Psalm 22: The Cry That Leads to Praise

The Heart of Psalm 22

Psalm 22 stands at the emotional and theological center of the Psalter—a piercing lament that begins in darkness but ends in radiant praise. Traditionally attributed to David, it transcends his personal experience to speak with prophetic weight about the suffering Servant. Its structure follows the classic lament pattern: cry for help, description of distress, confession of trust, plea for deliverance, and vow of praise—but here, the resolution isn’t just personal rescue; it’s cosmic worship. This psalm doesn’t shy away from abandonment, mockery, physical agony, or divine silence. Yet precisely because it names these realities so honestly, it becomes a lifeline for anyone walking through deep suffering. It reminds us that faith isn’t the absence of doubt—it’s crying out to God in the doubt, holding fast to who He is even when we can’t feel His presence.

Jesus' cry from the cross

Psalm 22 opens not with calm petition but with a shattering cry—the very words Jesus would utter from the cross. This isn’t polite prayer; it’s the raw, guttural sound of a soul stretched to its breaking point. The Hebrew word for ‘forsaken’ (‘azab) carries the weight of total desertion—not just absence, but active withdrawal. Yet even in this cry, there’s an unspoken assumption: God should hear. The psalmist knows God’s character—His holiness, His faithfulness to Israel—and that knowledge anchors the complaint.

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from helping me, and from the words of my groaning?

The mockery intensifies as the psalm moves forward. Those who witness the sufferer don’t offer comfort—they sneer, shake their heads, and twist Scripture into weapons. Their taunt—‘He trusted in the Lord; let Him deliver him’—echoes the serpent’s lie in Eden: ‘Did God really say?’ It’s spiritual warfare disguised as ridicule, aiming to sever the sufferer’s connection to God.

All those who see me mock me. They insult me with their lips. They shake their heads, saying,

The physical anguish grows visceral: heart like wax melting, bones out of joint, mouth dried like a potsherd, tongue clinging to the jaws. These aren’t poetic flourishes—they’re clinical descriptions of crucifixion: hypovolemic shock, dislocation, severe dehydration. The psalmist feels utterly undone, his strength gone, his body failing him.

I am poured out like water. All my bones are out of joint. My heart is like wax. It is melted within me.

Then comes one of the most startling lines in Scripture: ‘They pierced my hands and feet.’ Though some ancient manuscripts read ‘like a lion,’ the earliest Hebrew witnesses—including the Dead Sea Scrolls—and every New Testament quotation affirm ‘pierced.’ This isn’t retrospective prophecy; it’s a divinely inspired vision of suffering so specific it defies coincidence. Hands and feet—exactly where nails would go.

For dogs have surrounded me. A company of evildoers have enclosed me. They have pierced my hands and feet.

The soldiers divide the garments—not as a symbolic gesture, but as cold, routine plunder. Casting lots for the seamless tunic fulfills this detail with eerie precision. What feels like random cruelty to onlookers is, in God’s sovereign design, the fulfillment of ancient promise. Every torn thread, every cast lot, is held in His hand.

They divide my garments among them. They cast lots for my clothing.

And then—without warning—the tone shifts. From ‘my God, why have you forsaken me?’ to ‘all the ends of the earth shall remember and turn to the Lord.’ The resurrection breaks into the narrative before the crucifixion ends. The suffering isn’t the final word; it’s the doorway to universal worship. Kings, nations, future generations—all drawn not by power or triumph, but by the love revealed in weakness.

All the ends of the earth shall remember and turn to the LORD. All the relatives of the nations shall worship before you.

Lion and bull imagery

Psalm 22 overflows with vivid, embodied imagery that grounds spiritual truth in physical reality. The ‘lion’ and ‘bull’ (v. 12, 21) evoke overwhelming, predatory forces—yet the psalmist doesn’t just name enemies; he names their tactics: mocking, shaking heads, twisting Scripture. The melting heart (v. 14) captures emotional collapse; the dried mouth and clinging tongue (v. 15) convey desperate thirst—both literal and spiritual. Most striking is the ‘piercing’ of hands and feet (v. 16), a violent, intimate image of violation that later becomes the mark of redemption. Even the casting of lots (v. 18) transforms a soldier’s gamble into sacred fulfillment. These aren’t distant symbols—they’re sensory, tangible, and deeply human. They teach us that God meets us not in abstract theology, but in the ache of our joints, the dryness of our throats, the sting of ridicule, and the weight of abandonment. His Word enters our flesh—and redeems it.

Fulfillment in Christ's suffering

Jesus didn’t just quote Psalm 22 on the cross—He lived it. Matthew and Mark record His cry of dereliction (Matt 27:46; Mark 15:34), anchoring His suffering in this ancient lament. John explicitly notes the fulfillment of v. 18 (John 19:24), while Luke echoes v. 22 in Hebrews 2:12. The piercing of hands and feet (v. 16) finds its clearest echo in John’s post-resurrection account (John 20:25–27). But the deepest connection lies in the psalm’s arc: from forsakenness to global worship. Jesus bore the full weight of divine abandonment—not for His sin, but ours—so that ‘all the ends of the earth’ (v. 27) could turn to the Father in faith. His cry was the last gasp of judgment; His resurrection, the first breath of new creation. In Him, the psalm’s ‘poor’ become heirs, the ‘afflicted’ become ambassadors, and the ‘seed’ (v. 30) becomes the Church—living proof that God keeps His promises, even when they cost Him everything.

Praying & Living Psalm 22

We often hesitate to pray Psalm 22 because its rawness feels too risky—too honest, too dark. But that’s exactly why it’s so vital. When grief presses in, when illness drains us, when betrayal cuts deep, this psalm gives us permission to name it all before God—not with tidy theology, but with trembling voice. We don’t have to skip from pain to praise; Psalm 22 models how to hold both in tension. Try reading it slowly, pausing at each image: ‘My heart is like wax… my tongue sticks to my jaws… they pierce my hands.’ Let those words give language to your own unspoken ache. Then linger in the shift—from ‘why have you forsaken me?’ to ‘all the ends of the earth shall remember.’ That movement isn’t automatic; it’s cultivated by remembering God’s past faithfulness, even when present circumstances scream otherwise. And when we do reach the praise, it’s not denial of pain—it’s declaration that the One who heard the cry on the cross still hears ours today.