Tye Tribbett - Bless The Lord (Son of Man) Lyrics

Video

Bless The Lord (Son Of Man) - Tye Tribbett & G.A.

Meaning & Inspiration

My hands aren't as steady as they used to be when I hold my Bible, and the pages are thin, worn soft at the edges from decades of thumbing through the Psalms. When I hear Tye Tribbett singing "I will bless the Lord, oh my soul," it strikes me differently now than it did when I had the fire of youth in my marrow. Back then, praise was easy, a quick shout in a crowded room. Now, in the quiet, praise is a discipline—a deliberate turning of the wheel when the road is uphill and the engine is knocking.

Tribbett repeats, "He has done great things." It’s simple, almost plain. When you’ve lived long enough to see your share of sunsets and sorrows, you realize that "great things" doesn’t always mean the mountain-moving miracles. Sometimes, the great thing is the stillness in the middle of a storm, or the fact that your heart is still beating when you’re too weary to ask for it. It’s what David was getting at in Psalm 103, reminding his own spirit not to forget the benefits. When the lights go out and you’re sitting in the dark, wondering where the strength went, you have to talk to your own soul. You have to command it to wake up.

I keep coming back to that line: "All that is within me."

When you’re young, you give God your energy, your volume, your movement. But what happens when "all that is within me" feels like a hollow vessel? What happens when you’re tapped out? Watching Tribbett’s music bounce with that relentless rhythm, I wonder if it still holds up when the dancing stops. Yet, there is a stubbornness in those words that I admire. It’s a refusal to let the circumstances dictate the vocabulary of your faith.

"Can’t stop dancing," he says. I suppose if you’ve truly tasted the bitterness of the world and found the sweetness of the Master underneath it, you don't really have a choice. It’s not about the physical motion anymore—my knees wouldn't allow that even if I wanted to—but it’s about a posture of the spirit. It’s a strange, limping kind of joy. It isn’t loud or flashy. It’s just the quiet admission that He has been too good to stay silent.

I don’t know if I can always say I’m dancing, but I can say I’m still standing, and there is a sort of praise in that. Maybe that’s the unfinished work of it all—learning that "bless the Lord" isn’t just for the mountaintops, but for the long, slow walk through the valley where the shadows get long. It’s a prayer for the finish line, when the lungs are tired and the race is nearly run, just to have one more breath left to say, "Hallelujah." It’s enough. It has to be.