Psalms 11:3-7 if the foundations are destroyed, what can the righteous do?” 4 The LORD is in his holy temple; the LORD’s throne is in heaven; his eyes see, his eyelids test the children of man. 5 The LORD tests the righteous, but his soul hates the wicked and the one who loves violence [Hamas]. 6 Let him rain coals on the wicked; fire and sulfur and a scorching wind shall be the portion of their cup. 7 For the LORD is righteous; he loves righteous deeds; the upright shall behold his face.
This piercing question opens Psalm 11 like a cry from the heart in times of trouble. It’s a question we ask when law and order collapse, when truth is ridiculed, and when those who do evil seem to triumph. The foundations — the principles of righteousness, justice, and truth that uphold society — are under siege. And it begs the question: What can God’s people do when everything righteous seems to be crumbling?
The answer comes immediately: “The LORD is in His holy temple; the LORD’s throne is in heaven.” God has not abdicated His throne. He is not shaken by the shaking of this world. While evil rises and darkness spreads, God remains sovereign, seated above it all. He sees. He knows. “His eyes behold, His eyelids test the children of man.” He is not blind to what is happening. He is testing the hearts of all people — especially the righteous.
The Hebrew word for violence in Psalm 11:5 is hamas — the very same word that names the modern terrorist organization Hamas. This is no linguistic coincidence. In Scripture, hamas describes more than just aggression; it embodies a spirit of brutal injustice, lawlessness, oppression, and bloodshed. It’s the same violent corruption that filled the earth in the days of Noah (Genesis 6:11), provoking God to cleanse the world with judgment. The spirit of hamas is ancient, and it remains active in our day — cloaked in modern ideology but rooted in the same rebellion against God’s order.
God is not passive toward such evil — He hates hamas. Whether it manifests as personal cruelty or coordinated terror, He detests those who love violence. Psalm 11:6 makes the verdict clear: “Let Him rain coals on the wicked; fire and sulfur and a scorching wind shall be the portion of their cup.” This isn’t poetic metaphor — it’s prophetic reality. The rise of hamas may be celebrated in the streets of men, but it stands condemned by the throne of heaven. God’s justice is sure. Evil may have its moment, but it will not have the final word.
But even as judgment falls, a promise shines for the faithful: “The LORD is righteous… the upright shall behold His face.” God delights in righteousness. He takes pleasure in those who remain upright, even when the world collapses around them. For those who endure, the reward is more than rescue — it’s relationship. They will see His face.
Take heart, righteous one. Though the foundations shake, ḥāmās—violence and lawlessness—floods the earth, and the wicked rise with boldness, do not be moved. God is still on His throne. He sees, He tests, He judges—and He remembers the faithful.
Embrace the testing. It’s not to break you, but to prepare you. Each trial draws you closer, deepens your dependence, and refines your walk. And in the end, the promise remains: the upright will behold His face.
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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.