Psalm 121

Pilgrims walked. Three times a year Israelite men were to appear at the sanctuary, and families travelled in groups along ridge roads through broken country. The hills the singer lifts his eyes to were not scenery; they were the problem. Ravines and caves along those routes sheltered bandits, and a traveler carrying an offering was worth robbing.

The hills held something else too. High points across the region were dotted with local shrines, and a traveler in trouble was surrounded by invitations to ask a local god for protection. The psalm answers its own question sharply: help comes from the maker of heaven and earth, not from the hilltops.

The dangers named are the ones a walker actually faced. A slipping foot on a stony descent could end a journey. Heat stroke killed; the sun in that country is a weapon by midday. The moon was widely believed to bring on sickness and madness at night, which is why English still calls a person moonstruck.

The keeper who never sleeps is set against the human alternative. A caravan posted watchmen, and watchmen doze. The word for keep or guard runs through the psalm six times, which is the whole argument in one repeated verb.