Some chapters feel like a courtroom in the dry season. 2 Samuel 22 feels like a cathedral built out of thunder. A king opens his mouth— not to command, not to bargain, not to defend himself— but to sing. He remembers cliffs and caves. He remembers ropes of death tightening like a snare. He remembers a God who hears— and a God who answers with earthquake and storm. And he leaves us with a final picture: not a warrior flexing in the mirror, but an “anointed” man held up by mercy, so...

Some chapters feel like coming home. 2 Samuel 19 feels like coming home to a house still echoing with shouting. A king hides his face. A general speaks like a surgeon without anesthesia. A river waits—wide as memory. A curser kneels. A crippled friend comes unwashed and unshaven. An old man blesses and refuses the palace. And before the crown is fully back on David’s head, tribes start counting their shares.

Chapters feel like a battle hymn. 2 Samuel 18 feels like a funeral bell hiding inside a trumpet. A king stands at a gate like a man guarding his own heart. A forest opens its mouth. A mule runs on. A son is left between sky and soil— and a kingdom learns that you can win a war and still weep like you lost everything.