וַיֹּ֣אמֶר אֵלַ֔י הִנָּבֵ֖א אֶל־הָר֑וּחַ הִנָּבֵ֣א בֶן־֠אָדָם וְאָמַרְתָּ֨ אֶל־הָר֜וּחַ כֹּֽה־אָמַ֣ר אֲדֹנָ֣י יְהוִ֗ה מֵאַרְבַּ֤ע רוּחֹות֙ בֹּ֣אִי הָר֔וּחַ וּפְחִ֛י בַּהֲרוּגִ֥ים הָאֵ֖לֶּה וְיִֽחְיֽוּ׃
In one of the most vivid visions of prophetic literature, Yechezqel 37:9 places the prophet at the center of a divine command: to speak to the wind itself. Standing in the valley of dry bones, Ezekiel is told to call upon רוּחַ — a word that means both “wind” and “spirit” — to breathe life into the lifeless. This verse is not only a theological marvel but a linguistic one.
At its core lies a remarkable grammatical phenomenon: the imperative form used for non-human entities, specifically the רוּחַ (“wind/spirit”). In Biblical Hebrew, imperatives are typically addressed to people or personified forces. But here, God commands Ezekiel to prophesy to the רוּחַ — and then God Himself issues an imperative to it: בֹּ֣אִי הָר֔וּחַ — “Come, O wind!”
This rare usage reveals how deeply intertwined language, breath, and life are in the Hebrew imagination — and how the grammar of prophecy can shape reality.
Imperatives Without Listeners: When God Commands the Unseen
The verse begins with a divine command to Ezekiel:
הִנָּבֵ֖א אֶל־הָר֑וּחַ
“Prophesy to the wind.”
The verb הִנָּבֵא is a hiphil imperative masculine singular of the root נ-ב-א, meaning “prophesy!” It is a direct instruction to Ezekiel. But what follows is even more unusual:
כֹּה־אָמַר אֲדֹנָי יְהוִה מֵאַרְבַּ֤ע רוּחֹות֙ בֹּ֣אִי הָר֔וּחַ וּפְחִ֛י בַּהֲרוּגִ֥ים הָאֵ֖לֶּה וְיִֽחְיֽוּ
“Thus says the Lord GOD: From the four winds, come, O wind, and breathe on these slain, that they may live.”
Note the imperative בֹּ֣אִי — literally “come (feminine singular)!” — directed at הָר֔וּחַ. This is extraordinary. In Biblical Hebrew, imperatives are almost always addressed to humans or to personified beings (e.g., Wisdom in Proverbs). Yet here, God gives a command to the רוּחַ — the wind — as if it were a conscious force capable of response.
| Word | Root | Form | Literal Translation | Grammatical Notes |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| בֹּ֣אִי | ב-א-א | Qal imperative, fs | “Come!” | Rarely used outside of address to sentient beings. |
This grammatical anomaly underscores the poetic and theological depth of the passage: the רוּחַ is not merely air — it is the breath of life, the animating force of creation, and a conduit of divine will.
Breath and Being: The Double Meaning of רוּחַ
The word רוּחַ is polysemous — it carries multiple meanings depending on context:
- Wind — a natural atmospheric force
- Spirit — the animating essence of life
- Mind/emotion — often in phrases like “רוּחַ שֶׁקֶט” (“a quiet spirit”)
In our verse, all three layers are present. The רוּחַ is summoned from the four directions (wind), it breathes life into the dead (spirit), and it restores vitality (emotional and physical renewal).
This triple meaning echoes earlier biblical uses of the term, particularly in Genesis:
וַיִּפַּח בְּאַפָּיו נִשְׁמַת חַיִּים וַיְהִי הָֽאָדָם לְנֶפֶשׁ חַיָּה (Bereishit 2:7)
There too, divine breath imparts life. Here in Ezekiel, the same creative act is reenacted — not for one man, but for a nation.
From Command to Creation: The Imperative That Resurrects
The sequence of imperatives in this verse reflects a chain of divine action:
- הִנָּבֵא — “Prophesy!” (Ezekiel commanded)
- בֹּ֣אִי — “Come!” (the wind commanded)
- פְחִ֛י — “Breathe!” (the wind again commanded)
This cascade of imperatives mimics the process of creation itself. First, the human agent speaks (Ezekiel), then the unseen force moves (the wind), and finally, life is restored. Each step is linguistically marked by urgency and immediacy — and each is necessary for the miracle to unfold.
This structure parallels the opening verses of Genesis, where God’s spoken word brings order out of chaos:
וַיֹּאמֶר אֱלֹהִים יְהִי אוֹר וַֽיְהִי־אוֹר (Bereishit 1:3)
In both cases, language is not descriptive — it is performative. To say is to do. And in Ezekiel’s vision, even the impersonal becomes personal when called by name.
The Word That Breathes Again
In Yechezqel 37:9, we witness a moment where language transcends mere communication — it becomes the vehicle of resurrection. The imperative, usually reserved for human ears, is extended to the רוּחַ itself. In doing so, the text affirms a profound truth: the power of the word is inseparable from the power of life.
This verse reminds us that in Biblical Hebrew, grammar is never neutral. Every form, every particle, every shift in voice or tense carries theological weight. And in this case, the use of the imperative for the wind reveals something astonishing: the divine word does not simply describe the world — it calls it into being.