The longest chapter in Scripture names no author. One hundred and seventy-six verses, and not one of them tells you whose hand held the pen. I have no doubt in my Jewish mind that it was Dāwīḏ Ha-Melekh (David the King); the ache in it is his ache, the cry is the cry of a man who knew both the throne and the cave. But if you are certain it was Daniel, or Ezra, or some other faithful hand, hold your certainty and lose nothing. The story does not move an inch. The same heart cry rises off the page either way, the same desire for a Torah that lives inside a man and not only in front of him. I have come to think the author is hidden on purpose, so that the longing could belong to all of us.
Now hear what we have been handed by the institution. Psalm 119 is the long one, the acrostic, the poem that praises God's law from top to bottom. We file it under devotion and move on, a little impressed and a little bored. And we miss it completely. This is not a praise poem. It is a cry for help. It is a man who loves the instruction of HaShem with everything in him, and who knows, verse after verse, that loving it has not been enough to let him keep it. Read it again and count how many times he asks to be taught, to be inclined, to be kept from wandering, to be given understanding, to be revived. Those are not the words of a man reporting his obedience. They are the words of a man begging for it. The whole psalm is one long question it never stops asking and never answers: how does a heart get a Torah it will actually keep?
The Aleph-Bet Poured Out
Slow down, breathe, and take a hard look at the trunk of this psalm before you read a word of its content, because the shape is the first argument. Psalm 119 is an acrostic. Twenty-two stanzas, one for each letter of the Hebrew aleph-bet, and eight verses inside each stanza, every one of those eight beginning with the same letter. Aleph (א) opens the first eight. Tav (ת), the last letter, opens the final eight. Eight times twenty-two is one hundred and seventy-six, and there is your longest chapter.
The acrostic is not a poet showing off. In the Hebrew imagination, to run a thing from aleph to tav is to say it with all of you, from the first breath to the last, nothing left out and nothing held back. When the psalmist orders his love of the Torah along the whole aleph-bet, he is making a vow with the very architecture of the poem: I will praise this instruction with every letter I have, with the entire aleph-bet of my life. It is the Hebrew way of saying everything, completely, to the very end.
And watch what he cannot stop naming. Eight words rotate through the psalm, over and over, nearly one in every verse: torah (תּוֹרָה), instruction; edut (עֵדוּת), testimony; piqqudim (פִּקּוּדִים), precepts; chuqqim (חֻקִּים), statutes; mitzvot (מִצְוֺת), commandments; mishpatim (מִשְׁפָּטִים), judgments; davar (דָּבָר), word; and imrah (אִמְרָה), the spoken saying. Eight facets of one jewel, turned in the light again and again by a man who cannot look away from it. This is not the vocabulary of a prisoner describing his chains. It is the vocabulary of a lover describing the face he loves. He delights in it, the way the very first psalm sets the whole Psalter's tone with a Torah he delighted in, a meditation day and night. Before this psalm is a cry for help, it is a love song. Hold that order, because it is the order everything else depends on. The ache only makes sense underneath the love.
So stop and ask the question the whole poem forces on you, especially if you were raised to hear the word Torah and flinch. Why would any man write this? Why would a human being sit down and pour out one hundred and seventy-six verses, the entire aleph-bet of his devotion, over a thing that was a burden? You do not write a love song to your chains. You do not call your prison sweeter than honey. Either this man was out of his mind, or the thing he loved was never what you were told it was.
How strange, then, that so much of the church reads this psalm and still walks away certain the Torah was a yoke, a curse, a dead letter God could not wait to be rid of. How does anyone hold both at once, a love song this long and a verdict this harsh, and never feel the contradiction? It happens the way most inherited certainties happen. A rich word gets flattened, Torah crushed down to law, instruction reduced to a legal code. A later theology gets written backward into an older text, the penal courtroom read into a Hebrew poem that never knew it. And then everyone around you reads it the same flattened way, until the reading stops feeling like a choice and starts feeling like something you were simply born knowing, and no one thinks to check it against the man actually singing on the page.
This is where you get to think for yourself. Not against your pastor, not against your tradition, but against the drift, by doing the one thing a Berean does: going back to the text and asking what the man in front of you actually felt. He is not enduring the Torah. He is in love with it. Let that unsettle whatever you were handed, and keep reading.
The Verbs Give Him Away
Now read the psalm the way you would read a witness, watching not what he claims but what he asks for, because a man's requests tell you what he does not yet have. And the requests in Psalm 119 are relentless. Teach me your statutes, he says, and says again, and again; lamdeni (לַמְּדֵנִי), teach me, runs through the poem like a refrain. Open my eyes, that I may see wondrous things out of your Torah (Tehillim, Psalms 119:18). Incline my heart to your testimonies, hat libi (הַט לִבִּי), and not to selfish gain (Tehillim, Psalms 119:36). Give me understanding, that I may keep your Torah and observe it with my whole heart. Keep steady my steps. Let me not wander from your commandments.
Sit with that catalog for a moment. Every one of those is a request for something he cannot manufacture on his own. He does not pray incline my heart because his heart already inclines. He prays it because he has felt his own heart pull the other way and could not stop it. He asks to be taught because loving the Torah has not been the same as living it. He asks to be kept from wandering because he knows the road out of the field and has walked it before. This is the most honest man in the Tanakh about the one thing most of us hide: he loved the instruction of God with his whole being, and he still could not keep it from the inside. He had the scroll. He had the delight. And between the delight and the deed lay a gap he could not close with either one.
And do not miss this, because everything the psalm reaches for depends on it. That gap is not his shame. It is his honesty. He is not a lesser believer for feeling the distance between what he loves and what he does. He is simply the first one willing to say it out loud, and to turn the saying into a prayer.
The Torah Was Never the Problem. The Location Was.
So where is the failure? Not in the Torah. Read the whole psalm and you will not find a syllable of complaint against the instruction itself. He calls it perfect, pure, sweeter than honey, more precious than gold. The problem is never the words. The problem is where the words are.
Under the covenant David lived inside, the Torah was written outside the man. It was carved on stone at Sinai. It was copied onto scrolls and laid up in the ark. It stood in front of him, holy and good and entirely external, and the whole drama of the old covenant is the drama of a people trying to get an outside thing to live on the inside and never quite managing it. Even the psalmist's most intimate move is a reach across that gap. I have stored up your word in my heart, he says, tzafanti (צָפַנְתִּי), I have treasured it, hidden it away inside me, that I might not sin against you (Tehillim, Psalms 119:11). Feel the effort in it. He is doing the storing. He is carrying the words across the distance by the strength of his own love, hiding them in his heart the way a man hides something precious he is afraid to lose. And storage is not inscription. A treasure hidden in a heart can be spent, or forgotten, or stolen in a weak hour. It is not the same as a Torah written into the grain of the heart itself, so deep it becomes the thing the heart wants.
So there it is, the whole ache of Psalm 119, named at its root. A Torah he loved, on the outside. A heart that wanted it, on the inside. And no power in the man to close the distance between them. He could store. He could not inscribe. He needed Someone to do to his heart what he could not do himself, and he knew it, and he prayed like a man who knew it. Which means the psalm is not finished on the page. It is a question left waiting on an answer that had not yet come.
Then HaShem Answered the Prayer Out Loud
Generations after the psalm, through the prophet Yirmeyahu (Jeremiah), HaShem speaks, and if you have ever prayed Psalm 119 you should hear your own words handed back to you from the mouth of God. Behold, the days are coming, He says, when I will cut a new covenant with the house of Israel and the house of Judah. Not like the old one. And here is the difference, the whole difference: I will put my Torah within them, b'qirbam (בְּקִרְבָּם), in their inward parts, and on their heart, al libam (עַל לִבָּם), I will write it (Yirmeyahu, Jeremiah 31:31-33).
Read what He is and is not promising. He is not promising a new and easier instruction. It is the same Torah, the very one David loved. What changes is not the content. What changes is the location. The instruction that stood on stone and scroll, outside the man, He now promises to move inside the man, to write it where David could only ever store it. Every plea in Psalm 119 is answered in that one sentence. Incline my heart, David prayed; I will write it on their heart, HaShem answers. Teach me your statutes; they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest. Keep me from wandering; I will put it within you, so that the wanting itself is changed. The prayer and the promise fit together like a key cut for a single lock, because they were. David was praying, without yet having the word for it, for the new covenant.
I have followed the mechanics of that promise all the way through the prophets in Written on the Heart, and I will not re-walk that ground here. What matters for the psalm is only this. The cry that Psalm 119 could not answer, HaShem answered Himself. The man could not get the Torah inside. So God said, in effect, then I will put it there. The ache was never a dead end. It was a prayer with a reply already on its way.
The Answer Arrived in a Body
But a promise has to be enacted, or it is only ink. How does a Torah actually get written on the inside of a human heart? Not by a man trying harder to store it. That was the old exhaustion, and it never worked. It gets written the way HaShem said it would, by His own hand and His own breath, and it required Him to come and do it Himself.
The new covenant Yirmeyahu promised was cut, at last, in the body of Yeshua (Jesus). The covenant logic of that belongs to He Did It Himself, how the covenant could only be sealed by One who was both the divine party and the faithful human party at once. Take from it only what the psalm needs here. When Yeshua lifted the cup and said this is the new covenant in my blood, He was not founding a religion of the outside all over again. He was cutting the very covenant that moves the Torah from stone to flesh. He kept the instruction David could not keep, from the inside, as the faithful human the covenant always required, and He opened the way for that same inward keeping to be given to everyone grafted into Him.
And then comes the breath. In Yechezkel (Ezekiel) HaShem tells us how the writing is done: I will put my Ruach (רוּחַ) within you, and cause you to walk in my statutes (Yechezkel, Ezekiel 36:27). Understand what the Ruach is, because everything here turns on it, and the borrowed frameworks have fogged the glass badly. The Ruach is not a separate person standing beside HaShem, brokering a deal. The word means breath, wind, the moving air of life, the same breath He breathed into the dust of Adam in the Garden. The Ruach HaKodesh is HaShem's own breath and presence, set down inside a man. So when the Torah gets written on the heart, it is not a third party doing it, and it is not your own willpower under a holier name. It is HaShem Himself, by His own breath, inscribing His instruction into the grain of you, until the thing He commands becomes the thing you actually want. So the psalm gets its answer. Not you storing harder. Him writing.
And see what that does to David's Torah. It is not abolished. It is not lowered. It is not swapped out for something lighter. It is picked up off the stone where he loved it and could not keep it, and written into the heart where he always begged for it to go. The same Torah. A new location. That is the whole gift, and it is a gift, not a higher bar handed to a man already straining.
And once you understand what Torah actually is, something opens that you cannot close again. When the instruction stops being a law-burden to escape and becomes what it always was, the Father's own teaching meant to be written on the inside of you, you go back and read the Brit Chadashah differently. The penal handcuffs come off. The whole thing stops sounding like a courtroom transcript of debt and sentence and substitute, and starts sounding like what it is, the covenant coming home. Sha'ul (Paul) stops fighting the Torah and starts upholding it. Yeshua stops abolishing it and starts writing it. Read out from under the penal frame, with the Torah understood the way David loved it, the New Testament comes to life.
The Branches That Were Hidden
Here is what that looks like in practice, when the frame comes off and you read the Brit Chadashah with Psalm 119 open beside it. Branches you were never shown begin to surface all over the page.
Start with the word David could not stop saying. Over and over the psalm reaches for it: your word, davar (דָּבָר); your word, imrah (אִמְרָה); I have hidden your word in my heart; your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path (Tehillim, Psalms 119:105). The word he loves is the Torah, the instruction, the self-disclosure of HaShem. Now open Yochanan (John). In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God, and the Word became flesh and dwelt among us (John 1:1, 1:14). Even in Greek, logos (λόγος) is straining backward for davar, and a Hebrew ear hears it at once. The word David hid in his heart, the word that lit his path, is the same Word that took on a body and walked into the world. Yeshua is not a departure from the Torah David loved. He is that Torah, embodied. The instruction David begged to have written inside him came and stood in front of him in flesh, so that it could one day be written inside all of us.
Then take the other word the psalm cannot let go of: righteous. Righteous are you, O LORD, and upright are your judgments (Tehillim, Psalms 119:137). Your righteousness is righteous forever, and your Torah is truth (Tehillim, Psalms 119:142). Watch what David does there. He lays tzedek (צֶדֶק), righteousness, directly on top of the Torah, as if they were two names for one thing, because to him they were. Righteousness was never a verdict handed down in a courtroom. It is the Torah lived, the instruction walked, the shape of a life bent straight. Now carry that back to Sha'ul. When he writes of the righteousness of God (Romans 1:17), the penal frame taught you to hear a legal transaction, a righteousness stamped onto your account while you yourself stayed unchanged. Read it with Psalm 119 open and it becomes what it always was: HaShem setting things right, making a life whole, the righteous instruction of the Father finally written where it can actually be walked. The doers of the Torah will be justified, Sha'ul says (Romans 2:13), and it stops being a verse you were trained to explain away and becomes the plain thing he wrote.
And then the link that should stop you where you stand. Sha'ul, the man they told you abolished the Torah, writes this: I delight in the Torah of God, according to the inner man (Romans 7:22). Hold that beside Psalm 119. That is David's line. That is oh how I love your Torah, now prayed by a Pharisee, from the inside, on the far side of the cross. The delight has moved inward, exactly as Yirmeyahu swore it would. Sha'ul is not arguing against the psalm. He is living inside it. He is Psalm 119 with the answer already come.
And these are only the low branches, the ones within reach when you read the Hebrew underneath. The Brit Chadashah does not leave it there. When it comes to the promise itself, it does not allude. It quotes.
When It Quotes the Promise Outright
If the echoes are not enough for you, then hear the Brit Chadashah say the thing outright, in words no one has to stretch.
The writer of Hebrews takes up Yirmeyahu 31 and lays it on the table whole, not as a prophecy still waiting but as the covenant now in force. This is the covenant I will make with them after those days, says the Lord: I will put my laws into their minds, and write them upon their hearts (Hebrews 8:10, and again at 10:16). He is not alluding. He is quoting, chapter and promise, and he does it twice. The very verse David's cry was reaching for, the exact answer to Psalm 119, the Brit Chadashah lifts straight out of Yirmeyahu and sets down as done.
Then Sha'ul makes the mechanism plain, the stone and the heart set side by side just as Yechezkel drew them. You are a letter of Messiah, he tells the Corinthians, written not with ink but with the Ruach of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts (2 Corinthians 3:3). Read it slowly. Not on stone. On hearts. Not with ink. By the breath of God. That is Sinai answered. That is the outside carried inside. That is the whole ache of Psalm 119 named and resolved in one sentence, by a Pharisee who knew exactly which promise he was standing on.
And Yochanan closes the loop on the very thing this psalm was fighting for. His commandments, he writes, are not burdensome (1 John 5:3). Lay that one line against everything the church was trained to feel about the Torah. The disciple who leaned on Yeshua's chest says the commandments are not a weight, and he says it the way a man states the obvious. He is saying what David sang a thousand years before him: the instruction of God is no burden to the heart that has been made to love it. That is Psalm 119 in a single clause of the Brit Chadashah.
None of this is strained. It was only hidden, buried under a reading that had no room for it.
And if you are tired by now, if this has started to feel like a case being argued at you, stop for a moment and remember what it is all for. I am not stacking witnesses to win something. I am trying to put one thing into your hands. The ache you have carried, the love you could never quite live up to, was never your verdict. It was the promise, already working in you. Every witness here is saying that same thing to you in a different voice. Stay with me, because the best of it is still ahead.
And these are his apostles, the men who walked it out after him. There is a witness who stands above every one of them, and he said all of it first, with his own mouth.
And He Said So Himself
Set aside Sha'ul and the writer of Hebrews and the beloved talmid (disciple) for a moment, because there is a witness above all of them. The One the church claims to follow said this himself, and said it in the clearest words he had.
They will tell you Yeshua came to end the Torah. He came and swore the opposite. Do not think that I came to abolish the Torah or the Prophets; I did not come to abolish, but to fulfill. Not one yod, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the Torah until all of it is accomplished (Matthew 5:17-18). The man they turned into the abolisher of the Torah stood up and promised it would not lose a single stroke.
And then he did the very thing Psalm 119 was aching toward. He took the whole Torah and hung it on love from the heart. Asked which commandment was greatest, he did not invent a new one. He reached back and quoted the Torah itself, the Shema: love HaShem with all your lev (לֵב), all your nefesh (נֶפֶשׁ), all your strength (Devarim, Deuteronomy 6:5). Then he added love your neighbor as yourself, and said that on these two the whole Torah and the Prophets hang (Matthew 22:37-40). This is not the end of the instruction. It is the instruction driven all the way inside, to the one place David kept pointing. And so no one could mistake where the keeping comes from, he bound it to himself in words the psalm would have known by heart: if you love me, keep my commandments (John 14:15). Not keep them so that I will love you. Love, and the keeping follows. That is the engine of Psalm 119 running in the mouth of the Messiah.
And on the last night, the cup we already watched him lift, he named what he was doing over it: this is the new covenant in my blood (Luke 22:20). Every ear at that table trained on the Prophets should have heard one chapter land like a struck bell, Yirmeyahu 31, the promise of a Torah written on the heart. He was not founding a new religion over the grave of the old one. He was standing up and announcing that the promise was being kept, now, in Him, that night. The One the whole faith is built upon cut the very covenant that answers David's cry, and told you outright what He was doing.
So the tie is no clever reading. It runs unbroken from David's ache, through Yirmeyahu's promise, into the Messiah's own words, and out through every apostle who wrote after Him. Take the penal frame off, and the Brit Chadashah stops sounding like a break with the Tanakh and starts sounding like its homecoming: the Torah David loved made flesh and walking, the promise David reached for quoted by name, the commandments David called his delight named no burden at all, and the righteousness David sang written at last on the heart. From the mouth of Yeshua to the last letter of Yochanan, the whole New Testament is standing exactly where Psalm 119 stood.
Not Ignorance. Avoidance.
So here is the thing that should keep you up tonight. Every piece of what you just read has been sitting in the open for two thousand years. David's love song. Yirmeyahu's promise. Sha'ul delighting in the Torah in his inner man. Hebrews quoting the promise by name. Yochanan saying the commandments are no burden. Yeshua swearing not one stroke would fall. None of it is hidden. None of it requires a Hebrew you do not have or a manuscript you cannot buy. And an entire movement, sincere, prayerful, full of people who genuinely love God, reads all of it and walks away with the opposite conclusion: that the thing David sang for one hundred and seventy-six verses was a burden God could not wait to be rid of.
How? Not how did the exegesis go wrong. That question has answers, and I gave them already, flattened words and back-written frameworks and a courtroom read into a poem. The better question is the one underneath it. What has to be true of a human being for him to look at a love this obvious and decide it was not real, or that God changed His mind about it?
That is not a question about Hebrew. It is a question about people. And the answer is not that they were wicked.
Here is what I think is actually happening, and I take no pleasure in saying it, because it is a mechanism every one of us runs. It is easier to abolish a standard than to admit you cannot keep it.
Sit with how much relief that single move buys. A man reads the instruction of God and feels the exact gap David felt, the distance between what he loves and what he can actually hold. That gap is unbearable. It always has been. And a human being standing in front of an unbearable gap has two doors. He can do what David did, keep the standard and ask to be changed, which means staying in the ache and confessing he needs Someone else to close it. Or he can take the other door, the fast one, the one that ends the pain today: declare the standard void. If the Torah was abolished, the gap vanishes. There is nothing left to fail at. The ache stops, and he never has to say the hardest sentence a person can say, which is I love this, and I cannot do it, and I need help.
Now multiply that relief by a movement, and by centuries. A relief that large does not stay a private thought. It hardens into doctrine, and doctrine becomes the air, and the air becomes the thing no one questions because everyone around you is breathing it too. Once a whole people is standing on that relief, reopening the question stops being a matter of studying a text and becomes a matter of reopening a wound that generations agreed to close. That is why evidence does not move people here. Evidence never moves a belief that is doing a job. And the job this one is doing is shielding a great many sincere people from a gap they were never told had an answer.
Which brings us to the better question, the one I would rather you carry out of this than any argument I could win. Set the exegesis down for a moment and ask what the claim says about Him. To say God did away with it is to say God gave His children the shape of a good life, commanded them to love it, listened to a man pour out one hundred and seventy-six verses adoring it, and then took it back. That He changed His mind about what He loves. That the delight was aimed at something temporary, and the ones who loved it most were loving a thing with an expiration date stamped on it.
I cannot make that God fit the God of the psalm. I do not think you can either, once you have said it out loud in your own voice.
And hear me, because this is the part I will not skip. The people who hold this are not fools, and they are not the enemy. They are doing what discouraged people have always done, which is take the door that stops the pain. I have taken that door myself, in other rooms of my life, about other things I could not face. The mercy underneath all of it is that the gap they were running from already had an answer, and the answer was never try harder. It was the covenant. It was a Torah written on the inside by the breath of God. Nobody ever needed to abolish it. They only needed to be told where it was going to be written.
Now the Psalm Prays Differently
Which means the psalm belongs in your mouth now, and it prays differently than it did in David's.
You will still feel the ache. Do not let anyone tell you the gap closes all at once, or that a real believer no longer feels the pull of his own heart the wrong way. You will pray incline my heart and mean it, because the inclining is not finished; it is being done. But here is what has changed, and it changes everything about how the ache feels. When David prayed those words, he was crying across a distance toward a promise that had not yet come. When you pray them, you are asking HaShem to keep doing in you the very thing He has already begun and already sworn to finish. The longing itself has become evidence. That you love a Torah you cannot yet fully keep is not the proof that you are failing. It is the proof that the writing has started, that His breath is already in the room, that the wanting in you is His own work and not a weight you are being crushed under.
Read the psalm that way, and mah ahavti toratecha (מָה אָהַבְתִּי תוֹרָתֶךָ), oh how I love your Torah (Tehillim, Psalms 119:97), stops being only a wish and becomes a witness. It is the sound of a heart that is being written on. The love you feel for His ways, the grief you feel when you break them, the pull to return every time you wander, all of it is the covenant at work, the slow inward inscription of a Torah you were never able to store deeply enough on your own. So pray the psalm. Pray it as someone standing on the answered side of the promise. Pray teach me and incline me and keep me from wandering, not as a beggar shouting across a canyon, but as a son asking his Father to finish the good thing His own breath has already begun to write.
Always Look Hard at What You Are Being Fed. Be a Berean.
And now, having seen what the psalm was aching for and what HaShem did about it, turn and look hard at the house you are sitting in. Not to condemn anyone. To examine the fruit, the way a Berean examines everything, including me.
Weigh what the teaching you sit under every week is actually forming in you. A faithful table draws you toward intimacy with HaShem, toward a Torah written on the inside, toward an obedience you come to want because it is your own wholeness and your own good. That is what salvation is in the Hebrew. Yeshuah (יְשׁוּעָה) comes from the root that means to be carried out of the narrow, pressed place into the wide open, to be made whole, nothing missing and nothing broken. Salvation is not a receipt you filed the night you signed a card. It is being made whole, from the inside, by the breath of God writing His instruction into your heart until you can finally live the Torah you were told you could never keep.
The other kind of table does the older thing, the thing the whole psalm grieves. It hands you a man at the front of a room, telling you what he thinks the text says, wrapped in a story that moves you for a Sunday and leaves you exactly where it found you. The Torah is still outside you when you walk out, on the page and the pulpit and never on the heart, the same place it sat in front of David while he begged to have it written within. A system can keep you busy and moved and entertained for years and never once do the one thing the new covenant exists to do, which is to get the instruction of God off the outside of your life and into the grain of your heart. When what you are fed forms admiration for the speaker instead of intimacy with the Father, when it leaves you leaning on his story instead of able to open the text for yourself, it does not matter how full the room is. It is still writing on stone.
I am not asking you to leave anywhere, or to name anyone. I am asking you to weigh the fruit in your own life, honestly, before HaShem. A place of worship either sends you deeper into Him or only deeper into itself, and if you are honest you already know which one you are in. Do not take my word for it, and do not take your pastor's. Take the text. Go and see whether these things are so.
Selah
Sit with these before you move on:
- When you read David begging to be taught, to be inclined, to be kept from wandering, do you hear a weak believer, or do you finally hear yourself?
- The Torah you love, is it still stored on the outside of your life by the strength of your own effort, or is it being written on the inside by the breath of God? And would you know how to tell the difference?
- When you feel the gap between the instruction you love and the life you actually live, have you been reading that gap as your verdict? What would change if you began to read it instead as evidence that the writing has already started?
- What is the teaching you sit under forming in you, intimacy with the Father, or admiration for a man? And if you weigh the fruit honestly, is it sending you home to the text, or keeping you in the room?
May the shalom of our Abba guard your study and your wrestling, shalom v'shalvah.
Your brother in the Way,
Sergio
