The Watchman ofEli Cohen

In the autumn of 1884, a young Scottish minister named George Matheson — blind since the age of eighteen — set out on a walking tour of the Highlands with only a guide at his elbow. Each morning, before the sun crested the ridgeline, his companion would rise first, check the weather, test the path for loose stones, and whisper, "The way is clear, George."

Matheson later wrote that those Highland mornings taught him more about Psalm 121 than any commentary ever could. "I could not see the hills," he recalled, "but I knew Someone was watching them for me." The man who penned the beloved hymn "O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go" understood viscerally what it meant to depend on a Keeper who neither slumbers nor sleeps.

The psalmist's confidence was never rooted in his own sharp eyes or sure footing. It was rooted in the character of the One who watches. The Hebrew word shamar — to keep, to guard, to watch over — appears six times in just eight verses, as though the poet cannot stop marveling at this truth: the Lord God, the Maker of heaven and earth, has stationed Himself as your personal sentinel.

Matheson could not see the path ahead. But he walked it anyway — not with reckless courage, but with settled trust that the One guarding his steps never once looked away. The Almighty who keeps Israel keeps you the same way: attentive, tireless, and close enough to shade you from every scorching wind.