An arresting image, one of several packed into six, simple, declarative sentences. What singular, poetic imagination devised this! A perfect description of sang froid.
“The psalms of David,” in the King James 1611 translation of the Bible are as remarkable—and splendid—a cycle of poems as the Sonnets of Shakespeare.
Although similar to lyric poetry, they more than that, and different from it, because addressed to a god; and because they are prayers.
The King James translation into English remains unequaled for simplicity and directness of expression—no other translation comes close. That’s my opinion, speaking of its literary value—not of its fidelity to the original text (about which I know nothing), nor of its service as a devotional text. Those constitute other subjects: The politics of Bible translations.
Psalm 23
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: For Thou art with me; Thy rod, and Thy staff, they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: And I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
