From Psalms to Ifá Verses: My Path Through Sacred Poetry
From Psalms to Ifá Verses: My Path Through Sacred Poetry
How Biblical Psalms and Odu Ifá serve similar roles as spiritual guidance, comfort, and coded wisdom, and how I’ve used both.
1. Introduction
The Two Rivers That Meet
Some people imagine spiritual traditions as competing kingdoms, each guarded by high walls and distrustful of outsiders. But I’ve always seen them more like rivers. Rivers don’t fight. They simply flow, each shaped by its land, climate, and journey until some of them meet, merging their waters into something richer.
For me, the Biblical Psalms and the Odu Ifá verses are two such rivers. One began in the hills of ancient Israel, flowing through the stories of David, Solomon, and the temple singers. The other began in the heart of Yoruba land, pulsing with the rhythm of divination, ancestral memory, and nature’s wisdom. I was born drinking from one, but somewhere along the way, I found the other. And to my surprise, their waters tasted oddly familiar.
This isn’t a tale of choosing one over the other. It’s the story of learning that divine wisdom wears many garments; sometimes a Hebrew robe, sometimes Yoruba aso-oke, and that poetry is one of the most timeless fabrics for those garments.
2. Psalms — The Harp of David
The Psalms are like a harp. A harp can weep. It can dance. It can declare war or whisper comfort. In the hands of King David, Asaph, and the other psalmists, the harp of poetry played across the full range of human emotion.
Historical Role:
The Book of Psalms is essentially Israel’s hymn book and prayer journal rolled into one. Composed over centuries, it includes:
Psalms of praise — overflowing joy in God’s greatness (Psalm 150).
Psalms of lament — raw cries for help (Psalm 13).
Psalms of wisdom — moral guidance wrapped in metaphor (Psalm 1).
Royal psalms — prayers for the king and the nation (Psalm 72).
In ancient Israel, the Psalms were not just literature. They were living prayers sung in temple courts, whispered in caves, chanted before battle, and recited in grief.
Personal Encounter:
When I was younger, I often turned to Psalm 23 during uncertain nights. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” I didn’t fully understand the shepherd’s world, but I knew what it felt like to be led when I couldn’t see the path. The rhythm of those words, like the steady pluck of a harp, soothed me until sleep came.
3. Odu Ifá — The Talking Drum of Wisdom
If the Psalms are a harp, Ifá verses are a talking drum. The talking drum doesn’t just play music; it speaks. Its pitch can imitate human speech, carrying messages across distances. In the Yoruba worldview, Ifá verses do something similar: they carry the voice of the divine across the distance between heaven and earth.
What is Ifá?
Ifá is the Yoruba system of divination, wisdom, and spiritual guidance. At its core is a vast oral corpus known as the Odu Ifá, which contains thousands of poetic verses, each tied to one of 256 odu signatures. These verses:
Teach moral values.
Offer practical counsel for life’s challenges.
Connect the seeker to the orishas and the ancestors.
Preserve historical memory and cultural identity.
How It Works:
A babaláwo (priest of Ifá) casts the opele chain or ikin seeds, revealing an odu pattern. The priest then chants or recites verses linked to that odu, interpreting them for the situation at hand. It’s not fortune-telling in the pop-culture sense; it’s a dialogue with destiny.
Personal Encounter:
I remember once wrestling with a major decision about moving to a new city. An Ifá consultation brought the verse from Ogbe Alara, which spoke of the palm tree that flourishes where its roots can breathe. I did my thorough research like I always do, and came to one conclusion: “Don’t go where your roots will be choked.” The imagery stuck with me the way the Psalms sometimes do and I stayed back. Looking back, that choice saved me from a difficult path, which is evidence till date.
4. Parallels in Structure and Spirit
At first glance, the Psalms and Ifá verses seem worlds apart. One is written in ancient Hebrew, the other in Yoruba. One often addresses Yahweh; the other invokes Orunmila or other orishas. But look closely, and the family resemblance emerges.
Both are:
Oral literature — meant to be spoken, chanted, sung.
Layered in meaning — literal, symbolic, spiritual.
Rooted in metaphor — drawing from nature, history, and human relationships.
Guides in uncertainty — offering direction in moments of doubt.
Analogy:
Think of them like two different keys opening the same treasure chest. The keys may be shaped differently, but the lock they open is the human heart seeking divine guidance.
5. Comfort in the Storm — Personal Testimonies
When storms hit, you grab the nearest lifeline. Sometimes mine has been a Psalm; other times, an Ifá verse.
Psalm Example:
Years ago, I was grieving a personal loss. Psalm 34:18 found me: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” I read it over and over until the words felt carved into me. It was as if the harp strings vibrated inside my chest.
Ifá Example:
Another time, during a season of financial strain, the verse from Irosun Iwori came: “The river does not dry where the rain remembers to fall.” It was a reminder that blessings return in cycles, even when you can’t yet see the clouds forming. It kept me patient until the “rain” came.
Analogy:
It’s like having two lamps, one run on oil, one electric. They look and work differently, but both push back the darkness.
6. Coded Wisdom and the Art of Interpretation
Both Psalms and Ifá verses are rarely self-explanatory. They’re layered like onions, peel one skin and another waits beneath. And each layer has its own scent, its own sting, its own sweetness.
In Psalms:
Psalm 137, about weeping by the rivers of Babylon, isn’t just history; it’s a metaphor for longing in exile.
Psalm 91’s “shadow of the Almighty” is a poetic image for divine protection, not literal shade.
In Ifá:
A verse about the tortoise may be a story about patience, strategy, or avoiding greed.
A proverb about the yam and the knife may refer to relationships, business ethics, or personal sacrifice.
Role of Interpreters:
Pastors, priests, elders, and babaláwos serve similar functions; not to own the words, but to unlock their meaning for the seeker. Without them, much is lost in translation.
7. The Universal Language of Sacred Poetry
Strip away the names, languages, and specific rituals, and you’ll find something universal: sacred poetry is the bridge between the human longing and the divine mystery.
Psalms speak the language of the soul, i.e, raw emotion poured into melody.
While Ifá verses speak the language of the ancestors, coded wisdom shaped by centuries of lived experience.
Analogy:
They are like two dialects of the same mother tongue. If you speak one, you can often “feel” the other even before you fully understand it.
8. How I Weave Both in My Life
I’ve learned to move between them without inner conflict.
When my heart feels heavy, I often turn to the Psalms for their intimate tone.
When I need practical counsel, I turn to Ifá for its grounded, proverb-rich advice.
Analogy:
It’s like dressing for the day, sometimes I wear an Agbada to honor tradition, sometimes a tailored suit for a modern meeting. Both make me feel dignified. Both are me.
9. The Challenge and Beauty of Walking Two Paths
Walking with both Psalms and Ifá isn’t always simple.
Some Christians see Ifá as “other” or even forbidden.
Some traditionalists may see my embrace of the Psalms as leaning toward colonial religion.
But I’ve come to see myself as spiritually bilingual. And bilingualism is a gift. It lets you navigate more worlds, speak to more people, and translate truths across borders.
Analogy:
It’s like playing both harp and talking drum. Each has its moment to lead the song, and sometimes, the music is best when they play together.
10. Conclusion — Drinking from Two Wells
Today, I no longer feel the need to force these two rivers into one or to choose which is “truer.” I drink from both. Each well quenches a different thirst. One refreshes my memory of covenant and grace; the other grounds me in heritage and ancestral wisdom.
When I think of my journey, I picture a traveler pausing at a crossroads, finding two wells, one carved in stone, the other in wood, and realizing that both draw water from the same deep earth.
So when the night comes and I need comfort, I might hear the harp of David or the talking drum of Ifá. Either way, the music is sacred. Either way, I am led.
Ire ooo.