“In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust; let me never be ashamed: deliver me in thy righteousness.”
— Psalm 31:1 KJV
Reflection on Today's Verse
We all have moments when we feel exposed, vulnerable, or on the edge of something shameful or embarrassing. But what I love about this psalm is the quiet confidence it reflects, that God isn’t just a last resort, but a reliable refuge.
It’s like when you’re a kid, and you run to your parents’ room in the middle of the night during a storm. You don’t knock. You just know you’re welcome there. You know they’ll keep you safe. That’s the image I get when David talks about taking refuge in the Lord—this instinctive trust that God will be the safe place.
And it’s not just about being physically protected, but spiritually and emotionally too. David is asking for deliverance in God’s righteousness, not his own. It’s a humble reminder that we can’t fix everything ourselves. Sometimes, we just have to trust that God, in His goodness, will work things out for our best. It’s not always easy to let go, but there’s something freeing about knowing we don’t have to do it alone.
When I read this, I’m reminded to stop carrying my burdens solo. God is there, ready to be that shelter. We just have to be willing to let go of our pride and let Him in.
Personal Prayer
Heavenly Father, when I feel weak, confused, or ashamed, remind me that You are there, ready to hold me in Your arms. Deliver me not by my own strength, but by Your righteousness and grace.
Help me trust You completely, to let go of control and lean into Your protection. Guard my heart from fear and my soul from shame. Teach me to rest in the confidence that You are always good, always present, and always faithful.
Thank You for being my refuge, Lord. In You, I will not be shaken. Amen.
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.