**A Cry in the Darkness: The Psalm of the Afflicted**
The sun had long since set over Jerusalem, but the man who sat alone in the ruins of the city knew no rest. His name was Ethan, a descendant of the Levites, and once he had sung in the courts of the Lord. But now, his voice was hoarse from weeping, his body frail from fasting, and his heart withered like grass in the scorching wind. The great city, once vibrant with the presence of God, lay broken—her walls breached, her temple defiled, her people scattered.
Ethan clutched his cloak tighter around his shoulders, though it did little to ward off the chill of the night. His enemies had mocked him, saying, *”Where is your God now?”* And in his weakest moments, the question gnawed at his soul. He lifted his face toward the heavens, where the stars burned cold and distant, and with trembling hands, he unrolled a scrap of parchment. Dipping his quill in ink, he began to write—not a song of triumph, but a plea born of desperation.
**”Hear my prayer, O Lord; let my cry come to You!”**
His words spilled forth like a flood, raw and unfiltered. He did not hide his pain, for he knew the Lord desired truth in the inward parts.
**”Do not hide Your face from me in the day of my distress! Incline Your ear to me; answer me speedily in the day when I call!”**
His bones ached as if fire consumed them; his heart was stricken and withered like grass. He could not even remember the taste of bread, for his food had been ashes, his drink mingled with tears. The Lord had lifted him up only to cast him down, and he felt like a lonely bird upon a rooftop, crying out into the void.
Yet even in his despair, Ethan’s faith flickered like a dying ember. He remembered the years of old, the mighty deeds of the Lord—how He had brought Israel out of Egypt, how He had established Zion as His dwelling place. The nations would one day fear the name of the Lord, and all kings would bow before His glory.
**”You will arise and have mercy on Zion, for the time to favor her, yes, the set time, has come!”**
Ethan’s hand shook as he wrote, but his resolve strengthened. The Lord was eternal, unchanging—the same God who had covenanted with Abraham, who had delivered David from his enemies. Though the earth itself might wear out like a garment, though the heavens vanish like smoke, the Lord would remain. His years had no end.
A whisper of wind stirred the dust around him, and for a moment, Ethan imagined it was the breath of God. He closed his eyes and saw, not the ruins of Jerusalem, but a city reborn—her stones laid anew, her children gathered once more. The Lord would not despise the plea of the destitute. He would not forget His people forever.
With renewed strength, Ethan finished his psalm, rolling the parchment carefully. He would send it to the exiles, to those who, like him, clung to hope in the darkness.
**”The children of Your servants will continue, and their descendants will be established before You.”**
As dawn’s first light crept over the broken walls, Ethan stood. His body was still weak, his sorrow still deep, but his soul clung to the One who was from everlasting to everlasting. The Lord had heard his cry. And in that knowledge, he found the strength to endure.
