The King of Glory

Psalm 24 opens like the crack of thunder:

“The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof, the world and those who dwell therein, for he has founded it upon the seas and established it upon the rivers.”

Everything is His. Not a square inch belongs to another. He spoke it into being; He staked His claim before man ever drew breath.

The ancients filled their world with petty gods—one for the river, one for the hill, one for the storm. Small deities, local thugs carving out turf. Poseidon with his trident. Baal with his thunder. But they were nothing more than carved wood and hungry priests. The Lord is not like them. He doesn’t borrow authority. He owns it. All of it.

Then David asks the question that should trouble every man: “Who shall ascend the hill of the Lord? Who shall stand in His holy place?” Who dares come into the presence of the Creator? Who stands clean before the Judge? The answer stings: only the one with clean hands and a pure heart. Only the one who doesn’t bow to falsehood or speak lies. That cuts us down to size.

Mountains run like a scar through Scripture. Eden itself was a garden on a mountain, watered by a river that flowed down. Adam was cast out, eastward, down the slope, away from God’s face. Since then man has been trying to claw his way back up. Babel rose like a middle finger at heaven. Pagan high places littered the land—little piles of stone, ziggurats, pyramids—miniature mountains where men shed blood to reach God on their own terms. They always climbed high. They always fell short. God despised it.

But on His mountains, blood was shed differently. Noah on Ararat, Abraham on Moriah, Israel at Sinai, David on Zion. The pattern is plain: man cannot stand before God without sacrifice. And sacrifice always costs life.

So listen when David cries in verse 7: “Lift up your heads, O gates! Be lifted up, O ancient doors, that the King of glory may come in.” Man never makes it up the hill. So God comes down.

That’s the gospel hidden in the Psalm. God does what we could not. The King of glory rode into Jerusalem, not to claim a throne of gold, but to climb another hill—Calvary. He was lifted up, nailed down, mocked as king, and yet He was the only one with clean hands and a pure heart. The only one fit to ascend stayed on the cross until the work was finished. And when He gave up His spirit, the temple curtain ripped apart. God’s presence was no longer locked behind stone and veil. The way in was opened.

And where is He now? Ascended—not into a tower of bricks or a mountain shrine, but into heaven itself, seated at the right hand of God. The true priest, the true man, the true Son. He alone stands in the holy place. And now by His blood, we come too—bold, unafraid, washed clean.

This has always been the story: God dwelling with man. Eden at the start. The temple in the middle. The New Jerusalem at the end. Man wants to climb, but his hands are dirty. So the King of glory comes down, cleanses him, and raises him up.

That’s why Palm Sunday matters. That’s why the cross matters. That’s why the empty tomb matters. Because it isn’t us storming heaven. It’s heaven storming us.

Think about it. Men have bled themselves dry, sacrificed sons and daughters, stacked stones into mountains, all to reach God. They’ve killed others to win His favor. But God the Son laid down His own life, willingly, so rebels might be sons again. “No one takes it from me,” He said. “I lay it down of my own accord.”

That is our confidence at the Table. Not our own clean hands, but His pierced ones. Not our pure hearts, but His broken one. And the King of glory who came once will come again. This time not in meekness, but in might. Not to suffer, but to reign.

So lift up your heads. The King of glory has come. And the King of glory is coming.