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Catholic Commentary
Isolation and Grief: Abandoned by Friends
8You have taken my friends from me.9My eyes are dim from grief.
Psalm 88:8–9 describes a sufferer abandoned by friends and overwhelmed by grief, with the Hebrew text emphasizing that God himself has caused this isolation. The psalmist's dimmed eyes reflect profound weeping and inner exhaustion, yet he continues reaching toward God in prayer despite his devastation.
God himself has quarantined you from every human comfort—and yet your hands still reach toward Him: this is prayer's most honest form.
The Typological Sense: Christ's Abandonment
In the typological reading embraced by the Fathers, Psalm 88 is understood as a psalm of Christ in His Passion. Verse 8 finds its fullest expression in the Garden of Gethsemane, where the disciples sleep and later flee (Mt 26:56: "Then all the disciples left him and fled"), and in the cry from the Cross (Mt 27:46). The "friends taken away" prefigure the scattering of the Twelve. The dimmed eyes of verse 9 may be read against the tradition that Christ wept (Jn 11:35) and that his visage was "marred more than any man" (Is 52:14). The Head prays this psalm; the Church prays it in union with Him.
Catholic tradition reads Psalm 88 with unusual gravity precisely because it refuses easy consolation. St. Augustine in his Enarrationes in Psalmos treats the entire psalm as the voice of Christ Incarnate taking on the full weight of human suffering — not merely performing grief, but genuinely entering it. The "friends taken away" are, for Augustine, the apostles whose flight at the Passion was permitted by divine providence so that Christ might accomplish redemption in the ultimate solitude of the Cross.
The Catechism of the Catholic Church teaches that Christ "took on" all human suffering so that no suffering is finally outside his redemptive reach (CCC 1505). Psalm 88:8–9 is an important scriptural warrant for this doctrine: these verses demonstrate that even divinely caused abandonment — suffering whose origin is traced back to God Himself — is not beyond prayer, not beyond the logic of covenant relationship.
Pope John Paul II's apostolic letter Salvifici Doloris (1984) provides the most sustained modern Magisterial reflection on suffering. He notes that "the Psalms of lamentation are a school of honest prayer" and that the suffering person who brings grief directly to God participates in Christ's redemptive Passion (SD §26). The dimmed eyes of verse 9 become, in this light, not a sign of spiritual failure but of intimate proximity to the suffering Christ.
St. Thérèse of Lisieux, who spent her final years in spiritual darkness akin to the psalmist's isolation, drew on this tradition, writing: "I no longer believe in eternal life — it seems to me there is only this suffering." Yet she continued to pray. Her experience mirrors verses 8–9 precisely: friends (earthly consolations, felt divine presence) taken away; eyes dimmed; hands still reaching. The Church's canonization of such dark-night experience legitimizes the theology embedded in these verses.
Contemporary Catholics facing clinical depression, grief after bereavement, the slow isolation of chronic illness, or the spiritual desolation described by St. John of the Cross will find in these two verses a sacred mirror. The Church does not demand that they manufacture praise before they are ready. These verses give permission to bring the raw, unresolved fact of suffering to God.
Practically: a Catholic experiencing profound loneliness — perhaps after the death of a spouse, estrangement from family, or the departure of friends during crisis — can pray these very words as their prayer, trusting that the psalm is already held within the prayer of Christ. The Church's tradition of the Liturgy of the Hours includes these psalms precisely so that even the darkest human experience is incorporated into the Body of Christ's daily offering to the Father.
Concretely, a spiritual director or confessor might assign Psalm 88 not as a text to analyze, but to pray slowly, allowing the psalmist's honesty to break open a believer's own suppressed grief before God. The dimming of eyes need not be "fixed" before approaching the altar; it can be brought there as it is.
Commentary
Verse 8 — "You have taken my friends from me."
The Hebrew underlying this verse (the psalm was composed in or translated into a Semitic liturgical idiom preserved in the Septuagint and Vulgate tradition) places the cause of abandonment squarely with God: posuisti in Jerome's Vulgate, "you have placed" or "you have set apart." This is theologically significant. The psalmist does not say his friends left of their own accord, nor that circumstances drove them away. He addresses God directly in the second person — You have done this. The friends have been made an "abomination" (toevah / abominationem) to the psalmist, suggesting ritual uncleanness, leprosy, or a curse so severe that those who love him cannot draw near without contamination. The psalmist is not merely lonely; he has been quarantined from love by the very hand of the Creator.
This is a devastating inversion of the communal shape of Israelite religion. In the Hebrew world, one worshiped, ate, mourned, and celebrated together. To be cut off from community was, in a very real sense, to be cut off from the ordinary channels through which God's blessing flowed. The psalmist is thus describing a double exile: from human fellowship and, in felt experience, from God Himself.
The verb form ("you have taken" / "you have placed them far") also carries the sense of being imprisoned by one's condition. Earlier in the psalm (v. 6), the speaker has been cast into the lowest pit, in dark and deep places. By verse 8, even the prospect of human comfort at the edge of that pit is removed. He is sealed in completely.
Verse 9 — "My eyes are dim from grief."
The dimming of the eyes is a physiological image that recurs in the psalter and in Lamentations as a mark of sustained weeping (cf. Lam 2:11; Ps 6:7). In the ancient Near Eastern context, the eyes were considered windows of the soul and the seat of vitality. Failing sight meant not only physical deterioration but the exhaustion of the interior person — the self worn down to nothing by unrelenting sorrow. The Psalmist has wept until he can barely see.
Crucially, the verse ends (in its fuller form) with the psalmist still stretching out his hands toward God — a posture of prayer even in blindness. This creates a poignant paradox: eyes too dim to see, hands still reaching. The grief has not silenced prayer; it has become prayer. This models the Catholic understanding of lamentation as a theological act — the honest cry of a creature who refuses to pretend before God and yet refuses to abandon God.