It was just after midnight.

The world outside the window was still. The kind of stillness that makes you hear your own heart. The wind had gone to sleep, the moon stood guard, and inside, in the quiet, a soul sat wide awake. Not because of noise. Not because of worry. But because of God.

Ever been there?

Everyone else sleeps—but something in you rises. You aren’t restless, you’re drawn. Not by the glow of a screen, but by the warmth of the Savior. That’s the scene I imagine as I read these few verses from the heart of Psalm 119.

“Thou art my portion, O Lord: I have said that I would keep thy words.” (Psalm 119:57)

The writer doesn’t begin with complaint or request. He begins with treasure.

“Thou art my portion.”

Not riches.
Not reputation.
Not revenge.
Just God.

He looks across the landscape of his life and, of all he could cling to, he clings to the Lord. He says, “You, Lord, are enough.” And from that holy contentment comes a holy desire—“I have said that I would keep thy words.” Not to earn God’s love, but to respond to it.

Obedience, you see, is the echo of intimacy.

“I intreated thy favor with my whole heart: be merciful unto me according to thy word.” (v.58)

There’s no half-heart in this kind of prayer. No formality. Just a man kneeling with every fiber of his being reaching toward mercy. He knows he can’t earn God’s favor. So he doesn’t try. He begs for it. “Be merciful,” he pleads. Not according to my goodness, Lord, but according to Thy word.”

The next verse is a turning point. A literal one.

“I thought on my ways, and turned my feet unto thy testimonies.” (v.59)

Have you ever had one of those moments? A “look in the mirror” kind of moment. A soul-check. The psalmist did. He paused long enough to think—really think—about the path he was walking. And when he did, he turned. Not just his thoughts, but his feet. He didn’t just feel conviction; he changed direction.

And not tomorrow. Not when it was convenient.

“I made haste, and delayed not to keep thy commandments.” (v.60)

He didn’t wait for the perfect moment. He didn’t finish what he was doing. He ran to obedience. Because when the Lord is your portion, you don’t linger in the shadows—you hurry home.

Even so, the world didn’t make it easy.

“The bands of the wicked have robbed me: but I have not forgotten thy law.” (v.61)

He’d been wrapped up by injustice. Tied down by evil. Ever felt like that? When life just wraps around you and squeezes tight? Still, he didn’t forget. He held on. Not to bitterness. Not to vengeance. But to truth.

And then, this little gem tucked away in the quiet:

“At midnight I will rise to give thanks unto thee because of thy righteous judgments.” (v.62)

At midnight… I will rise.

Not because of fear. Not because of anxiety. But to give thanks.

There’s something sacred about midnight praise. When the world is dark, and yet the soul is lit with gratitude. He thanks God not because everything is perfect, but because God’s judgments are righteous. God is right, even when life feels wrong.

Then, he looks around and sees he’s not alone.

“I am a companion of all them that fear thee, and of them that keep thy precepts.” (v.63)

He finds his people—not by bloodline or background, but by shared reverence. He walks with those who walk with God. There’s comfort in that, isn’t there? In knowing we’re not the only ones choosing obedience at midnight.

And then, he ends with wonder.

“The earth, O Lord, is full of thy mercy: teach me thy statutes.” (v.64)

Look around, he says. Mercy isn’t rare. It’s everywhere. It rolls with the thunder, rises with the dawn, breathes through the trees. It fills the earth like the tide fills the sea.

And still… he wants more. Not more mercy. More understanding.
“Teach me,” he says. Not because he doubts. But because he delights.

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So what about you?

Maybe it’s midnight where you are—literally or figuratively. Maybe your heart is whispering in the quiet, “There’s got to be more.” And maybe, like the psalmist, you’re ready to rise. To turn your feet. To make haste. To sing thanks in the dark and say with full confidence:

“Thou art my portion, O Lord.”

Not riches.
Not resolutions.
Not answers.

Just God.
And that’s more than enough.