“Blessings are upon the head of the just: but violence covereth the mouth of the wicked.”
— Proverbs 10:6 KJV
Reflection on Today's Verse
Proverbs, always the subtle jab at our life choices—one minute, you’re soaking in divine wisdom, and the next, you’re wondering if you’re the wicked with a concealed mouth full of violence. But let’s get into this, shall we? It starts off with “Blessings are on the head of the righteous.” You can almost imagine someone walking around with a halo of blessings, right? Like a heavenly confetti parade, all because they’re just so righteous. But righteousness here isn’t about being perfect. It’s more like being a decent human being who genuinely tries to do the right thing—at least most of the time. Kindness, humility, not cutting people off in traffic—those kinds of things.
And then we get to the wicked—cue the dramatic music. The wicked don’t just have a problem; they’re hiding something. Like that friend who says, “I’m fine,” but you know they’re not. The verse says, “the mouth of the wicked conceals violence.” It’s like their words are an ice cream cone, but inside is a hot mess of chaos. They’re saying one thing, but underneath it, there’s anger, bitterness, maybe a low-key desire to throw a chair through a window (metaphorically, I hope).
What’s wild about this verse is that it cuts to the core of the human experience. Who among us hasn’t had moments where we’ve put on a good face but had some less-than-noble thoughts bubbling under the surface? It’s that classic tension between what we say and what we really feel. The righteous person, in contrast, isn’t juggling hidden agendas. They’re just out here collecting blessings because they’re choosing to live in peace—not pretending.
At the end of the day, this verse is a call to live authentically. Be the person who’s open to blessings, not the one who’s hiding behind carefully curated words that mask a storm. And hey, if you’re struggling with the whole “righteous” thing, don’t worry—there’s grace for that. Just maybe lay off the metaphorical chair-throwing.
Author
Alona Smith writes like she sketches—quick strokes, bold colors, no eraser. She ran a small-town art studio before VerseForTheDay invited her to swap charcoal for chapters, yet paint still flecks her keyboard. Dawn finds her barefoot on the porch, swirling watercolors across a travel Bible, letting sunrise seep into the margins. Neighbors wave as she bikes to the farmers’ market, basket rattling with sunflowers and Psalms scribbled on kraft-paper price tags.Alona trusts that Scripture behaves like clay: press your palms in, and a vessel appears where empty air once lived. Afternoon workshops with foster teens prove the point; they mold hope into coffee mugs, then watch steam carry it forward.Diplomas? Only framed sketches of hands lifted in worship. Awards? A dog-eared gratitude list taped to her fridge. Open her reflections when cynicism scratches—she’ll slide a brush into your grip and show you light hiding in the smear of everyday color.