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Isaiah 38

The clock rewinds slightly: Hezekiah falls mortally ill, and Isaiah tells him bluntly to set his house in order. Hezekiah turns his face to the wall, weeps, and prays. The word comes back granting fifteen more years and a sign: the shadow on the sundial of Ahaz moves back ten steps. The chapter's heart is the poem Hezekiah writes afterward, a first-person lament from the edge of Sheol turned to thanksgiving.

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1
In those days Hezekiah was sick and near death. Isaiah the prophet, the son of Amoz, came to him, and said to him, “The LORD says, ‘Set your house in order, for you will die, and not live.’”
2
Then Hezekiah turned his face to the wall and prayed to the LORD,
3
and said, “Remember now, LORD, I beg you, how I have walked before you in truth and with a perfect heart, and have done that which is good in your sight.” Then Hezekiah wept bitterly.
4
Then the LORD’s word came to Isaiah, saying,
5
“Go, and tell Hezekiah, ‘The LORD, the God of David your father, says, “I have heard your prayer. I have seen your tears. Behold, I will add fifteen years to your life.
6
I will deliver you and this city out of the hand of the king of Assyria, and I will defend this city.
7
This shall be the sign to you from the LORD, that the LORD will do this thing that he has spoken.
8
Behold, I will cause the shadow on the sundial, which has gone down on the sundial of Ahaz with the sun, to return backward ten steps.”’” So the sun returned ten steps on the sundial on which it had gone down.
9
The writing of Hezekiah king of Judah, when he had been sick, and had recovered of his sickness:
10
I said, “In the middle of my life I go into the gates of Sheol. I am deprived of the residue of my years.”
11
I said, “I won’t see the LORD, the LORD in the land of the living. I will see man no more with the inhabitants of the world.
12
My dwelling is removed, and is carried away from me like a shepherd’s tent. I have rolled up my life like a weaver. He will cut me off from the loom. From day even to night you will make an end of me.
13
I waited patiently until morning. He breaks all my bones like a lion. From day even to night you will make an end of me.
14
I chattered like a swallow or a crane. I moaned like a dove. My eyes weaken looking upward. Lord, I am oppressed. Be my security.”
15
What will I say? He has both spoken to me, and himself has done it. I will walk carefully all my years because of the anguish of my soul.
16
Lord, men live by these things; and my spirit finds life in all of them. You restore me, and cause me to live.
17
Behold, for peace I had great anguish, but you have in love for my soul delivered it from the pit of corruption; for you have cast all my sins behind your back.
18
For Sheol can’t praise you. Death can’t celebrate you. Those who go down into the pit can’t hope for your truth.
19
The living, the living, he shall praise you, as I do today. The father shall make known your truth to the children.
20
The LORD will save me. Therefore we will sing my songs with stringed instruments all the days of our life in the LORD’s house.
21
Now Isaiah had said, “Let them take a cake of figs, and lay it for a poultice on the boil, and he shall recover.”
22
Hezekiah also had said, “What is the sign that I will go up to the LORD’s house?”

A king's writing from the gates of Sheol

The poem (verses 9-20) is unusual: a reigning king's personal psalm about nearly dying. He pictures life rolled up like a weaver cutting cloth from the loom, his bones broken as by a lion, his eyes failing as he looks upward. The turn comes when he sees his sickness was 'for peace,' his sins cast behind God's back.

His logic is stark: Sheol cannot praise God, so only the living praise him, the father telling the children. The closing prose notes, the fig poultice and Hezekiah's question about the sign, sit oddly after the poem, a reminder this is collected memoir, not tidy chronicle.