The Scent of Water and the Silence of Man Text: Job 14:7-12
Introduction: The Logic of Despair
We come now to the book of Job, to a man sitting on an ash heap, scraping his sores with a piece of pottery. His life has been systematically dismantled by a series of calamities that his friends, in their tidy theological world, can only attribute to some secret, monstrous sin. Job, for his part, knows he is not a monstrous sinner, and so he is left wrestling not only with his friends, but with the apparent silence and injustice of God Himself. What we are reading is not a dispassionate theological treatise. It is a man screaming from the whirlwind of his own suffering. It is raw, it is honest, and it is profoundly human.
In this chapter, Job is articulating the logic of despair. He is looking at the world around him, the created order, and he is drawing a conclusion. He sees a resilience in nature that seems to mock the fragility of man. He sees a hope for a tree that he cannot find for himself. This is the argument from natural observation when it is cut off from special revelation. This is what the world looks like when you are staring at it from the bottom of a grave you are still breathing in. It is a world of stark, brutal finality for man.
But we must understand Job's place in redemptive history. He is speaking from the shadows. He sees glimmers of light, as we know from his stunning confession later in chapter 19: "For I know that my Redeemer lives... and in my flesh I shall see God." But here, in chapter 14, the darkness is pressing in. He is giving voice to the bleakest possible assessment of man's condition under the curse. And in doing so, he is setting the stage for the gospel. He is describing the very hopelessness that Christ came to shatter. Job is asking the question that only the resurrection of Jesus Christ can answer. Without the resurrection, Job is right. Without the gospel, this passage is the final word on the human condition: a stump that never sprouts, a dried-up river, a sleep with no waking.
So let us listen to Job's lament. Let us feel the weight of his argument. For only when we understand the depth of the problem can we truly appreciate the staggering glory of the solution.
The Text
For there is hope for a tree, When it is cut down, that it will change back sprouting again, And its shoots will not cease. Though its roots grow old in the ground And its stump dies in the dry soil, At the scent of water it will flourish And put forth sprigs like a plant. But man dies and lies prostrate. Man breathes his last, and where is he? As water evaporates from the sea, And a river becomes parched and dried up, So man lies down and does not rise. Until the heavens are no longer, He will not awake nor be aroused out of his sleep.
(Job 14:7-12 LSB)
The Stubborn Hope of a Stump (vv. 7-9)
Job begins by looking at the world of botany, and he sees a principle of resurrection embedded in the very fabric of creation.
"For there is hope for a tree, When it is cut down, that it will change back sprouting again, And its shoots will not cease. Though its roots grow old in the ground And its stump dies in the dry soil, At the scent of water it will flourish And put forth sprigs like a plant." (Job 14:7-9)
This is a beautiful and poignant observation. A man can take an axe to a tree, fell it, and haul the timber away. To all appearances, the life of that tree is over. It is nothing but a stump, a dead thing in the ground. Its roots are old, the soil is dry, and by all human reckoning, it is finished. But then, something happens. A rainy season comes. The ground softens. And Job says that at the mere "scent of water," something miraculous occurs. That which was dead, that which was written off, begins to flourish. It puts forth new shoots, new sprigs, "like a plant," as though it were being planted for the very first time.
There is a tenacious, stubborn life-force in that stump that is just waiting for the right conditions to burst forth. The hope was not extinguished, only hidden. The potential for new life was dormant in the roots, waiting for the life-giving touch of water. This is a glorious picture. The creation itself, as Paul tells us in Romans 8, is groaning in travail, waiting for the day of its own liberation. It is pregnant with resurrection. And Job sees it. He sees this parable of renewal written into the life cycle of a simple tree.
The phrase "scent of water" is wonderful. It's as though the stump can smell the coming rain before it even arrives. It is an eager expectation. This is not just a mechanical process; Job personifies it. The tree has hope. It anticipates its own renewal. This natural parable is a powerful testimony to a God who brings life out of death. The world is shot through with these little resurrections, these echoes of the final resurrection. Every sunrise is a little resurrection after the death of night. Every spring is a resurrection after the death of winter. And this stump, at the scent of water, is a resurrection after the death of the axe.
The Finality of Man (vv. 10-12)
But then Job turns his gaze from the tree to himself, and the contrast is devastating. The hope he sees in the natural world, he cannot find for man.
"But man dies and lies prostrate. Man breathes his last, and where is he? As water evaporates from the sea, And a river becomes parched and dried up, So man lies down and does not rise. Until the heavens are no longer, He will not awake nor be aroused out of his sleep." (Job 14:10-12)
The contrast is introduced with a hard "But." For the tree, there is hope. "But man..." For man, the story is different. Man dies, and he is "prostrate." He is laid low, weakened, and helpless. He breathes his last, and Job asks the ultimate existential question: "and where is he?" The tree is still there, a stump with potential. But the man is gone. His life force has departed. Where did it go? The silence in response to that question is the source of his anguish.
Job then employs another metaphor from nature, but this time it is not one of renewal, but of utter finality. Man's life is like water that evaporates from the sea or a river that dries up in a drought. Where does the water go? It's gone. The riverbed is cracked earth. The sea is diminished. There is no "scent of water" that brings the river back. It is a picture of irreversible loss. This is what death looks like from this side of the cross. It is not a dormant stump; it is a dried up riverbed.
So man lies down in the dust, and unlike the tree, he does not rise. He falls into a sleep from which he will not be aroused. And then Job gives the time frame for this sleep: "Until the heavens are no longer." Now, this is a fascinating phrase. On the one hand, it is a poetic way of saying "never." It is like saying "until the sun burns out" or "until the stars fall from the sky." In the ordinary course of affairs, the heavens are permanent. So to say you will not wake until they are gone is to say you will never wake up. This is the logic of despair, the conclusion of natural theology without a gospel.
And yet, for those of us who have the whole counsel of God, that phrase rings like a bell. Is there a time when the heavens will be no longer? Yes, there is. Peter tells us that "the heavens will pass away with a roar" (2 Peter 3:10). Isaiah prophesies a new heavens and a new earth (Isaiah 65:17). Job, in the depths of his lament, accidentally speaks a profound, prophetic truth. He means to say "never," but the Holy Spirit has him say something that points to the end of all things, to the great day of resurrection and judgment. Man will not rise... until he does. He will not awake from his sleep... until the trumpet sounds, and the heavens are rolled back like a scroll, and the Lord Himself descends.
The Gospel Answer
Job has laid out the problem with brutal clarity. In the natural world, there are cycles of renewal. A tree can be cut down and yet, at the scent of water, live again. But man, the crown of creation, seems to be an exception. He dies, and that's it. His river dries up. He goes to sleep and never wakes. This is the curse of sin in its starkest terms. Death is not natural; it is an enemy. It is an intrusion into God's good world.
And if the story ended there, we would be of all men most miserable. If Jesus Christ were just another man who died and was laid prostrate, then Job's lament would be our creed. But the gospel crashes into Job's despair with the force of a tidal wave.
The hope of the tree is a shadow, a type, a parable. It points to a greater reality. The "scent of water" that brings life to the dead stump is a picture of the Holy Spirit. It is the Spirit who hovered over the waters of creation, and it is the Spirit who brings about the new birth. It is the Spirit who gives life. Jesus told Nicodemus that unless a man is born of water and the Spirit, he cannot enter the kingdom of God.
But the water of the Spirit is applied to us because of the work of the Son. Jesus Christ is the one who did not remain prostrate. He died, yes. He breathed His last, yes. He was laid in a tomb. The river of His earthly life dried up. But on the third day, something happened that had never happened before. He did not just get resuscitated like Lazarus, only to have to die again later. He was resurrected. He rose from the dead with a glorified body, never to die again. He is the firstfruits of the great harvest.
Because He rose, Job's despairing words are overturned. Man lies down, but he WILL rise. He sleeps, but he WILL be awakened. And this happens precisely when "the heavens are no longer." Christ's resurrection is the guarantee of our own. He is the Redeemer that Job knew, in a moment of Spirit-illumined faith, was alive and who would one day stand upon the earth (Job 19:25). And because He lives, we shall live also.
So Job's lament is true, but it is not the final truth. It is the truth of Adam. It is the truth of the world under the curse. But the final truth is the truth of Christ. The tree hopes for the scent of water. We have something far greater. We have the living water, Jesus Christ Himself. And though our bodies, like a felled tree, will go down into the dust, and though our roots grow old in the grave, the day is coming when the Spirit will breathe on us, and we will flourish and put forth sprigs like a new plant, in a new heavens and a new earth, where righteousness dwells forever.