The Tears of God

 

 When Yeshua Wept, What Did It Mean?

When Yeshua wept, the whole universe should’ve stood still. Not because God isn’t allowed to cry, but because the One who holds everything together had tears on His face—and that means something deeper than pain. It means He lets Himself feel the sorrow that came into the world through sin, through death, through our blindness. And He didn’t hide from it.

There’s a lot of weeping in the Scriptures, but we need to stop and look at which words are used when it’s Him doing the crying. Because in the Greek, there’s more than one word for it. When Yeshua stood at Lazarus’s tomb, John 11:35 says, “Yeshua wept.” That’s it. The shortest verse in the Bible. But it might be the heaviest one. The word used for His weeping isn’t the same one used for the mourners around Him. They were wailing—that word is klaio, which means loud sobbing, open public mourning, like a funeral dirge. But when Yeshua cried, the word is dakryo—and that’s a soft weeping. It literally means to let tears fall. It’s quiet. Controlled. Personal. This wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t religious grief. It was the Son of God letting tears roll down His face not because He was surprised Lazarus died—He already knew He was going to raise him—but because He was standing in front of everything death had stolen from the people He loved. And even though He had the answer in His chest, resurrection power ready to speak, He still felt the weight of what sin had done to the world. That’s love. He didn’t need to cry. But He chose to feel it anyway.

Now over in Luke 19, when He looked out over Jerusalem, the word changes. This time, He did weep loudly. It’s klaio now. This is the sobbing kind of crying. The deep, torn-up, ache-in-your-bones kind. Because this isn’t just about death anymore. It’s about rejection. He looks at the city that should’ve known Him, that had the Torah, the prophets, the promises—and they still couldn’t see Him. He said, “If only you had known on this day what would bring you peace… but now it’s hidden from your eyes.” That’s what broke His heart. That they should have seen, and didn’t. That He came to gather them, to shield them like a mother bird under her wings, and they wouldn’t come. He wasn’t crying because He was offended. He was crying because they were lost and didn’t want to be found. And He knew what was coming. The destruction. The pain. The exile. The scattering. He was watching a bride walk away, and it split Him open.

Then there’s Gethsemane. That’s the place no one really wants to sit too long. That’s where things get too human, too raw. Hebrews 5:7 tells us something the Gospels only hint at. It says Yeshua, in the days of His flesh, offered up prayers with loud cries and tears. And that’s not polite prayer. That word “cries” in Greek is krauge—a scream. A desperate, groaning shout. This is the sound of the Son of God staring down the cup of wrath, knowing exactly what it means to drink it. He’s not begging to avoid pain—He’s wrestling with what it means to carry sin itself. He knows the separation it will cost. He’s about to become what He hates—for the sake of those He loves. That kind of pressure is beyond physical. It’s soul-deep. It says He was heard because of His reverence, which tells us something huge: God hears the weeping of the obedient. Even if the answer is still, “You must go through this.” Yeshua didn’t cry because He doubted the Father. He cried because He trusted the Father enough to bring all of it—the dread, the sorrow, the anguish—into His presence.

Now let’s go backwards a bit, into the Hebrew. The word for weeping in the Tanakh is bakah. It shows up all over the place. It’s the word used when Joseph weeps over his brothers. It’s the word used in Lamentations when Jerusalem is described as a widow, sitting alone, sobbing in the night. But here’s the part most people don’t see: God uses this word for Himself. Not in theory. Not symbolically. Literally.

Jeremiah 14:17 says, “Let My eyes overflow with tears night and day without ceasing, for My virgin daughter—My people—has suffered a grievous wound.” That’s YHWH talking. Not just Jeremiah. The prophet is speaking with God’s voice. And what is He doing? Weeping. God is weeping over His people, not because He’s shocked by their sin, but because He’s broken by what it’s doing to them. In Hosea, He says, “How can I give you up, Ephraim? How can I hand you over, Israel? My heart is turned within Me; all My compassion is stirred.” That’s not a cold judge talking. That’s a Father aching over a runaway child. That’s a Husband watching His bride destroy herself with other lovers. That’s divine love in turmoil—not because He doesn’t know the ending, but because love doesn’t skip the pain in the middle.

So does God still weep today? That’s the question that pierces us the most. If He’s on the throne, victorious, seated at the right hand, does He still cry over us? The answer is yes. Not with hopelessness. Not with helplessness. But with love that refuses to turn away. Because His heart doesn’t harden. He doesn’t grow numb like we do. If He wept over one man’s tomb, one city’s blindness, one cup of wrath, then how much more is He near now, with every cry we release? Revelation says He will one day wipe away every tear—not just remove them, but wipe them—which means He’s close enough to touch your face.

He still cries for the unborn, for the abused, for the lost, for the proud who won’t bend the knee. He still feels the ache of betrayal and the sting of distance. And not one tear of His is wasted. Every one is counted. Every one is holy. And every one speaks of a God who doesn’t just rule—but loves. Still. Right now.