Frank Hartmann
4 Sept 2025
Most readers of Scripture sense that the Bible is filled with poetry. They notice it in the Psalms, in the mournful cadence of Lamentations, or in the prophetic oracles of Isaiah.
What is less widely understood is just how much of the Hebrew Bible is poetic—nearly a third by some estimates—and how deeply its poetic character is rooted in the Hebrew language itself. Hebrew poetry does not rhyme in the traditional sense. It does not march to a regular metrical beat like English verse. Its artistry is of another kind: compact, layered, and often untranslatable.
When modern readers approach the Bible in translation, much of this poetic texture is lost. The rhythms become matter-of-fact. The wordplay disappears. The structure flattens. But to encounter the text in the original Hebrew is to discover an ancient song still playing beneath the surface—a song that not only delights the mind but reveals deeper layers of meaning. This “lost poetry” is not a relic. It is a key to understanding God’s Word more fully.
Parallelism: The Spine of Hebrew Verse
The most defining feature of Biblical Hebrew poetry is parallelism—the repetition or development of thought across two or more lines. Unlike Western poetry, which relies on meter and rhyme, Hebrew verse is characterized by semantic resonance. This quality makes it particularly suited for oral performance, meditation, and theological reflection.
Consider Psalm 19:2 (19:1 in English Bibles):
הַשָּׁמַיִם מְסַפְּרִים כְּבוֹד־אֵלוּמַעֲשֵׂה יָדָיו מַגִּיד הָרָקִיעַ
“The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky proclaims the work of his hands.”
Here the two cola mirror each other: ‘heavens’ parallels’ sky,’ ‘declare’ parallels ‘proclaims,’ and ‘glory of God’ parallels ‘work of his hands.’ But this is not simple repetition. The second line expands, deepens, and reframes the first. Parallelism in Hebrew is not duplication—it is development, often pushing the reader toward surprise or intensification.
Compactness and Ambiguity: Meaning by Design
Hebrew poetic lines are often strikingly compact, relying heavily on context, ellipsis (the omission of words or phrases), and flexible syntax. This density means that each word must carry enormous weight—sometimes multiple layers of meaning simultaneously. Hebrew poetry leans into ambiguity not to confuse, but to evoke, thereby widening the interpretive space.
In Lamentations 1:1, the opening word אֵיכָה (’ēykāh, “How…”) functions as a lament, a question, and a signal of disorientation. It is grammatically simple but emotionally rich. Is it a cry? A protest? A theological interrogation? The poetry leaves it open—intentionally.
This density is where Biblical Hebrew reveals its brilliance. A single verse in a lament or psalm can encode theological reflection, emotional resonance, and literary artistry all at once. To translate such lines often requires multiple English sentences, each choosing one shade of the original’s spectrum and necessarily leaving others out.
Wordplay and Root Resonance
The triliteral root system of Hebrew lends itself to a kind of verbal artistry that is mostly invisible in translation. Because so many words are formed from three-consonant roots, a poet can create echoes across lines, build associative links, or subtly invert expectations—all through sound.
Take, for example, Isaiah 5:7, where the prophet employs paronomasia (wordplay through sound resemblance) to highlight the moral decline of the people of Judah. God looked for justice (מִשְׁפָּט, mishpāṭ) but found bloodshed (מִשְׂפָּח, mispāḥ); He sought righteousness (צְדָקָה, ṣĕdāqāh) but heard only a cry (צְעָקָה, ṣĕʿāqāh). The words form near-rhymes, differing by only a single consonant in each case, creating a phonological irony that mirrors the spiritual distortion. The Hebrew listener cannot miss the tragic inversion: what should have been pillars of covenantal faithfulness—justice and righteousness—are replaced with their grotesque echoes. The very sounds of the verse become part of the message, as if the language itself is mourning the disfigurement of God’s ideal.
Or consider the Book of Jonah, where the repeated use of the root י-ר-ד (y-r-d, “to go down”) creates a thematic descent: Jonah “goes down” to Joppa, then “down” into the ship, and finally “down” into the depths. The repetition of the root is not accidental. It is poetic theology. The verb traces Jonah’s flight—not just geographically but spiritually.
Such artistry is routinely lost in translation. A reader of English may still grasp the narrative, but the emotional and rhetorical force—the play on sound and meaning—is blunted.
Poetic Structures and Aesthetic Form
Hebrew poetry often displays symmetry, inclusio (a literary device where a text or passage is framed by similar or identical phrases, acting as verbal “bookends” to highlight key themes), chiasmus (a reversal of grammatical structures in successive phrases or clauses, i.e. ABCC`B`A`), and acrostic structures that are designed not only to beautify but to guide interpretation. These features organize the thought-world of the text, creating emphasis and cohesion.
For instance, Psalm 119 is famously structured as an alphabetic acrostic, with each stanza beginning with a successive letter of the Hebrew alphabet. This form both celebrates the Torah and visually enacts the idea that God’s Word encompasses all knowledge—from aleph to tav.
The poems of Lamentations, too, are built as a formal acrostic in chapters 1–4. However, in Chapter 5, although it contains the same number of lines (22), the acrostic is broken. This disintegration of form mirrors the breakdown of Jerusalem itself, suggesting to the reader a loss of order amidst the ubiquitous chaos of destruction. The form contributes to the meaning. Without the Hebrew, one sees only the content. But with the Hebrew, one feels the collapse of order and hope.
Why This Matters: Theological and Devotional Riches
Why does any of this matter for the modern reader of Scripture? Because Hebrew poetry is not ornamental—it is revelatory. God chose to communicate large portions of His Word in verse. That choice was not arbitrary. Poetry demands that we slow down, that we feel as well as think, that we enter into the world of metaphor, rhythm, tension, and surprise.
By learning Biblical Hebrew—even at a basic level—one begins to see these features emerge. One begins to feel the heartbeat of the text. A translated poem may tell you what was said. The Hebrew poem shows you how it was said—and why that matters.
Although the poetry of the Hebrew Bible is not lost in the sense of being gone forever, it is lost to the degree that readers remain dependent on translations that flatten it. But the good news is that this music can be recovered. It awaits the attentive reader—the one willing to learn a little Hebrew, to listen carefully, to delight in the structure and sound of Scripture.
In other words, to read the Bible without Hebrew is to hear a symphony through a closed door. You catch the melody, perhaps, but not the harmony, the modulation, the instrumentation. To read it in Hebrew is to open the door and enter the concert hall for the fullest experience the Composer has intended.
See what our Hebrew Mastery Membership offers here. I’ll be teaching through Beginning Hebrew at the end of October, I’ll share more with you about that closer to the time.
יָשֵׂם יהוה לְךָ שָׁלוֹם
May the LORD give you peace,
Frank