This chapter brings us into the heart of God’s love for us in a way that is tender and deeply sorrowful. From the beginning, we hear how the Lord called His son out of Egypt, remembering the early days of Israel as a child. He loved us, took us by the arms, and guided us with cords of kindness. There is such a longing in these words, as if God is reminiscing over a love that was once vibrant but is now fading. We were taught to walk, carried with compassion, and led in gentleness, but we didn’t recognize Him as the One who healed us. We became blind to the One who gave us breath.
Even as we turned to false gods and trusted in Baals, the Lord’s heart was not quick to cut us off. He said, “How can I give you up?” There is a holy tension here between justice and mercy, between the pain of betrayal and the depth of love. He is not like man, driven by revenge or consumed by wrath. His compassion is stirred, His anger held back. And though exile is coming, it will not be the end. He promises that we will one day follow Him again, trembling from the west, returning with reverence like birds to their homes. The Lord, who first called us out of Egypt, will call us again. His love remains steady, even when ours wavers. This chapter reminds us that our story with Him is one of return. Though we fall away, He keeps calling, keeps loving, and keeps making a way back.
In this chapter, we are confronted with the duplicity of our hearts. Ephraim feeds on wind and pursues the east wind, making covenants with Assyria while sending oil to Egypt. It’s an image of striving without substance, reaching after something that never satisfies. The Lord has a dispute with Judah and will punish Jacob according to his ways. But even in judgment, He reminds us of our beginnings. Jacob wrestled in the womb and struggled with God, wept, and pleaded for a blessing. It was not in perfection that Jacob encountered the Lord, but in broken persistence. And from that wrestling came an encounter at Bethel, a place where God spoke.
We are invited to remember our own Bethel moments—the places of encounter, the memories of God’s voice. The Lord is still the same, still calling us to return, to keep mercy and justice, and to wait for Him continually. Yet Ephraim has become dishonest, using deceitful scales and claiming innocence in wealth. We are warned not to confuse material gain with spiritual approval. The Lord reminds us of the wilderness, of the days when we lived in tents, and how He spoke through prophets and gave visions. He has always pursued us through history, using His messengers to draw us back.
Even so, we have provoked Him. In Gilgal, in Gilead, in our sacred places, sin multiplied. And yet, the chapter ends with a return to the memory of Jacob again, as if to say—our story is not without struggle, but through the struggle, God still meets us. He has always spoken, and He still does. We only need to listen.
This chapter moves us into the consequences of turning away. Ephraim had once spoken with authority and held honor in Israel, but through the worship of Baal, that dignity was lost. The more we multiplied idols, the more we sank into our own destruction. We forgot that these images, crafted from silver, were nothing but the work of human hands. We kissed calves, adored the lifeless, and in doing so, became like morning mist—passing, fleeting, without substance.
The Lord, who had been our God since Egypt, reminds us that there is no savior besides Him. He knew us in the wilderness, in our hunger and thirst. But once we were satisfied, we became proud and forgot Him. This cycle of being filled and then forgetting repeats across generations. So now, the Lord says He will be to us like a lion, a leopard, a bear—images of sudden judgment. These are not cruel images but desperate ones. A God who has loved deeply will now tear what has become unrecognizable.
Yet in the very same breath, we hear the words, “I will ransom them from the power of the grave.” Death shall not have the last word. Though judgment is near and cities will be destroyed, there is still a hint of redemption. The Lord’s mercy and justice are never far apart. He does not delight in destruction, but He cannot ignore betrayal. We are called again to recognize our helplessness. Without Him, there is no king who can save. Our idols will not rescue us. But He, the one true God, still speaks, still calls, and still holds out a future for those who return.
This final chapter is a gentle closing invitation. It does not end in wrath but in restoration. “Return, Israel, to the Lord your God.” That is the heart of it all. No matter how far we’ve gone, the call is always to come home. We are told to bring words with us—words of confession, of humility, of longing. Not sacrifices, not offerings, but honesty. “Take away all iniquity,” we are to say, “and accept what is good.” We recognize that Assyria will not save us, nor will horses or the work of our hands. Only in the Lord does the orphan find mercy.
The Lord’s response is one of complete compassion. “I will heal their waywardness,” He says. He promises to love us freely, to be like the dew to us. From there, new growth begins. We will blossom like the lily, our roots will go deep, our beauty will spread. What was once withered by sin will now be restored by love. The chapter offers imagery of flourishing—a return not just to survival, but to fruitfulness. Like the olive tree, like the cedar of Lebanon, we will stand in strength and grace.
The Lord speaks of how we will once again dwell under His shadow, raising grain and flourishing like the vine. He is our source, our provision. Ephraim finally says, “What more have I to do with idols?” There is clarity at last, a realization that only in God is life.
The book ends with an invitation to wisdom. Whoever is wise, let them understand these things. The ways of the Lord are right. The righteous walk in them, but the rebellious stumble. That is the choice placed before us—to walk or to stumble. Yet even in stumbling, there is always the offer to rise again, to return, and to be healed. What began in love ends in love. The covenant remains open, the heart of God unchanging, and the door to return always within reach.