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The Song Moses Wrote Belongs to Every Age at Once

Sacred song does not stay inside the moment that produced it. The rabbis said shira moves freely through past, future, the messianic age, and the world to come.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Song at the Sea
  2. Four Dimensions of Shira
  3. What Joshua's Victory Song Adds
  4. The World to Come

The Song at the Sea

The water split and they walked through on dry ground, and when the last of them had crossed and the army behind them was gone beneath the waves, Moses opened his mouth and sang. The people sang with him, verse by verse, women with drums, everyone moving together in the call and response of the earliest recorded liturgy in Israelite memory. The Song of the Sea was not composed after the fact. It was sung in the moment, on the eastern bank, still wet, still breathing hard.

What the rabbis wanted to know was: where does a song like that go when the moment ends?

Their answer was that it does not go anywhere. It persists. Not as a memory and not as a text but as a living thing that occupies all times simultaneously, that was there before the crossing and will still be there after history concludes. The sages of Sifrei Devarim stated it directly: sacred song obtains in the past, and in the future, and in the messianic age, and in the world to come.

Four Dimensions of Shira

The word they used was shira. Not music in general. Not lyric poetry. Shira as a specific category of sacred utterance, the kind that arises at the intersection of human experience and divine action so overwhelming that ordinary speech cannot contain it.

Each of the four times has its own song. The past holds the Song of the Sea, the Song at the Well in Numbers 21, and the final Song of Moses in Deuteronomy 32. These are the songs that happened, that are recorded, that the tradition can point to and say: there, in that moment, shira entered the world.

The future holds Joshua's song after the Amorites were defeated, the songs of the prophets whose fulfillments had not yet arrived, the liturgies for events the tradition expected but had not witnessed. These songs were already composed. They were already true. They simply needed the events to catch up with them.

The messianic time holds the song of the ingathering, the song that will be sung when the exiles return from every direction and the nation reassembles in its fullness. The sages debated exactly what that song would sound like, which psalms and which new compositions would belong to it. But they agreed that it would be shira, the same category as the one Moses sang, continuous with it across the centuries.

What Joshua's Victory Song Adds

After the Amorites were routed, Joshua sang. His song has not the weight of the Sea crossing, does not shake the same foundations. But the tradition places it in the same lineage. Joshua was Moses' successor, the man God told Moses would lead what Moses could not complete. When Joshua opened his mouth after a military victory and sang, he was participating in the same category of utterance Moses had inaugurated at the Sea.

The transmission is not metaphorical. The sages understood the Song as a form that passed from generation to generation like the leadership itself. Moses to Joshua. Joshua to the judges. The judges to the kings. Each time the form reappeared, it connected the singer to every previous singer who had stood at the edge of something impossible and found that language turned into song.

The World to Come

The final dimension is Olam Ha-Ba, the world beyond the one we inhabit, the state of existence the tradition describes as entirely good, as the permanent condition after all the provisional arrangements of history have resolved. The sages believed that shira would be present there too. Not because singing would happen in that world, though perhaps it would, but because genuine sacred song, the kind born in moments of absolute rupture between what was and what suddenly is, participates in the nature of the world to come. It is already made of that material.

Moses wrote his song on the plains of Moab knowing he would not cross the river. He was writing, in that act, for every generation that would sing it after him, for Joshua on the battlefield, for the exiles by the rivers of Babylon, for the age that is coming. The song did not belong to his moment. His moment was only where it entered.


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Legends of the Jews 1:64Legends of the Jews

The story of that moment, of the shirah, the song, is richer than you might imagine. It wasn't just a spontaneous outburst. According to Legends of the Jews, when it came time to sing praises to God, the Israelites first wanted Moses, their leader, to lead the song.

Moses, in a surprising act of humility, declined. "No," he said, "you shall begin it. It is a greater honor to be praised by the multitude than by a single one." He understood the power of collective gratitude, the strength in a chorus of voices lifted in praise.

So, what did they sing? It wasn't just "We thank you for saving us." Oh no, it was a deep, personal, and vividly detailed recounting of God's interventions from the very beginning.

"We will glorify the Eternal," they sang, "for He has shown us signs and tokens." They recalled the horrific decree of the Egyptians, "Every son that is born ye shall cast into the river!" But then, they remembered the miracles, almost forgotten in the rush to freedom.

Their mothers, forced into the fields, were granted painless births. The angels themselves descended, washing and anointing the newborns, dressing them in shimmering, multi-colored silk. Can you picture that? Angels, cradling these tiny children, preparing them for a future only God could see.

And the gifts! Each child received two lumps, one of butter and one of honey. A taste of sweetness, a promise of abundance, even in the face of despair.

When the mothers awoke and saw their children – clean, clothed, blessed – they didn't panic. They praised God. "Praise be God who has not turned His grace and His lasting love from the seed of our father Abraham; and now behold! they are in Thy hand, do with them as Thou wilt." A powerful affirmation of faith, a surrender to divine will.

And the miracles didn’t stop there. When the Egyptians sought to kill the children, the earth swallowed them up, hiding them in secret places. As Ginzberg retells it, God "didst bid the earth swallow us and set us in another place, where we were not seen by the Egyptians."

Later, when they grew up, they wandered through Egypt, eventually finding their families. "All this hast Thou done for us," they sang, "therefore will we sing of Thee."

The shirah wasn't just about the Red Sea. It was about remembering, about connecting the dots between hardship and divine intervention, about seeing God's hand in every step of their journey. It was a song of collective memory, a evidence of faith passed down through generations.

What about us? What "songs" do we sing? What stories do we tell ourselves, to make sense of our own journeys, our own moments of hardship and deliverance? Perhaps, like the Israelites, we need to remember the small miracles, the quiet acts of grace that often go unnoticed. Perhaps, our own shirah is waiting to be sung.

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Jasher 87Book of Jasher

The Sefer haYashar, or Book of Jasher, a collection of Jewish legends and lore, gives us a glimpse.

Chapter 87 opens with a divine instruction. "At that time the Lord said to Moses, Behold thy days are approaching to an end, take now Joshua the son of Nun thy servant and place him in the tabernacle, and I will command him, and Moses did so." It's a poignant scene – the torch is being passed. Moses, aware his time is near, obediently prepares his successor.

Then, a powerful moment. "And the Lord appeared in the tabernacle in a pillar of cloud, and the pillar of cloud stood at the entrance of the tabernacle." Imagine the sheer awe of that moment! The divine presence, a tangible manifestation, filling the space as God commissions Joshua: "Be strong and courageous, for thou shalt bring the children of Israel to the land which I swore to give them, and I will be with thee." What a burden and blessing to inherit.

Moses, echoing the divine command, then reassures Joshua. "Be strong and courageous, for thou wilt make the children of Israel inherit the land, and the Lord will be with thee, he will not leave thee nor forsake thee, be not afraid nor disheartened." It’s a beautiful act of mentorship, of bolstering the next generation's leader. It is a lesson on how to pass on leadership.

But Moses doesn't just address Joshua. He turns to all the children of Israel: "You have seen all the good which the Lord your God has done for you in the wilderness. Now therefore observe all the words of this law, and walk in the way of the Lord your God, turn not from the way which the Lord has commanded you, either to the right or to the left." He reminds them of their journey, of God's unwavering support, and implores them to remain steadfast.

The Book of Jasher emphasizes that Moses taught them "statutes and judgments and laws" and "the way of the Lord and his laws; behold they are written upon the book of the law of God which he gave to the children of Israel by the hand of Moses." What’s emphasized here is the importance of remembering, teaching, and practicing the traditions so central to their identity.

Finally, the inevitable. "And Moses finished commanding the children of Israel, and the Lord said to him, saying, Go up to the Mount Abarim and die there, and be gathered unto thy people as Aaron thy brother was gathered." It’s a stark, simple sentence, heavy with finality. There’s a sense of acceptance, of fulfilling his destiny.

"And Moses went up as the Lord had commanded him, and he died there in the land of Moab by the order of the Lord, in the fortieth year from the Israelites going forth from the land of Egypt."

And then, grief. "And the children of Israel wept for Moses in the plains of Moab for thirty days, and the days of weeping and mourning for Moses were completed." Thirty days of mourning – a evidence of the profound impact Moses had on his people. The Book of Jasher paints a picture of not just a leader, but a shepherd, a guide, a father figure whose absence was deeply felt.

What does this passage from the Book of Jasher leave us with? Perhaps it's the reminder that even the greatest leaders must eventually step aside. Perhaps it’s the importance of preparing those who come after us. Or maybe it's simply a meditation on the bittersweet nature of endings, and the enduring power of memory and legacy.

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Jasher 89Book of Jasher

In Chapter 89, we find just such a song, bursting with praise and recounting God's powerful deliverance.

"Then spoke Joshua this song," the text begins, "on the day that the Lord had given the Amorites into the hand of Joshua and the children of Israel." Imagine the scene: the dust of battle still settling, the weight of victory heavy in the air, and Joshua, the leader, lifting his voice in a powerful hymn.

The song itself is a torrent of gratitude. "Thou hast done mighty things, O Lord," he sings, "thou hast performed great deeds; who is like unto thee?" It's a rhetorical question, of course, dripping with awe. He continues, "My goodness and my fortress, my high tower, I will sing a new song unto thee… thou art the strength of my salvation." The poetry emphasizes the personal relationship with the Divine.

The scope widens. It’s not just about Joshua anymore, or even just about Israel. "All the kings of the earth shall praise thee," he proclaims, "the princes of the world shall sing to thee." It's a universal declaration of God's power. "The sun and moon stood still in heaven," the song recounts, echoing the miraculous events of the battle itself, "and thou didst stand in thy wrath against our oppressors."

But the song isn’t just pretty words. It's a fierce declaration of God's judgment against their enemies. "Nations have been consumed with thy fury, kingdoms have declined because of thy wrath." It’s raw and unflinching, painting a picture of divine justice meted out upon those who opposed God's people.

And then the narrative shifts back to the practical, the gritty reality of war. We read of the five kings who fled and hid in a cave. Joshua, after a bit of searching, has them found. And what does he do? He commands his officers to place their feet upon the necks of these defeated kings. It's a brutal image, a stark demonstration of dominance. “So shall the Lord do to all your enemies,” Joshua declares. It’s a moment that makes you pause, isn’t it? It highlights the very different moral landscape of that time.

The text then catalogues a series of swift and decisive victories. Makkedah, Libnah, Lachish, Eglon, Hebron, Debir – each city falls before Joshua's army. The Book of Jasher emphasizes the totality of the conquest: "He utterly destroyed the souls and all belonging to the city." It's a relentless campaign, fueled by divine command and a fierce determination to claim the promised land.

News of these victories spreads, reaching Jabin, king of Chazor. Alarmed, he rallies a coalition of kings to fight against Israel. "Seventeen kings," the verse says, "and their people were as numerous as the sand on the sea shore." An overwhelming force. But God reassures Joshua: "Fear them not, for tomorrow about this time I will deliver them up all slain before you." And just as promised, Joshua and his men rout the enemy.

The narrative continues, detailing the destruction of Chazor and other cities. The Israelites take plunder and cattle, but show no mercy to the inhabitants. "Every human being they smote, they suffered not a soul to live." It’s a disturbing passage, forcing us to confront the harsh realities of ancient warfare and the complexities of interpreting these texts.

The chapter concludes with a summary of Joshua's conquests. "So Joshua and all the children of Israel smote the whole land of Canaan… and smote all their kings, being thirty and one kings." Five years of war, culminating in the subjugation of the land.

What are we to make of all this? The Book of Jasher, in this chapter, presents a powerful, if unsettling, picture of faith, war, and conquest. It's a reminder that sacred texts, even those outside the biblical canon, offer valuable insights into the beliefs and values of the people who created them. It also challenges us to confront the difficult moral questions raised by these ancient stories, to understand them within their historical context, and to consider their relevance – or lack thereof – to our lives today. Is it a historical record? A morality tale? A justification for conquest? Perhaps it’s a complicated mix of all three. And that’s what makes it so compelling.

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