Catholic Commentary
David's Cry from the Depths
5For the waves of death surrounded me. The floods of ungodliness made me afraid.6The cords of Sheol were around me. The snares of death caught me.7In my distress, I called on Yahweh. Yes, I called to my God. He heard my voice out of his temple. My cry came into his ears.
2 Samuel 22:5–7 depicts King David surrounded by the chaotic forces of death and the underworld, using metaphors of drowning waves and binding cords to express total helplessness. His response is to call out to Yahweh by name, pivoting from despair to divine petition in the belief that God will hear and rescue him.
When waves and cords close in, a raw cry to God breaks the siege—not because despair ends but because God hears.
2 Samuel 22:5 — "The waves of death surrounded me" The Hebrew mishbĕrê māwet (literally "breakers of death") draws on the ancient Near Eastern image of the sea as a domain of chaos, dissolution, and anti-creation. David is not merely using a poetic flourish; he is invoking the cosmological resonance of the deep (tĕhôm), the primordial waters over which God's Spirit hovered in Genesis 1. To be surrounded by such waves is to stand at the threshold where existence itself unravels. The verb 'āpap ("surrounded," "encompassed") conveys encirclement — there is no visible exit. This is the language of a man who has genuinely looked into the void, whether in the flight from Saul, the aftermath of Absalom's rebellion, or the accumulated weight of battlefield mortality. The plural "waves" is significant: this is not one crisis but a sustained battering, wave after wave, the way grief and danger do not strike once but return repeatedly.
2 Samuel 22:6 — "The cords of Sheol were around me" Where verse 5 uses the image of drowning, verse 6 shifts to binding. Ḥeblê šĕ'ôl ("cords/snares of Sheol") may also be rendered "snares of the underworld," the word ḥebel carrying the dual meaning of rope and pain (cf. the "cords of affliction" in Job 36:8). Sheol in the Hebrew imagination is not merely the grave but the realm of shade and diminishment, the place where one is cut off from the living God (Ps 88:5). The cords tighten: death is not simply approaching, it has already begun to claim David, binding him before the final blow. The pairing of verses 5 and 6 — waves then cords, drowning then binding — creates a two-front assault, evoking total helplessness. This poetic parallelism is not redundancy but accumulation; the reader is made to feel the weight close in.
2 Samuel 22:7 — "In my distress, I called on Yahweh" The Hebrew baṣṣar-lî ("in my distress / in the narrowness that was mine") is strikingly physical — ṣar derives from a root meaning "narrow," to be squeezed into a constricted space. David's extremity is spatial as well as mortal: he has been pressed into a corner with no human way out. The pivot of the entire passage — and of the whole psalm — is this single act: 'eqrā' ("I called out"). Against the waves and the cords, David sets not a weapon or a strategy but a voice. The Covenant Name Yahweh is not incidental; David does not cry out to a generic deity but to the God of the Exodus, the God who by definition hears and rescues his people (Ex 3:7). The verse continues beyond our cluster: "and he heard my voice from his temple." The call is not merely heroic resignation — it is answered. This pivot from utter helplessness to divine attentiveness is the theological spine of the entire canticle.
Typological and Spiritual Senses In the fourfold sense of Scripture, the allegorical reading points unmistakably to Christ. The "waves of death" and "cords of Sheol" find their ultimate referent in the Passion and burial: the Son of God, fully entering human mortality, is encompassed by the very forces David only glimpsed. Psalm 22 and Jonah 2 (see cross-references) strengthen this trajectory. The cry in verse 7 anticipates Christ's cry from the cross (Matt 27:46) — not as a cry of despair but, as the Fathers insist, as the cry of the whole Body of the Church speaking through its Head. The anagogical sense looks to every soul that, in the moment of final agony, cries Maranatha and is drawn up by the hand of God.
Catholic tradition reads this passage on multiple interlocking levels, and the Church Fathers were among the first to mine its Christological depth.
Augustine (Enarrationes in Psalmos, on Psalm 18, the near-identical parallel) hears in David's words the vox Christi, the voice of Christ speaking through his servant-type: "The waves of death are the hostile powers that assailed Christ in his Passion." Augustine is careful to note that Christ cries as Head on behalf of the Body — he is not merely describing his own suffering but giving voice to the whole Church in her affliction throughout history. The cords of Sheol become, for Augustine, the bonds of sin that held humanity captive, which Christ entered in order to break.
Athanasius (De Incarnatione) illuminates why the Incarnate Word could be "encompassed" by death's waves at all: only by genuinely entering the domain of corruption could he transform it from within. The descensus ad inferos — Christ's descent to the dead, defined in the Apostles' Creed and richly expounded in the Catechism (CCC 632–635) — is the theological answer to David's imagery. "It is precisely the one who descended into the lowest parts of the earth who filled all things" (Eph 4:9–10).
The Catechism teaches that in his descent, Christ "opened heaven's gates for the just who had gone before him" (CCC 637), an act prefigured in every cry like David's — a cry made from within Sheol's reach, answered by God's descent.
St. John of the Cross gives the passage a mystical register: the "waves of death" and "cords of Sheol" map onto the Dark Night of the Soul, the felt absence of God in which the soul is stripped of every consolation. The saint insists this desolation is not abandonment but purgation — the necessary prelude to union. David's cry in verse 7, then, models the only proper response to the Night: not analysis or escape, but the naked cry of faith toward the Covenant God, trusting that he hears from his temple even when silence seems absolute.
Contemporary Catholics often encounter their own version of these three verses — not the literal battlefield but the medical diagnosis with no good options, the marriage that has collapsed beyond apparent rescue, the depression that wraps its cords around every morning. The cultural reflex is to manage, to fix, to distract. David's text offers a counter-formation: before any strategy, before any analysis of the waves, call. Not a composed prayer, not a liturgically correct formula — the Hebrew implies a raw, urgent shout. Catholics shaped by a sacramental culture can give this cry concrete form: the honest lament Psalm prayed aloud in the dark (the Church's Liturgy of the Hours includes precisely these), the unpolished cry to a Confessor, the Eucharist received in a state of interior desperation rather than spiritual tidiness. The tradition also forbids a false piety that pretends the waves are not waves. David names what is happening to him with brutal accuracy before he prays. Honest naming — "I am being surrounded; I am being bound" — is itself an act of faith that God can bear to hear the truth.
Commentary