There is a grief so total it sets a boundary in time. Targum Pseudo-Jonathan on Exodus 11:6 frames the final plague not only as a wound inflicted but as an unrepeatable event. Mizraim — the Aramaic name for Egypt — will erupt in a cry unlike any that came before, and unlike any that will ever come again.
The Targum sharpens the Hebrew of the verse (Exodus 11:6) by emphasizing the uniqueness twice: no such plague has ever fallen, and no such plague ever will. This is not merely a rhetorical flourish. In the rabbinic imagination, it marks the night of the firstborn as a singular hinge of history. God measures out suffering with terrifying precision, and He also measures out its exclusivity.
Why promise that it will never recur? Because the lesson must be unmistakable. A plague that could be repeated becomes a recurring policy. A plague that stands alone becomes a sign — the line drawn between a world in which Pharaoh's house can still pretend not to hear the slaves, and a world in which it no longer can.
For the Maggid on Pesach night, this verse teaches that divine justice is not a blunt instrument. It lands once, with exactness, and then it withdraws. The cry was meant to be heard by everyone and remembered by their grandchildren, but it was not meant to be heard again.
Takeaway: Some moments are given to us once. The Targum's doubled emphasis is a warning to pay attention before the chance to hear passes.