 He saw that there was no man, And wondered that there was no intercessor; Therefore His own arm brought salvation for Him; And His own righteousness, it sustained Him.
Isaiah 63:5 I looked, but there was no one to help, And I wondered That there was no one to uphold; Therefore My own arm brought salvation for Me; And My own fury, it sustained Me.
This is one of the most intimate revelations of the Z’roah in Scripture. God looks for a human intercessor but finds none. No man can bridge the gap. So His own Arm accomplishes the work. In Hebrew, v’tosha lo z’roah — “His arm saved for Him” — reveals that salvation originates from within God Himself, not from any outside help. Isaiah adds that His own righteousness sustained Him — it upheld His resolve to save — and His fury upheld Him, a holy passion that would not rest until justice was accomplished.
This truth is central in the Passover (Pesach) picture: Israel did not fight her way out of Egypt; she was carried out. The Lamb’s blood and the Arm’s power worked together without Israel lifting a weapon. In the same way, at the cross, Yeshua (Jesus) — the Arm of the LORD — bore the full weight of salvation without human assistance. His righteousness sustained Him through the agony, and His righteous fury burned against sin and death until they were utterly defeated.
Theologically, this leaves no room for pride. We bring nothing to redemption but our need; we do not earn it, we receive it. Just as the Arm moves only at the Head’s command, Yeshua obeyed the Father’s will flawlessly — even to the point of death. His saving work was solitary, unstoppable, and completely sufficient. His righteousness was far more than a moral attribute; it was the unwavering strength that kept Him on course to fulfill the mission His Father had ordained for Him before the foundation of the world. (1 Peter 1:19-20)
Prophetically, Isaiah 63:5 echoes this: “My own arm brought me salvation, and my fury upheld me.” This is God ensuring that the work is perfect, untouched by human failure. His fury was not uncontrolled rage, but holy determination — the fierce love of the Redeemer refusing to let His people perish. The Arm finishes what the Head purposes, and nothing in heaven, earth, or hell can stop it.
For us, this means resting in the finished work. We add nothing to the cross but our surrender. The same Arm that saved alone is the Arm that sustains continually. The righteousness that held Him to His mission is the same righteousness now covering us, and the same holy passion that upheld Him is the passion that guards and keeps us until the end.
Stop carrying burdens you were never meant to bear. Salvation is His work from start to finish — rest in it, and you will discover a strength you could never produce on your own. For His Arm accomplishes all that the Father commands, His righteousness will never fail, and soon that same Arm will lift you up and carry you all the way home.
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[worthy_plugins_devotion_single_body]These verses are far more than ancient lyrics — they are a spiritual invitation. The psalmist doesn’t just admire the gate — he pleads for it to open. “Open to me the gates of righteousness…” This is the cry of a heart that longs for access to God, not by merit, but by mercy. In Hebrew thought, gates represent transition points — thresholds between the common and the holy, the outside and the inner court, the temporal and the eternal. These are not man-made doors — they are divine entrances into the presence and promises of the LORD.
As we continue our study in Psalm 118, I want to take a deep dive into verses 17-18, where the psalmist makes one of the boldest declarations in all of Scripture: “I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the LORD.” This isn’t the voice of someone untouched by pain — it’s the cry of someone who has been through the fire and come out declaring God’s faithfulness. This statement is not a denial of suffering; it’s a defiance of death. It’s the resolve of a heart that’s been chastened, refined, and pressed, yet remains confident in the God who preserves life — not just for survival, but for purpose.
Over the past two devotionals, we heard the song of the redeemed and stood at the wells of salvation. We saw how strength, song, and salvation flow from Yeshua Himself — how the joy of drawing from His presence is not just a poetic promise but a lifeline for our day. Yet today, we stand at a prophetic threshold. Something has shifted. Something has broken open. We are not only being refreshed — we are being awakened and called.
Yesterday, we heard the anthem of the redeemed rise like a trumpet blast: “The LORD is my strength and song, and He has become my salvation.” We explored how this was more than personal — it was prophetic, Messianic, and generational. We saw Yeshua not only as our Deliverer but as the very embodiment of God’s strength, the melody of our praise, and the fulfillment of every promise. We stood in awe as tents of rejoicing rose in the midst of warfare, and households became sanctuaries of celebration. But today, we go deeper — we step to the well.
There’s a reason this verse resounds like a national anthem of the redeemed. It’s not just a personal declaration—it’s a generational cry that echoes back to Moses at the Red Sea (Exodus 15:2) and forward to the final deliverance of Israel. The Hebrew word for salvation—Yeshua—makes this verse unmistakably Messianic. It isn’t a vague deliverance. It is the revelation of Yeshua (Jesus), the Deliverer, who embodies strength, becomes our song, and stands as the fulfillment of God’s redemptive plan.
The cry that shattered the stillness of Golgotha—“My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” (Psalm 22:1; Matthew 27:46)—was not a random cry of despair, but the deliberate voice of Yeshua pointing to Scripture. As He hung on the tree, bearing the sin of the world, He invoked the ancient words of David—not only identifying Himself as the righteous sufferer, but signaling that Psalm 22 was unfolding before their very eyes. In that moment, heaven and earth bore witness to a divine mystery: the Holy One, seemingly abandoned, was fulfilling a prophecy written a millennium earlier. Yeshua did not merely suffer—He fulfilled every word, every shadow, every stroke of divine prophecy.
King David wrote these words generations before the empty tomb shook the foundations of death. At first glance, Psalm 16 reads like a personal prayer of trust — a yearning for security and closeness with God. But beneath the surface, the Spirit was revealing something deeper, something eternal: a promise not just for David, but for all of us.