The king was up early, before the rest of the household. It was an old habit from years of living in caves and in fields. He couldn’t forget being watchful of sheep and soldiers, watching for wolves, both animal and human.
He slipped through the building and out the door, nodding silently at the salute from the sleeping sentinel. He sat on the portico, in David’s chair. He looked east, across a valley. The top of the hill, in later years to be known for it’s olive trees, was tinged with pink.
“Bless the Lord, my soul.”
It’s how he started every day. A man who spent his life giving direction to others, regularly gave direction to himself.
O Lord my God, You are very great;
This wasn’t one of his best mornings. “God you are great.” It reminded him of the little children’s prayer. God is great, God is good. Let us thank him for our food.
He was all in favor of simplicity. He had nothing against children. But as he watched the light behind the hill get brighter, he had to do better than, “You are great.”
He looked at the color wrapping around the edges of the hills. He pulled his cloak around him while he was thinking and then it clicked.
You are clothed with splendor and majesty
Covering Yourself with light as with a cloak,
Stretching out heaven like a tent curtain.
He stopped, lost in the imagery. When he started again, the praying king was gone. The poet was back
He lays the beams of his chambers on the waters;
he makes the clouds his chariot;
he rides on the wings of the wind;
he makes his messengers winds,
his ministers a flaming fire.
David smiled. He was awake. His soul had responded.