The moment King David entered the courtyard, everyone fell silent. I ducked behind my father, hoping the king wouldn’t notice me. I was only a servant boy, too small to even carry a full water jar, but I had one gift that gave me a place near the royal hall—I could play the lyre.
You won’t find my name in any scroll. I was just a child from Beit Lechem—the Hebrew name for Bethlehem—and no one expected me to serve in the king’s house. But when King David asked for musicians to help with his psalms, my teacher sent me to try. “He loves music more than gold,” my teacher whispered. “Play with heart.”
That’s what I did. Every time we played a new melody for the king, I listened closely to his voice. His voice trembled like someone who had seen everything—pain, love, war, victory… and still believed in the Lord.
One morning, I found him sitting alone, scroll in hand, lips moving without sound.
I stepped forward. “Would you like music today, my lord?”
He looked up, and for a moment, he didn’t seem like a king. He seemed like a shepherd searching the hills of his youth.
“Come, child,” he said quietly. “Let’s find the words again together.”
I sat beside him, strumming gently. He began humming a tune, not one I’d heard before.
“I wrote this one in the caves,” he said. “When King Shaul chased me.”
“Were you afraid?” I couldn’t help but ask.
“Every moment.” He touched the scroll, then his chest. “But fear teaches you how to cry to God. Listen.” He read aloud in Hebrew, slowly:
“From the depths I call to You, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice…” (Tehillim—Psalms—130:1–2)
His words flowed like tears into my music. He paused.
“Do you hear it?” he asked.
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure what he meant.
“That’s not poetry. That’s survival. That song kept me alive when I had no army. No food. Just faith that the Lord heard me.”
I stared at his scroll. The ink had smudged in places. I wondered how many tears had fallen there.
That evening, I took my small lyre and found a quiet place beneath the fig trees. I whispered my own prayer into the strings. No soldiers chased me, no throne waited for me, but I still had fears—of being forgotten, of not belonging, of never becoming more than just a boy with a lyre.
So I sang, softly at first, then louder, just like David had done.
From that day on, whenever I played for him, I listened not just for melody, but for the cries beneath the surface—the kind that only faith could carry.
And now, even though centuries have passed, when we open Tehillim in the synagogue or at home, I still hear his voice. Not the voice of a king, but of a heart holding onto God through every storm.
The moment King David entered the courtyard, everyone fell silent. I ducked behind my father, hoping the king wouldn’t notice me. I was only a servant boy, too small to even carry a full water jar, but I had one gift that gave me a place near the royal hall—I could play the lyre.
You won’t find my name in any scroll. I was just a child from Beit Lechem—the Hebrew name for Bethlehem—and no one expected me to serve in the king’s house. But when King David asked for musicians to help with his psalms, my teacher sent me to try. “He loves music more than gold,” my teacher whispered. “Play with heart.”
That’s what I did. Every time we played a new melody for the king, I listened closely to his voice. His voice trembled like someone who had seen everything—pain, love, war, victory… and still believed in the Lord.
One morning, I found him sitting alone, scroll in hand, lips moving without sound.
I stepped forward. “Would you like music today, my lord?”
He looked up, and for a moment, he didn’t seem like a king. He seemed like a shepherd searching the hills of his youth.
“Come, child,” he said quietly. “Let’s find the words again together.”
I sat beside him, strumming gently. He began humming a tune, not one I’d heard before.
“I wrote this one in the caves,” he said. “When King Shaul chased me.”
“Were you afraid?” I couldn’t help but ask.
“Every moment.” He touched the scroll, then his chest. “But fear teaches you how to cry to God. Listen.” He read aloud in Hebrew, slowly:
“From the depths I call to You, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice…” (Tehillim—Psalms—130:1–2)
His words flowed like tears into my music. He paused.
“Do you hear it?” he asked.
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure what he meant.
“That’s not poetry. That’s survival. That song kept me alive when I had no army. No food. Just faith that the Lord heard me.”
I stared at his scroll. The ink had smudged in places. I wondered how many tears had fallen there.
That evening, I took my small lyre and found a quiet place beneath the fig trees. I whispered my own prayer into the strings. No soldiers chased me, no throne waited for me, but I still had fears—of being forgotten, of not belonging, of never becoming more than just a boy with a lyre.
So I sang, softly at first, then louder, just like David had done.
From that day on, whenever I played for him, I listened not just for melody, but for the cries beneath the surface—the kind that only faith could carry.
And now, even though centuries have passed, when we open Tehillim in the synagogue or at home, I still hear his voice. Not the voice of a king, but of a heart holding onto God through every storm.
