God Never Grows Weary

There are chapters in Scripture that stand like mountains—ancient, immense, unshakable. Isaiah 40 is one of them. You don’t so much climb this chapter as it climbs into you. It rises out of Isaiah’s prophecy like the first clear horizon after a long, dark night.

For thirty-nine chapters, Isaiah has spoken words of warning, judgment, failure, consequences, and captivity. The people of God have been exiled, scattered, humiliated, broken by their choices and by the nations around them. The tone has been heavy. The ground has trembled under the weight of their self-inflicted wounds.

And then suddenly—without transition, without explanation, without easing into it—the tone changes. A new voice enters the room. God Himself steps near and speaks two of the most tender words in all of Scripture:

“Comfort, comfort My people,” says your God.

Not rebuke My people.

Not explain their consequences.

Not remind them why they’re in this situation.

But comfort them. Speak to them with warmth, compassion, and tenderness.

God repeats the command. In Hebrew, repetition is emphasis. God is saying, Say it again, Isaiah. Say it until they believe it. Say it until the shame starts to lift from their shoulders.

“Comfort, comfort.”

And then God adds:

“Speak tenderly to Jerusalem.”

The Hebrew literally reads: “Speak to the heart.”

This is not a theological lecture. This is not an intellectual argument. This is not a moral scolding. This is a heart-to-heart conversation with a wounded people.

God tells Isaiah: Speak straight to their pain—because that is where I’m aiming My comfort.

And what does He say to their hearts?

“Your warfare is ended.”

“Your iniquity is pardoned.”

“Your penalty is paid.”

In other words:

Before God changes your circumstances,

He changes your status.

Before He lifts the burden,

He lifts the guilt.

Before He brings you home,

He tells you you still belong.

This is gospel before the Gospels.

Grace before Calvary.

Mercy before repentance even takes shape.

And then—after speaking comfort—God sends a voice.

Not to the palace.

Not to the temple.

Not to the city.

But to the wilderness.

“A voice cries:

‘Prepare the way of the Lord…’”

This is not geography—it’s biography. The wilderness represents:

Where you feel spiritually dry

Where hope feels like a rumor

Where your prayers fall like pebbles at your feet

Where you wonder if God still sees you

And God sends His message there.

Because God always comes to you

where you actually are, not where you think you should be.

The message is simple:

Clear a path.

Make room.

God is coming.

Isaiah uses construction language:

Fill the deep valleys—your discouragement.

Bring down the mountains—your pride, your defenses.

Make straight the crooked places—your confusion.

Smooth out the rough ground—your wounds and unfinished edges.

God is saying: I’m coming into your wilderness. Prepare a place for Me in your heart.

Then Isaiah says something breathtaking:

“The glory of the Lord shall be revealed,

and all flesh shall see it together.”

This is not a local rescue.

This is a cosmic announcement.

God will reveal His glory—and the world will finally see what He is like.

Isaiah knows we doubt. He knows we question. He knows we second-guess. He knows that in the wilderness you look around and think:

But people fail me.

People forget me.

People walk away.

People don’t stay.

So Isaiah says:

“All flesh is grass…

but the Word of our God will stand forever.”

People are fragile.

God is faithful.

People change.

God remains.

People grow weary.

God never does.

Then the tone shifts again. A trumpet sounds in the text. Isaiah turns our attention upward with three words:

“Behold your God!”

Not behold your circumstances.

Not behold your regrets.

Not behold your fears.

Behold your God.

And who is this God?

A Shepherd.

“He will tend His flock like a shepherd.

He will gather the lambs in His arms.

He will carry them close to His heart.”

The same God who governs galaxies

gathers lambs in His arms.

The same God who measures oceans in His hand

holds the fragile in His embrace.

He carries them.

He protects them.

He holds them close.

This is the first half of the chapter:

The God who comforts. The God who carries.

But Isaiah knows that comfort is only possible

if you trust the One who gives it.

So the chapter lifts into the highest view of God in the Old Testament.

Isaiah asks:

“Who has measured the waters in the hollow of His hand?”

Imagine every ocean—Atlantic, Pacific, Indian, Arctic—scooped in His palm.

“Who has marked off the heavens with the span of His hand?”

The universe—starlight to starlight—measured between His thumb and finger.

“Lift up your eyes on high…

Who created these stars?”

Isaiah tells us to stop looking down at our discouragement

and start looking up at creation.