Any liturgical musician worthy of the name needs to love the psalms enough to keep delving deeply into their history, poetry and meaning. I must have a dozen different translations; each brings a different shade of meaning to a phrase or idea. And it’s important to read the whole psalm, not just the fragments cherry-picked for the day’s responsorial.

Years ago, I bought all three volumes of the Anchor Bible Psalms, with introduction and commentary by Mitchell Dahood, SJ (They weren’t inexpensive, but you can find used copies pretty cheaply on Amazon.) They’re my go-to refresher on the psalm of the day, whatever it may be. Mind you, Dahood’s commentary includes a lot of references to incomprehensible (to me) ancient languages; but look carefully at what a specific word may have meant in context.

We hear in Psalm 22’s lament, “Strong bulls surround me, wild bulls of Bashan encircle me.” City folk think, “Whaaat?” But the psalmist is not standing out in some field; the bulls symbolize formidable enemies. (“Ah—that we can relate to!”) We hear “many dogs surround me; a pack of evildoers closes in upon me.” The imagery is that of a hunt—the pack chasing the prey, to tear him to shreds. “Oooh,” we think, “that’s too graphic—how can we sing that in church? It’s not nice.”

No, it’s not. But remember: the psalms are also the emotional vocabulary of the liturgical musician—and often the only nod to that essential part of human nature.

Psalm 22 ends positively: not just crying “save me” to God, but a triumphant affirmation: “save me, God, that I may spend my life telling of your justice and mercy,” that all the descendants of Israel may hear and believe God’s power to conquer suffering and death. 

There are a lot of words in today’s liturgy. Let the psalm’s music plumb the depths and heights of its strong emotions from terror to hope, from despair to the promise of joy.