I don’t know what kind of day you’re having, but if you’ve got a few minutes and a quiet corner, let’s sit for a while in the soft light of Scripture. Let’s lean into an old song—the kind you turn to when the path is unclear and your soul could use a place to rest. Psalm 119:97–104 is more than a poem; it’s a love song. And the Psalmist is in love—not with a person, but with the Word of God.

“O how love I thy law!” he says.
Not “I tolerate it.”
Not “I manage to get through it.”
But I love it.

And he means it. This isn’t the voice of someone ticking off a religious checklist. This is the voice of someone who has found treasure. Deep, buried, sacred treasure—and now that he’s found it, he holds it close. God’s law is his meditation, not just in the morning when the world is still, but all the day.

He’s not reading for information; he’s reading for life.

And what he finds in God’s Word is more than comfort. He finds clarity. Strength. Even strategy.
“Thou through thy commandments hast made me wiser than mine enemies.”

That’s a bold thing to say.
He’s not boasting in himself; he’s banking on God.
He’s found a wisdom not born of age or intellect, but from a life saturated in truth. He’s learned more than his teachers, not because he’s brighter, but because he’s more rooted. More devoted. God’s testimonies are not just scrolls on a shelf—they’re the compass guiding his every step.

And speaking of steps:
“I have refrained my feet from every evil way, that I might keep thy word.”

It’s a beautiful image, isn’t it? A kind of holy restraint. Like a man walking a narrow ridge, careful not to slip—not out of fear of falling, but out of reverence for the One who walks with him. He says no to what is wrong because he’s already said yes to what is right.

“For thou hast taught me.”
That line carries weight. There’s no substitute for being taught by God Himself—not just informed, but formed. The Psalmist is being shaped by the hand of the Teacher who knows his heart better than he does.

And then comes one of the most intimate lines in all the Psalms:
“How sweet are thy words unto my taste! yea, sweeter than honey to my mouth!”

It catches you off guard. Just when you think this is about discipline and diligence, he brings you to delight.

The Bible isn’t a burden; it’s a banquet. Not a rulebook—but a recipe for joy. Not a lecture—but a meal for the soul. In a world that sells sugar-coated lies and quick fixes, the Psalmist has found something richer, deeper, and real: the sweetness of truth.

And with truth comes discernment.
“Through thy precepts I get understanding: therefore I hate every false way.”

Hate is a strong word, but it belongs here. Because when you’ve tasted what’s real, the counterfeit becomes unbearable. When you’ve been fed by what is holy, you can’t stomach what is hollow.

The Psalmist doesn’t flirt with deception. He doesn’t entertain compromise. He’s tasted what is good, and it has changed him.

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So what does this mean for us?

It means the Bible is not just a book. It’s breath. It’s bread. It’s the voice of God carved into letters, passed down through fire and exile and centuries of faith. It’s what the soul was made to feast on. And maybe—just maybe—today is the day to love it again.

Not out of obligation.
But out of awe.

Not because you’re supposed to. But because, somewhere deep down, you’ve always known: this Word is alive.

Let it meet you today. In your confusion, your quiet, your questions. Let it steady your feet and soften your heart.

And when it does, you’ll find what the Psalmist found: Even in a loud and hurried world, the steady truth of God’s Word is still sweeter than honey. Still stronger than time.