5 min read

The Rabbis Found Joseph and Moses Hidden in the Song of Songs

Shir HaShirim Rabbah opens Solomon's poem and finds Joseph working alone when Egypt feasts, Moses afraid to lead, and God leaping from mountain to mountain.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. Joseph in an Empty House
  2. Israel Sat Under the Apple Tree
  3. Moses Was Afraid to Lead the Flock
  4. God Leapt Like a Gazelle
  5. Winter Was Egypt and Spring Was the Exodus

Joseph in an Empty House

Egypt is on festival. The Nile is being worshiped. The streets are full. Every household has put down its work and gone to the celebration. Joseph is alone in his master's house, doing the accounts.

He is not yet in Pharaoh's palace. He is not yet wearing the signet ring or riding the second chariot. He is a Hebrew slave in a foreign city, keeping ledgers in an empty house while the festival pours through the streets outside. No one is watching him work. No one will reward him for the accuracy of his figures in this particular hour.

Shir HaShirim Rabbah finds this moment inside Proverbs 22:29: Have you seen a man diligent in his labor? He will stand before kings. The diligent man is Joseph, and the standing before kings begins here, in the unseen hour, before the test with Potiphar's wife, before the dungeon, before the dreams. The road to the throne starts in the emptiness of a house where no one who matters can see what he is doing.

Israel Sat Under the Apple Tree

Song of Songs 2:3 describes a beloved resting in the shade of an apple tree, taking delight in its fruit. Rabbi Huna and Rabbi Acha read the scene through the day the Torah was given. Everyone ran from the shadow of God at Sinai. The nations of the world fled from what they were being asked to accept. Israel stayed and sat under the shade and found the fruit sweet.

The apple tree that casts too little shade in summer heat is God on the day of the Revelation, and Israel alone among the peoples remained in that uncomfortable shade, ate the fruit, and did not run. The love poem describes an intimacy that the midrash locates at the most terrifying moment in Israelite history.

Moses Was Afraid to Lead the Flock

Song of Songs 1:7 puts a question in the beloved's mouth: Why should I be as one who wanders among the flocks of your companions? The plain text sounds like a lover's worry about being lost in a crowd. Rabbi Yehuda bar Rabbi Simon hears Moses speaking to God after the command at the burning bush.

God tells Moses: go, I am sending you to Pharaoh. Moses does not simply comply. He asks: can all this really be accomplished through me? He is not modest in the false sense. He is genuinely calculating whether the task fits the messenger. He is a man who knows his limits and is not certain they are adequate for what is being asked.

The text plays on the word for wandering, which in Hebrew resembles the word for veiled. Moses is asking whether he will be seen clearly or remain hidden behind his own inadequacy. The lover's question and the prophet's question turn out to be the same question: am I enough to be found in this place?

God Leapt Like a Gazelle

Song of Songs 2:9 says the beloved comes leaping over mountains, bounding over hills. Rabbi Yitzchak reads this as the congregation of Israel pleading with God. You told us to come, to come, they say. But should you not come first?

God's answer is the leaping itself. From Egypt to the sea. From the sea to Sinai. From Sinai to the coming future. The image of a gazelle leaping from mountain to mountain and valley to valley maps the arc of redemption as a series of divine jumps toward Israel, each one crossing an impossible distance.

At the sea, God was present. At Sinai, God spoke. In the future, God will come again. The beloved in the love poem is always in motion toward the one waiting, and the waiting nation's complaint in the wilderness, that God has not come, is answered by pointing at every moment he already did.

Winter Was Egypt and Spring Was the Exodus

Song of Songs 2:11 says the winter is past and the rain is over. Shir HaShirim Rabbah reads the winter as the four hundred years decreed upon Israel in Egypt, the period of bondage God told Abraham about in the covenant between the pieces. The winter is the duration of suffering. When it ends, it ends completely: the rain is gone, the flowers appear, the voice of the turtledove is heard in the land.

The spring of Song of Songs is Passover, the month of Aviv, the season of the Exodus. A love poem's description of winter ending becomes the exact moment when four hundred years of slavery break open and Israel walks out through the sea into the open land.

Song Of SongsJosephMosesSolomon
← All myths

From the tradition

Sources

6 sources

The texts this telling draws on, in full. Open a card to read inline, or expand it for a wider, quieter read.

Shir HaShirim Rabbah 1:1Shir HaShirim Rabbah

The very first verse tells us: “The Song of Songs, that is Solomon’s” (Song of Songs 1:1). And the Rabbis, in Shir HaShirim Rabbah, begin by linking it to a verse from Proverbs: “Have you seen a man diligent in his labor? He will stand before kings; he will not stand before dark ones” (Proverbs 22:29). Seems like a leap. But stick with me.

The Sages see this “diligent man” as Joseph, the son of Jacob, sold into slavery in Egypt. Remember him? The Torah tells us, “He came into the house to perform his labor, and none of the men of the house were there” (Genesis 39:11).

Rabbis Yehuda and Nehemya have slightly different takes on this. Rabbi Yehuda describes it as a day of “disgrace and manure,” a rather colorful way to refer to Egyptian ritual worship. He uses these words to demean such idolatry. Rabbi Nehemya says it was a day of theater honoring the Nile. Either way, everyone was off celebrating, but Joseph? He was diligently working, calculating his master's accounts.

Rabbi Pinchas, in the name of Rabbi Shmuel bar Abba, adds another layer: “Anyone who serves his master properly is set free.” Where do we learn this? From Joseph himself! Because of his dedication, he was ultimately freed from slavery.

And here’s where the Proverbs verse comes back into play. "He will stand before kings," it says. And who does Joseph stand before? Pharaoh! As it is written: “Pharaoh sent and summoned Joseph, and they rushed him from the dungeon” (Genesis 41:14). Talk about a promotion.

But what about the second part of the verse? “He will not stand before dark ones.” This, the Rabbis explain, refers to Potiphar, Joseph’s former master. The text implies that the Holy One, blessed be He, intervened, blinding Potiphar and even castrating him. A harsh consequence, perhaps, but a clear indication of divine justice.

So, what does all this have to do with the Song of Songs, a book about love and longing? Well, maybe it’s about faithfulness, about the rewards of dedication, and about the power of divine intervention. The story of Joseph, a man who remained true to himself and his responsibilities even in the face of temptation and hardship, sets the stage. It hints that true love, like true service, requires diligence, integrity, and perhaps, a little bit of divine favor. It's a reminder that even in the most unlikely of places, amidst the "disgrace and manure" of the world, love and redemption can blossom.

Full source
Shir HaShirim Rabbah 3:1Shir HaShirim Rabbah

It pops up in unexpected places, carrying layers of meaning far beyond just a tasty fruit. Take the Shir HaShirim Rabbah, the rabbinic commentary on the Song of Songs. It uses the image of the apple tree to explore the relationship between God, Israel, and the nations of the world.

The verse in question is (Song of Songs 2:3): "Like an apple tree among the trees of the forest, so is my beloved among the boys. In its shade I delighted and I sat, and its fruit was sweet to my palate.”

Rabbi Huna and Rabbi Aḥa, citing Rabbi Yosei ben Zimra, offer a fascinating interpretation. They say that "just as this apple tree, everyone flees from it during the heat...because it does not have shade," so too, the nations of the world fled from the shadow of the Holy One, blessed be He, on the day of the giving of the Torah. Why would the nations flee from God's presence? The implication is that they weren't ready, or perhaps willing, to accept the responsibility that came with the Torah. The Torah, while a gift, also demands a commitment.

What about Israel? Did they also flee? The verse continues, "In its shade I delighted and I sat." The rabbis explain that it was Israel who delighted in God’s shade, not the other nations. This highlights the special bond between God and the Jewish people, a bond forged through acceptance of the Torah.

There's a beautiful nuance here. It's not about superiority, but about a unique readiness and willingness to embrace the divine.

Rabbi Aḥa ben Rabbi Ze’eira adds another layer to this apple tree metaphor. He points out that the apple tree produces its blossom before its leaves. Similarly, he says, Israel achieved faith before hearing. He bases this on (Exodus 4:31): “The people believed, and they heard that the Lord had remembered.”

What does this mean? That the Israelites had a deep-seated belief, a tradition passed down from their ancestors, that they would be redeemed from Egypt. According to Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) HaMevoar, they believed in this redemption even before they heard God's specific promise to Moses. They had faith in the promise of redemption before they even knew the details of God's plan.

Tosafot (in Shabbat 88a) offer a slightly different perspective, suggesting that the tree in question might actually be a citron, not an apple tree. While the specific fruit might be debated, the core message remains potent.

So, the apple (or citron) tree becomes a symbol of faith, commitment, and the unique relationship between God and Israel. It's a reminder that sometimes, belief comes before understanding, and that embracing the divine, even when it's challenging, can lead to profound sweetness. What kind of shade are we seeking? And are we ready to blossom, even before we fully understand what the future holds?

Full source
Shir HaShirim Rabbah 7:1Shir HaShirim Rabbah

I can't possibly do that!" Well, Moses felt that way too. to a fascinating interpretation of the Song of Songs that reveals Moses's very human anxieties.

The verse Why should I be as one bound to the flocks of your companions?" It sounds like a lover's lament. But Shir HaShirim Rabbah, the rabbinic commentary on Song of Songs, sees something deeper.

Rabbi Yehuda bar Rabbi Simon interprets this verse as being about Moses. God tells Moses, "Now go, and I will send you to Pharaoh" (Exodus 3:10). Pretty daunting! According to this midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary), Moses's response wasn't just simple obedience. Instead, he questioned God. "Master of the universe," he essentially says, "can all this really be accomplished through me?"

The text cleverly plays on words here. Moses asks, "Through me [bi], my Lord?" which echoes the plea, "Please [bi] my Lord" from (Exodus 4:13), where Moses is begging to be excused from the mission.

Why the hesitation? Moses worries about the immense responsibility. How can he possibly stand before such a massive multitude of Israelites? He imagines all the new mothers, the pregnant women, the little children. He even visualizes the specific dietary needs of each group! "How many kinds of hearty food have You prepared for the new mothers among them? How many kinds of soft foods have You prepared for the pregnant women among them? How much roasted grain and how many nuts have You prepared for the small children among them?"

It's a powerful image, isn't it? Moses isn't just thinking about freeing the Israelites; he's thinking about their well-being, their individual needs. He's overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the task.

Where do we find this articulated? Right here, in the Song of Songs! “Tell me, he whom my soul loves", the nation that my soul loves, the nation for whom I put my soul on the line; “where do you herd”, during the summer; “where do you rest your flock at noon”, during the rainy season." Moses is concerned about the nation's welfare in every season, in every circumstance.

Rabbi Helbo, in the name of Rabbi Huna, offers another interpretation of "Why should I be as one bound [keoteya]?" He suggests: "Let me not be like this mourner who covers [oteh] until his upper lip and weeps," referencing the ritual mourning practice described in (Leviticus 13:45). Moses doesn't want to be a leader who's only capable of expressing grief and despair. He wants to be effective, to bring about real change.

Another possibility is that Moses doesn't want to be like a shepherd who abandons his flock when wolves attack. Instead, he envisions the shepherd who "will wrap the land of Egypt" (Jeremiah 43:12), protecting it and caring for it.

Finally, Moses expresses concern about facing the patriarchs. "To the flocks of your companions," he says, meaning, when I go to Your companions – Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob – and they ask me about their descendants, the Israelite nation, what will I tell them? How can he answer if he fails?

So, what does this all mean? This midrash isn't just about Moses's reluctance; it's about the burden of leadership, the weight of responsibility, and the very human fear of inadequacy. It reminds us that even the greatest figures in our tradition wrestled with doubt and uncertainty. They questioned, they worried, they felt overwhelmed.

Perhaps that’s the most comforting takeaway. Even when faced with seemingly impossible tasks, like leading an entire nation out of slavery, it's okay to feel a little overwhelmed. It's okay to ask questions. It's okay to wonder, "Can I really do this?" The key, it seems, is to acknowledge those feelings, and then, like Moses, to find the strength to step forward anyway.

Full source
Shir HaShirim Rabbah 9:1Shir HaShirim Rabbah

What could this possibly mean?

Rabbi Yitzchak, as quoted in Shir HaShirim Rabbah, hears the voice of the congregation of Israel in this verse, pleading with God. "Master of the universe," they say, "You told us: Come, come [deyu deyu]. But, we ask, shouldn’t You come to us first?"

The image of the gazelle becomes a powerful metaphor. Just as a gazelle leaps nimbly "from mountain to mountain, from valley to valley," so too, the Holy One, blessed be He, "leapt from Egypt to the sea, and from the sea to Sinai, and from Sinai to the future." This isn't a God who sits passively by. This is a God in motion, actively seeking connection. God leaping.

In Egypt, they saw Him, as (Exodus 12:12) tells us: "I will pass through the land of Egypt." At the sea, they witnessed His power, leading them to proclaim: "Israel saw the great hand…" (Exodus 14:31) and "this is my God and I will exalt Him" (Exodus 15:2). And at Sinai, that pivotal moment, they stood face to face: "The Lord spoke with you face to face at the mountain" (Deuteronomy 5:4), echoing the words of (Deuteronomy 33:2), "The Lord came from Sinai."

Rabbi Yosei bar Ḥanina adds another layer, comparing the beloved to "the offspring of a hind." This image of youthfulness and tenderness complements the gazelle's energy, painting a picture of a God who is both powerful and gentle.

And what about that wall, the window, the lattice?

"Behold, he is standing behind our wall," the Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) tells us, refers to God waiting behind the wall at Sinai. Remember that moment? "For on the third day the Lord will descend" (Exodus 19:11). The "gazing through the window" is God descending "upon Mount Sinai to the top of the mountain" (Exodus 19:20). And the "peering through the lattice" becomes the moment of revelation itself: "God spoke all these matters" (Exodus 20:1). God seeking to establish a connection with Israel, and doing so through the giving of the Torah.

As Shir HaShirim Rabbah points out, what did He say?

"I am the Lord your God" (Exodus 20:2). The very foundation of the relationship, the declaration of presence and responsibility.

So, what does all this mean for us today? Maybe it's a reminder that the yearning we feel is not one-sided. God, in all His power and mystery, is also reaching out, seeking connection, peering through the lattice of our lives, waiting for us to turn and acknowledge His presence. And perhaps, like the Israelites at Sinai, we too can hear that voice, declaring, "I am here. I am with you."

Full source
Shir HaShirim Rabbah 11:1Shir HaShirim Rabbah

They saw echoes of that very struggle in the beautiful, often enigmatic, Song of Songs – Shir HaShirim in Hebrew.

Specifically, they found a powerful metaphor in the verse, "For, behold, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone" (Song of Songs 2:11). But what did this verse really mean?

Shir HaShirim Rabbah, a classic commentary on the Song of Songs, offers a fascinating interpretation. It connects the "winter" to a particularly painful period in Jewish history: the enslavement in Egypt. It wasn't just a few years, but a period loaded with immense suffering and spiritual darkness.

The commentary states: "For, behold, the winter is past,' these are the four hundred years that were decreed upon our ancestors in Egypt." This refers to the prophecy given to Abraham in (Genesis 15:13), foretelling the exile. But the verse doesn’t stop there. It goes on, "'The rain is over and gone,' these are the two hundred and ten years." This shorter period represents the actual length of the exile and enslavement in Egypt.

Now, you might be thinking, "Wait a minute, isn't rain part of winter? What's the difference?" Good question!

Rabbi Tanhuma offers a clever explanation: "The primary trouble [of the winter] is the rain." He's saying that while the entire winter is difficult, the rain itself is the most challenging aspect. It's the relentless, drenching element that makes everything else so much harder to bear.

And here’s where it gets even more poignant. The commentary zeroes in on the most intense period of the Egyptian bondage, highlighting the eighty-six years from the birth of Miriam, the prophetess. It’s during this time that "they made their lives bitter [vaymareru]” (Exodus 1:14). The connection is made even more explicit through wordplay, linking the bitterness of the enslavement, vaymareru, to Miriam's name, which itself is linked to maror, the bitter herb we eat at the Passover Seder.

So, what’s the takeaway? It seems the rabbis are teaching us that even within periods of general hardship ("winter"), there are specific, acutely painful moments ("rain") that define the experience. The most intense period of suffering for the Israelites was during the time leading up to the Exodus, a time when even the newborn girls, like Miriam, were seen as a threat to Pharaoh and his oppressive regime.

But ultimately, the verse promises that even the harshest winter, the most relentless rain, will eventually pass. There’s a promise of renewal, of spring, of freedom. And perhaps that’s the message we can take with us today: even in our own personal "winters," we can hold onto the hope that the rain will eventually cease, and a new season will dawn.

Full source
Shir HaShirim Rabbah 9:1Shir HaShirim Rabbah

It’s a story of intimacy, growth, and the need for appropriate boundaries. to a fascinating interpretation of a verse from the Song of Songs, Shir HaShirim, that illuminates this very concept.

"King Solomon made himself a palanquin of the timber of Lebanon" (Song of Songs 3:9). A beautiful line. But what does it really mean? Rabbi Azarya, quoting Rabbi Yehuda ben Rabbi Simon, offers an intriguing interpretation in Shir HaShirim Rabbah. He sees this "palanquin" – a covered carriage – as a metaphor for the Tabernacle, the Mishkan.

Rabbi Yehuda ben Rabbi Ilai beautifully illustrates this with a parable: Imagine a king with a young daughter. In her early years, he freely interacts with her in public – on the street, in the courtyard, wherever. But as she matures, as she shows signs of adulthood, the king realizes that such public interactions are no longer appropriate for her dignity. So, he creates a partition, a private space, so that when he needs to speak with her, he does so with the respect and privacy she deserves.

Isn't that a powerful image? This, according to the rabbis, is how we can understand God's relationship with the Israelites.

Initially, as we find in (Hosea 11:1), "Because Israel is a lad and I loved him," the connection was direct and visible. Think back to the Exodus. In Egypt, the Israelites witnessed God's power openly. As (Exodus 12:23) states, "The Lord will pass to smite Egypt," a clear demonstration of divine intervention. And at the Red Sea, as (Exodus 14:31) recounts, "Israel saw the great power," so much so that, according to Ginzberg's retelling in Legends of the Jews, even toddlers pointed and proclaimed, "This is my God and I will exalt Him!" (Exodus 15:2). At Sinai, they even saw God "face to face," as (Deuteronomy 33:2) tells us, "The Lord came from Sinai…"

But something changed. At Mount Sinai, the Israelites received the Torah and declared, "Everything that God spoke we will perform and we will heed" (Exodus 24:7). They became God's complete nation.

And here's the crucial shift. The Holy One, blessed be He, realized that it was no longer befitting for Him to speak to His children in public. Instead, He instructed them to build a Tabernacle, a private sanctuary, so that He could communicate with them from within its sacred space. This is alluded to in (Numbers 7:89): "When Moses went into the Tent of Meeting to speak with Him." The intimacy remained, but the mode of communication evolved to reflect the Israelites' maturity and the sanctity of their relationship with God.

So, when Shir HaShirim says, "King Solomon [Shlomo] made," it refers to the King of peace [shalom], whose very name echoes tranquility and wholeness. And the "timber of Lebanon" reminds us of the materials used to build the Tabernacle itself, as we find in (Exodus 26:15): "You shall make the planks for the Tabernacle of acacia wood, standing."

What does this all mean for us today? Perhaps it's a reminder that relationships, even our relationship with the Divine, evolve over time. What was appropriate at one stage may need to be adjusted as we grow and mature. The key is to maintain the intimacy and connection, even as we create appropriate boundaries and sacred spaces for communication. Just like the Tabernacle, we can find ways to connect deeply, even if not always face to face.

Full source