The ancient rabbis certainly understood that feeling. In the book of Exodus, we read, “It was during those many days that the king of Egypt died and the children of Israel sighed due to the work, and they cried out. Their plea rose to God due to the work” (Exodus 2:23).

But what does it mean, "those many days?" Shemot Rabbah, a classical collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Book of Exodus, delves into this verse, revealing layers of meaning hidden within the simple words. Shemot Rabbah asks, why does the Torah emphasize the length of these days? The answer, they suggest, is that these were days of intense suffering. The text draws a parallel, noting "and a woman, if her flow of blood shall flow many days” (Leviticus 15:25); because they are days of suffering, it calls them many." It's as if the sheer weight of hardship warps our perception of time.

And what about the death of the king of Egypt? The text tells us "The king of Egypt died.” But not in the way we might expect. According to the rabbis, he was afflicted with tzara’at, often translated as leprosy, a disease that isolates and stigmatizes. And a leper, the midrash reminds us, is considered as good as dead, referencing Numbers 12:12, where Aaron says, "Let her not be like a corpse," when Miriam is afflicted with leprosy. They also point to Isaiah 6:1, noting "It was during the year of the death of King Uzziahu," who also suffered from leprosy. So, Pharaoh’s "death" might be a symbolic one, a living death brought on by his affliction. But this also suggests that a miracle occurred, and Pharaoh was healed of his leprosy.

The suffering of the Israelites is further emphasized. "The children of Israel sighed [due to the work, and they cried out [vayizaku]].” Shemot Rabbah doesn't let us skim over that word, vayizaku. Why did they sigh? Here, the midrash paints a gruesome picture. The magicians of Egypt, we’re told, advised Pharaoh that his only cure was to slaughter 150 Israelite youths in the evening and another 150 in the morning, and then bathe in their blood! Can you imagine the horror? Upon hearing this decree, the Israelites began to groan and lament. The text emphasizes that vayizaku is a term denoting lamentation, citing Ezekiel 21:17: “Cry out [ze’ak] and lament, son of man.”

Then comes the crucial moment: "Their plea [shavatam] rose to God." Notice, the text points out, it doesn't say "their outcry [tza’akatam]," but their plea, shavatam. What's the difference? Shemot Rabbah connects shavatam to the souls of the dead, referencing Job 24:12: “And the souls of the dead plead [teshave’a].” It's a deeper, more profound cry, a plea rising from the very depths of their being.

And God heard them. “God heard their moaning [na’akatam],” the text says, linking it to the moaning of the slain, as in Ezekiel 30:24: “He will moan [vena’ak] the moans of the slain.” The suffering is palpable, the pain visceral. But even in this darkest of moments, there is hope.

“God remembered His covenant.” According to the midrash, Israel wasn't worthy of being saved. They were, it says, wicked. Yet, they were redeemed because of the merit of their ancestors, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. God remembered His promise.

What does this passage from Shemot Rabbah teach us? Perhaps it's that even in the face of unimaginable suffering, when time stretches into an eternity of pain, our cries are heard. Even when we feel unworthy, the merits of those who came before us can pave the way for redemption. And that even a symbolic death, like that of a king afflicted with leprosy, can be a catalyst for change, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, hope remains.