Psalms 10

"Why, O LORD, do you stand far away? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?" (Psalm 10:1)

Introduction

Have you ever felt like your prayers were bouncing off the ceiling? Like God was on mute? Like heaven had gone silent just when you needed a word the most?

We don’t usually say those things out loud, especially in church. But deep in our hearts—in hospital rooms, in sleepless nights, in seasons of uncertainty—most of us have whispered it:

“God, where are You?”

And that’s not just a moment of weakness. That’s a deeply human cry. It’s what David cried in Psalm 10:

“Why, O LORD, do you stand far away? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?” (Psalm 10:1)

This is not a neat, polished prayer. This is raw. This is real. And it might be exactly the kind of prayer some of us need to pray today.

Today, I want us to take a slow walk through Psalm 10, not rushing past the pain, but learning how the Bible teaches us to talk to God when life feels broken. This psalm gives us permission—and even invites us—to bring our questions, our grief, and our confusion honestly before the Lord.

Because Psalm 10 is a Psalm of Lament—and lament is a sacred part of our worship.

What Is a Lament?

Lament is one of the most misunderstood and yet most vital forms of prayer in the Christian life. It’s not a prayer we usually memorize or frame on our walls, but it’s one of the most honest ones we can pray. Lament is the cry of the brokenhearted in the presence of a faithful God. It’s what we do when the promises of God feel distant, when life is falling apart, and yet we choose—sometimes through tears—to turn to Him anyway.

In short, lament is what happens when faith meets pain.

It’s different from grumbling or complaining in bitterness. Lament doesn’t shake a fist at God in rebellion; it opens trembling hands in dependence. Lament says, “Lord, I don’t understand, but I’m still talking to You.” And that changes everything.

About a third of the Psalms are laments. That tells us something, doesn’t it? God has given us inspired prayers for when we feel lost, angry, abandoned, or afraid. He knew we’d need them. He knew that life in a broken world would sometimes leave us breathless. And He welcomes us to come to Him—not with polished words or forced smiles—but with real sorrow and honest questions.

We see this modeled throughout Scripture. Job, in the midst of unimaginable suffering, pours out his anguish to God, saying, “I will speak out in the anguish of my spirit” (Job 7:11). David, over and over again, cries out in confusion, grief, and even frustration. Jeremiah is called the “weeping prophet” for good reason—his prayers are soaked with sorrow. And then there’s Jesus, who not only lamented over Jerusalem but also prayed through His own anguish in Gethsemane and lamented from the cross.

What does that tell us?

It tells us that lament is not weakness. It’s worship. It’s sacred speech. It’s the language of the suffering people of God. It’s how we hold onto God when everything around us tempts us to let go.

In a world where we’re often encouraged to hide our pain or numb it, the Bible invites us to bring it to the Lord. Lament is how we weep with hope. It’s how we wrestle with God without walking away from Him. It’s how we keep our eyes on Him, even when they’re filled with tears.

The Cry: “Why Do You Hide?” (v.1)

David opens Psalm 10 with two deep questions:

“Why, O LORD, do you stand far away?

Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?”

Can you feel the ache behind those words?

It’s not just a philosophical question. It’s deeply personal. This is cry from the heart.

David’s looking around at a world gone mad—violence, oppression, injustice, wicked people thriving while the vulnerable are crushed—and what troubles him most is that God seems silent. Far. Hidden.

Have you ever looked at the world and thought, “God, how can You allow this?” Maybe you’ve asked that about your own life. About your child. About your past. About something that just doesn’t seem fair.

The psalm gives us permission to ask. God is not offended by our honesty. He invites it.

The Complaint: “The Wicked Seem to Win” (vv.2–11)

After his cry of confusion, David makes his complaint. He doesn’t try to soften the edges. He doesn’t dress it up with polite language. He speaks plainly—because that’s what lament allows us to do.

In verses 2 through 11, David describes a world turned upside down. The wicked are winning. The arrogant are thriving. The innocent are suffering. Evil people scheme and lie and curse, and nothing seems to stop them. The wicked prey on the weak, hiding in the shadows, ambushing the helpless, and doing it all with a smug sense of impunity.

“In arrogance the wicked hotly pursue the poor…

His mouth is filled with cursing and deceit and oppression…

He lurks in ambush like a lion in his thicket.” (vv.2, 7, 9)

And the worst part? The wicked believe they’ll get away with it.

“He says in his heart, ‘God has forgotten,

he has hidden his face, he will never see it.’” (v.11)

This is what David sees—and he brings all of it to God. He names it. He prays it.

And that’s something we need to learn too.

So often when life feels unjust, we either bottle it up in silence or explode in anger toward others. But David shows us a better way: bring your complaint to God. Pour out your frustration before Him.

Notice what David is doing—he’s not gossiping, not ranting to his friends, not stewing in silent bitterness. He’s praying. Boldly. Passionately. Honestly.

This is what lament allows. It opens a space in our hearts to speak the hard truth, and to do it in God’s presence. Because when we bring our complaints to the Lord, we’re not turning from Him—we’re turning toward Him, even in our pain.

The Turn: “Arise, O LORD” (vv.12–15)

At this point in the psalm, something begins to shift. The tone moves—not away from pain, but deeper into trust. After pouring out his grief, David now turns to petition. He stops describing the brokenness of the world and starts calling on God to intervene.

“Arise, O LORD; O God, lift up your hand;

forget not the afflicted.” (v.12)

This is bold, passionate, urgent prayer. David’s not asking politely—he’s crying out for justice. “Do something, Lord!” he says. “Step in. Don’t forget the ones who are suffering.”

It’s important to see this movement. Lament doesn’t just stay in the valley—it begins to climb. It doesn’t rush to the mountaintop, but it takes a step of faith. David, still surrounded by evil, chooses to believe that God sees. That God cares. That God will act.

“But you do see, for you note mischief and vexation,

that you may take it into your hands.” (v.14)

What a beautiful phrase: You do see. At first, David cried, “Why do you hide?” Now he says, “You do see.” His circumstances haven’t changed—but his heart is turning. Lament has opened a path from complaint to confidence.

This is the power of honest prayer. When we bring our raw sorrow to God, something happens—not always externally, but internally. Our view of God begins to grow clearer again. We remember who He is: the God who defends the helpless, who sees every injustice, who hears every cry, and who is never truly absent, even when He seems silent.

Lament leads us there—not around the pain, but through it. And as we keep praying, like David, we find that our trembling questions can give way to renewed trust.

The Conclusion: “The LORD is King” (vv.16–18)

And now the psalm ends not in despair, but in hope:

“The LORD is king forever and ever;

the nations perish from his land.” (v.16)

David began with “Why are you far off?”

But now he says, “You will hear the desire of the afflicted;

you will strengthen their heart; you will incline your ear.” (v.17)

This is the gift of lament: it doesn’t remove the suffering, but it reframes it in light of God’s character. It teaches us to trust that God’s silence is not His absence—and that His delay is not His denial.

Jesus: The One Who Lamented for Us

And now, friends, we must end where all Scripture leads: at the feet of Jesus.

Because this psalm—and every psalm of lament—ultimately points us to the Man of Sorrows, acquainted with grief.

When Jesus was in the garden of Gethsemane, He lamented. He cried out in agony, “Father, if You are willing, remove this cup from me. Nevertheless, not my will, but Yours, be done” (Luke 22:42).

And on the cross, with blood on His brow and our sin on His shoulders, He echoed the psalms:

“My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” (Matt. 27:46)

Do you see what this means?

When we cry, “God, where are You?”—we’re not alone. Jesus has been there.

When we say, “Why aren’t You doing something?”—Jesus cried that too.

And when we bring our sorrows before God, we are walking a path Jesus walked first.

But here’s the hope: Jesus not only lamented—He overcame.

The cross wasn’t the end of the story. Three days later, He rose again. The cries of sorrow turned to shouts of joy. And now He reigns as the Risen King, the One who hears the cry of the afflicted and defends the fatherless and the oppressed.

So What Do We Do?

Let me offer three gentle invitations for you today.

(1) Bring your honest questions to God. You don’t have to pretend. You don’t have to hide your fear, your pain, your confusion. Lament is worship. Cry out in the arms of the Almighty. He can handle your heart.

(2) Don’t walk away. The key to biblical lament is this: you turn toward God, not away. You keep the conversation going. Like David, like Job, like Jesus. They didn’t stop talking to God in their pain. They leaned in.

(3) Rest in the One who sees. Psalm 10 ends with this hope: God sees. God hears. God reigns. And in Jesus, we have the proof. He entered our suffering, and He will one day make all things new.

So when the world feels unjust, and heaven feels silent…

When your soul is weary and your prayers seem unanswered…

Remember this: you are not alone.

The Psalms give us the words to pray when we have none.

Jesus walks with us in the valley.

And the God who seems hidden in the moment will one day wipe away every tear from our eyes.

Let’s Pray

Gracious and ever-present God,

We come before You today with hearts that are honest—some heavy, some confused, some tired from the weight of this world. Like David, we’ve cried, “Why, O Lord, do You stand far away?” And like him, we bring those cries not in rebellion but in faith, believing that You are a God who hears.

Thank You for the gift of lament. Thank You for showing us that we don’t have to hide our pain or pretend we’re fine. You invite us to speak freely, to come boldly, to cry openly in Your presence. Lord, teach us to trust You even when we can’t see or feel You. Teach us to turn toward You, not away from You, when life hurts.

Father, we pray for those among us who feel forgotten today—for the afflicted, the overwhelmed, the grieving. Remind them that You see. Remind them that You care. Remind them that You are near to the brokenhearted.

We thank You for Jesus, the Man of Sorrows who entered our suffering, who prayed through agony, who wept, who bled, and who rose again. Because of Him, we know that silence is not the end of the story. Because of Him, we know that justice will come, our tears will be wiped away, and death will be defeated.

So, Lord, help us to trust and to worship even through the tears. You are King forever and ever. And we are Yours.

In the name of Jesus,

Amen.