No work of art is more beautiful, more valuable, more irreplaceable, than the twenty-third psalm. It has stood through the ages as a work of art more exquisite than The Night Watch, more faultless than Mona Lisa, more thought-provoking than Starry Night. The lines of the greatest poets cannot match its imagery, the words of the greatest theologians its profundity. Credentialed academics may wrestle with it, yet young children can understand it. It is read over cradles and cribs, over coffins and crypts, at births and deaths, at weddings and funerals. It is prayed in closets, sung in churches, and chanted in cathedrals.
This psalm dries more crying eyes, raises more drooping hands, and strengthens more weakened knees than any man or angel. It tends to every kind of wound and ministers to every kind of sorrow. To trade it for all the wealth of all the worlds would be the worst of bargains. I’d have rather penned the twenty-third psalm than written Hamlet, than painted Sunflowers, than sculpted The Thinker, for when Shakespeare’s play has been forgotten, when Van Gogh’s painting has faded, when Rodin’s sculpture has been destroyed, David’s song will remain. We impoverish ourselves if
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