12. The psalmist proceeds from one point of his sorrow to another,
wandering on like one in a maze, giving no distinct intimations that he is
changing the subject. Now from the turbulent city his mind turns to the
falsehearted councilor. For it was not an enemy that reproached me; then I could have borne it. It was not an open foe, but a pretended friend. None
are such real enemies as false friends. Reproaches from those who have been
intimate with us, and trusted by us, cut us to the quick; and they are usually
so well acquainted with our peculiar weaknesses that they know how to touch us
where we are most sensitive, and to speak so as to do us most damage. Neither was it he that hated me that did magnify himself against me; then I would have hid myself from him. When those who pretended to love us leer at us with
contempt, whither shall we go? Our blessed Lord had to endure at its worst the
deceit and faithlessness of a favored disciple; let us not marvel when we are
called to tread the road which is marked by his pierced feet.
PREVIOUS
NEXT
No comments:
Post a Comment