When I read psalms I often try to imagine who the narrator is and why he or she composed the psalm. Sometimes I imagine the psalmist as a liturgist, rousing a congregation to praise. Sometimes I imagine the psalmist as a person like me, alone and unable to sleep, conversing with God in the wee hours.

The composer of this psalm draws on lines from many other scriptures; it is less a striking original composition and more a holy mashup. That does not mean that this prayer has less worth; it holds powerful statements that experienced persons of prayer have handed down in their hours of need.

One person I can image praying this psalm is Ishmael, the child rescued by God in the wilderness. Can you imagine this as his lament? The themes of seeing and hearing are present, as is being the child of a servant. In the reference to many nations bowing down to Yahweh, I hear a longing for the healing of the breach between the sons of Abraham. That kind of mutual worship may seem only a dream today, which makes it our lament as well.

The narrator expresses sorrow as well as certainty that God listens to our prayers, including our middle-of-the-night sighs and groans. Lament, doubt, and questioning are healthy and perhaps even necessary elements to forging a lasting faith. But our certainty that our prayers matter to God allows us to lament without bitterness, to lament with humility and power. Our spiritual formation is a long and sometimes circuitous process that seeks to make us into children of God who can pray with power.