When God Remembers

“Remember, O LORD, Your tender mercies and Your lovingkindnesses, for they are from of old” (Psalm 25:6).

David lifts his voice like incense ascending in the dark—a cry not for vengeance, not for fortune, not for clarity, but for remembrance. “Remember, O LORD,” he pleads—not because the Ancient of Days has forgotten, not because the eternal God has misplaced mercy among the endless corridors of eternity. No, this cry is not to awaken a sleeping deity, nor to jolt some divine forgetfulness. It is the cry of a soul who knows that when God remembers, time and space itself moves.

The memory of man fades like smoke from the altar, curling into the sky, dissipating with time and wind. We forget the promises we made in pain. We forget the sins that once shackled our hearts in shame. We forget both wrong and right, both sorrow and joy. But when God remembers, it is not a recollection—it is an act. When God remembers, it is the movement of His mercy. When God remembers, it is the unleashing of His lovingkindness, not merely as thoughts long preserved but as living streams that break into dry and weary hearts.

“Remember Your tender mercies,” says David—not mine. “Remember Your lovingkindnesses”—not my achievements, not my failures, not my vows or my tears. David does not anchor his plea in his own righteousness, for he knows the frailty of his flesh. He knows the twisted record of his days, the violence in his past, the weight of Bathsheba’s name and Uriah’s grave. If God were to remember David’s sins, he would be undone. Therefore, he casts himself not upon divine recollection of his works but upon the ancient reservoir of God’s own heart.

For God gives us His old promises, not new revelations. His mercies are not manufactured in response to our needs. They are “from of old,” David says. They are older than sin and sorrow. They stretch back before the first blood cried out from the ground, back before Eden’s gates were shut, back before the forbidden fruit was touched or the serpent hissed. The lovingkindness of God is eternal, braided into His being. It is not a reaction—it is His will. His mercy is not a concession—it is His delight.

When Noah drifted upon a drowned world, it is written, “God remembered Noah” (Genesis 8:1). And the waters receded. When Rachel wept in barrenness, God remembered her—and a child was born (Genesis 30:22). When Israel groaned under Pharaoh’s lash, God remembered His covenant—and the sea split wide (Exodus 2:24). This is not passive recollection. This is planned rescue—this is God rising from His throne to do what He has promised from of old.

So also the thief upon the cross whispered, “Lord, remember me when You come into Your kingdom” (Luke 23:42). And the answer from bloodied lips was not a memory, but a promise. “Today, you will be with Me in Paradise” (Luke 23:43). When the Son of God hung dying, crowned with thorns and clothed in scorn, the earth shook not because God forgot Him, but because He remembered us. At Calvary, divine memory thundered down—righteousness and peace kissed (Psalm 85:10), and wrath passed over. The cup was not forgotten—it was drained. The sins of the world—your sins—were not misplaced; they were remembered in Christ, and punished in His body.

And now, there is no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus (Romans 8:1). There is no record of wrong, for God has remembered His mercy. True, He remembers our sins no more (Jeremiah 31:34), but He has buried our sins not in mere forgetfulness, but in the action of the cross, as if it casts a wide shadow over us and our sins remain hidden and forgotten.

God’s memory is not like ours. When He says He won’t remember our sins, He means they will no longer determine His action toward us. Not because He forgets as if forgetfulness were a sign of His old age, but because they have been answered. Because justice has been met. Because Christ has borne them. The sins still exist in the story of the world, but they are silenced in the courtroom of Heaven. They no longer cry out for judgement, for the blood of Christ speaks a better Word.

When we pray, “Remember me, O Lord,” we do not plead for a place in His memory but for action in our lives. We are asking Him to be whom He’s always been: the God of mercy from of old. We are asking Him to stir, to descend, to lift us from the mire and place our feet upon the rock. We are asking Him to act according to His steadfast love and not according to our unstable hearts.

Do not be afraid to pray this prayer. Do not be afraid to say, “Remember me, O Lord.” Do not fear that God has grown tired of your voice or that He needs convincing. This prayer is the echo of faith. This is the heartbeat of the broken who trust not in their own ability to rise but in God’s enduring will to rescue. When we ask God to remember, we are throwing ourselves not upon what we have done, but upon what He has promised to do.

He remembers not just in broad strokes, but in tender detail. He remembers every tear cried in secret, every sigh too deep for words. He remembers the lonely hospital bed, the silent dinner table, the prayer that felt unheard. He remembers, not to hold them against you, but to hold you through them. He remembers, not to bring back the past, but to bring forth new life. His remembrance is resurrection.

And so, we wait. We wait like David, crying out in the valleys, “Remember me, O Lord.” We wait like the saints before us, walking through time’s wilderness with our faces turned east. We wait not because He’s forgotten, but because His remembrance is sure, and mercy never rushes.

Lift up your hearts, for the Lord remembers. And when He remembers, He comes. When He comes, He saves. And when He saves, He remembers you forever.