Isaiah 28 Chapter Study

The woe over Ephraim opens like a trumpet blast. Isaiah surveys Samaria’s proud crown—a city perched on a fertile ridge, dressed in wreaths and flowers—and calls it a fading garland on the heads of drunkards, a beauty already wilting in the heat of approaching judgment (Isaiah 28:1). The Lord has an instrument fit for the task, a power strong as hail and flood that will hurl the garland to the ground and trample it underfoot, as easily swallowed as the first ripe fig snatched before harvest (Isaiah 28:2–4). Yet in the same breath the prophet sketches another crown, not woven by men but given by God: in that day the Lord himself will be a glorious wreath for the remnant, a spirit of justice to judges and strength to soldiers who stand at the gate (Isaiah 28:5–6). The chapter will move between these two headpieces—human pride and divine honor—until it lays a stone in Zion firm enough to bear the hope of those who trust (Isaiah 28:16).

The oracle refuses to leave Judah out of the indictment. Priests and prophets in Jerusalem stagger and reel, their tables smeared with filth and their discernment clouded by drink; the very ones meant to see and decide have blurred the word into babble and turned instruction into nursery syllables (Isaiah 28:7–8). The people mock Isaiah’s message as baby talk—“Do this, do that; a little here, a little there”—and the Lord answers with a hard promise: since they will not rest in the word he offered, he will speak to them through foreign lips they cannot ignore, and the precepts they despised will become stumbling rhythms that send them backward into injury and capture (Isaiah 28:9–13; 1 Corinthians 14:21). The core choice sharpens around a boast from the rulers: they claim a covenant with death, a hidden bargain to outlast the scourge by hiding in lies, but the Lord announces a cornerstone in Zion and a plumb line of justice that will annul false refuges and expose every shelter made of words (Isaiah 28:14–19). By the end a farmer in Judah’s hills becomes the teacher: he plows, sows, threshes, and grinds with varied tools and measured force because God himself instructs him, a parable of the Lord’s wise, tailored discipline and magnificent plan (Isaiah 28:23–29).

Words: 3017 / Time to read: 16 minutes

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Historical and Cultural Background

The “wreath of Ephraim’s drunkards” points most naturally to Samaria, the capital of the northern kingdom, whose hilltop beauty and agricultural wealth fostered confidence that dulled consciences (Isaiah 28:1; 2 Kings 17:5–6). Isaiah’s image of hail and flood likely evokes the Lord’s use of imperial power—Assyria—as a storm that strips fields and flattens crowns, a judgment that history soon confirmed when Samaria fell and its people were led away (Isaiah 28:2–3; Hosea 10:13–15). Ripe figs swallowed at first sight were a known delight in the land; the simile communicates quick, effortless loss, not a long siege with noble resistance (Isaiah 28:4; Jeremiah 24:2). Against that fall the promise of a divine wreath for a remnant signals that God does not erase his people wholesale; he preserves and equips those who return to him amid the wreckage (Isaiah 28:5–6; Isaiah 10:20–22).

Judah’s spiritual leaders were not insulated from corruption. Isaiah’s blunt catalog of reeling priests and prophets fits a broader critique of elites who sought security through alliances and numbed their unease with excess, even while they presided at altars and courts (Isaiah 28:7–8; Isaiah 30:1–3). The mocking chorus—“do this, do that; a little here, a little there”—captures how God’s straightforward commands sounded to ears drunk on autonomy. In reply, the Lord’s threat to speak by foreign lips marks a shift from patient instruction to disciplinary speech through invaders, a pattern repeated in the period as Assyrian and later Babylonian tongues filled Jerusalem’s streets (Isaiah 28:11–13; 2 Kings 18:26–28). What should have been a resting place became a stumbling place because the people treated mercy as noise (Isaiah 28:12–13).

The “covenant with death” almost certainly refers to political calculations made in the corridors of Jerusalem, likely an appeal to Egypt’s help or to other power brokers, dressed in the language of savvy diplomacy and sold to the public as a guarantee against catastrophe (Isaiah 28:15; Isaiah 30:2–5). Isaiah calls it what it is: a lie and a hiding place of falsehood. In the ancient world, covenants created bonds of protection and obligation; to claim such a pact with death and Sheol is to boast that one has domesticated disaster. God’s reply is architectural and moral. He will lay in Zion a tested stone, a precious cornerstone that forms a sure foundation for those who rely on it, and he will stretch a measuring line of justice and a plumb line of righteousness across the city’s plans, sweeping away every refuge built of deceit (Isaiah 28:16–17; Amos 7:7–9). The storm will come “morning after morning,” and the bed and blanket of human cunning will prove too small to save (Isaiah 28:19–20).

The closing parable grounds high theology in farm craft known to every village. Plowing does not run forever; sowing varies by seed; threshing and grinding differ in force and method; and the farmer’s skill is not mere tradition but instruction from God, who teaches him the right way (Isaiah 28:24–26). In an age when nation and temple could feel like abstractions, Isaiah insists that God’s wisdom is woven into ordinary work and that his plan is both wonderful and measured (Isaiah 28:29). That measured wisdom interprets the “strange work” and “alien task” the Lord will do—rising as at Perazim and Gibeon to rout pride in shocking ways—not as whim but as purposeful correction that fits his covenant purposes (Isaiah 28:21; 2 Samuel 5:20; Joshua 10:10–14).

Biblical Narrative

The chapter begins with a woe and a picture. A garland crowns Ephraim’s headlands, but it is fading; revelers stagger in the streets; the Lord points to a coming force like hail and flood that will slam the wreath to the ground, trample it, and swallow its early figs without effort (Isaiah 28:1–4). The scene shifts from judgment to promise without changing the subject of crowns. In that day the Lord will be a glorious crown for the remnant and a spirit of justice for judges and strength for defenders at the gate, an answer to the counterfeit glory that wine and wealth had supplied (Isaiah 28:5–6). The prophet then faces Jerusalem and describes priests and prophets reeling, visions blurred and judgments warped, tables smeared, a public humiliation of spiritual office that underlines how deep the rot has gone (Isaiah 28:7–8).

A dialogue of mockery follows. The people sneer at the prophet’s teaching as if he were lecturing toddlers with sing-song rules and tiny steps—“do this, do that; a little here, a little there”—and the Lord responds that since they refused his resting place he will speak with foreign lips and strange tongues; the very rhythms they mocked will become the cadence of their fall, a trip-line that sends them backward into capture (Isaiah 28:9–13; Isaiah 28:12). Isaiah then summons the rulers who scoff in Jerusalem and quotes their boast: they have cut a deal with death, a pact with the grave; the scourge will pass them by because they have found shelter in a lie and a hiding place in falsehood (Isaiah 28:14–15). God’s reply plants a stone. “See, I lay a stone in Zion, a tested stone, a precious cornerstone for a sure foundation; whoever relies on it will not panic.” Justice becomes the measuring line and righteousness the plumb line; hail and water sweep away the lie; the covenant with death is annulled; the scourge will in fact beat them down morning by morning until they understand in terror that their messages were illusions (Isaiah 28:16–19).

To show the futility of escape, Isaiah offers a grim proverb. The bed is too short, the blanket too narrow; no clever scheme will cover Jerusalem when the Lord rises as he did at Perazim and Gibeon to do his “strange work,” an act of judgment so surprising it seems alien, yet perfectly righteous (Isaiah 28:20–22). The prophet ends with a call to listen, asking whether a farmer plows forever or threshes without end. He does not. He sows different seeds in proper places and threshes each in its fitting way because his God teaches him. Grain must be ground for bread, but one does not crush it into nothing; the work is proportional and purposeful. All this comes from the Lord of hosts, whose counsel is wonderful and whose wisdom is magnificent (Isaiah 28:23–29). The narrative thus runs from drunken wreath to divine crown, from mocking syllables to foreign speech, from false covenants to the cornerstone, and from panic to the measured mercy of God’s plan.

Theological Significance

Isaiah contrasts two foundations: human schemes that promise safety and God’s appointed stone that actually bears weight. The rulers’ “covenant with death” is the ultimate counterfeit refuge, an attempt to secure life by bargaining with forces that only God can command (Isaiah 28:15). The Lord answers not with another tactic but with a person and a promise in Zion: a tested cornerstone for a sure foundation so that the one who trusts will not be stricken with panic (Isaiah 28:16). Scripture later identifies this stone with the Messiah—rejected by some builders yet chosen and precious—and locates God’s household on that foundation with apostles and prophets as the measured superstructure (Romans 9:33; 1 Peter 2:6–8; Ephesians 2:20). The theological center of safety is thus not deal-making but reliance on the One God lays in place.

The chapter exposes how law without faith becomes noise and how mercy without repentance becomes a snare. The mocking refrain—“do this, do that; a little here, a little there”—shows that commands detached from trust sound like baby talk to proud hearts (Isaiah 28:9–10). The Lord had offered rest, a place of repose, but they would not listen; therefore the same word becomes stumbling, and foreign lips deliver the lesson they rejected (Isaiah 28:11–13). Later revelation will clarify that God writes his ways on hearts and gives his Spirit so that obedience is not mere syllables but living devotion, a shift already hinted at by the promise of rest and reliance in this chapter (Jeremiah 31:33; Ezekiel 36:26–27; Matthew 11:28–29). The movement from external rule-keeping to internal trust does not erase commands; it fulfills them by anchoring them in the Cornerstone.

Justice and righteousness form God’s measuring tools for public life. The plumb line Isaiah invokes recalls earlier visions where the Lord measures walls and exposes crooked work (Isaiah 28:17; Amos 7:7–9). In this light, political alliances, economic plans, and religious performances stand under a standard that does not bend. Hail and flood are not random weather but metaphors for divine scrutiny that sweeps away shelters built from spin and leaves only what aligns with God’s moral line (Isaiah 28:17–19; Psalm 15:1–2). Theological maturity therefore includes a public conscience: the Cornerstone supports a community that loves truth and refuses to call lies refuges.

The “strange work” and “alien task” teach that God’s judgments can shock even those who know his character. Rising as at Perazim and Gibeon recalls decisive interventions that routed enemies in unexpected ways, and here the Lord promises to unsettle the complacent within his own city (Isaiah 28:21; 2 Samuel 5:20; Joshua 10:10–14). The strangeness lies not in moral inconsistency but in the painful fact that God’s holiness will not spare his people when they build on falsehood. Yet the very announcement is mercy, a summons to stop mocking before chains grow heavier (Isaiah 28:22; Lamentations 3:31–33). The warning belongs to love.

The farmer parable displays progressive wisdom and measured discipline as features of God’s governance. Plowing gives way to sowing; threshing varies by seed; grinding has a purpose and a limit; and all of it comes from the Lord who teaches the right way (Isaiah 28:23–29). Isaiah applies that rhythm to God’s dealings with his people across stages in his plan. He does not plow forever. He does not thresh indiscriminately. He works toward bread, toward nourishment and stability, and he calibrates the pressure to fit that end (Hebrews 12:10–11). The Cornerstone stands while the plumb line corrects, and the end is a people built true.

Zion’s stone anchors hope in the promises that run through Israel while opening blessing outward. God lays the foundation in Zion and measures from there, keeping faith with his word to the fathers and with his pledge to bring instruction and peace from his mountain (Isaiah 28:16–17; Isaiah 2:2–4). In time, Gentiles are brought near to that foundation, not to erase Israel’s story but to share in the grace that flows from the appointed Stone (Ephesians 2:13–22; Romans 11:17–20). The chapter therefore sustains a distinction of roles within a single saving plan: one Savior, one foundation, many peoples gathered under a righteous line.

The repeated promise of “rest” has a quiet, present edge and a future horizon. The Lord told this people, “This is the resting place; let the weary rest,” yet they would not listen (Isaiah 28:12). Centuries later, the Son of God invites the weary to come and find rest for their souls by taking his yoke, a rest that previews the fullness to come when the Cornerstone rules openly and justice and righteousness are the city’s air (Matthew 11:28–29; Isaiah 32:16–18). The rest the chapter offers is not escape; it is refuge built on trust.

Spiritual Lessons and Application

False security thrives on slogans and numbers; true safety rests on a Person. Isaiah names the lie as a hiding place and a covenant with death, a pact the Lord will annul by the very storm rulers thought they had tamed (Isaiah 28:15–19). In our day, covenants with death can look like unprincipled alliances, manipulative narratives, or private compromises that trade integrity for short-term calm. The answer is to come to the Stone God laid and to let justice and righteousness measure our plans, even when it costs more now to be straight (Isaiah 28:16–17; Psalm 37:3–6).

Receiving God’s word as rest guards the heart from cynicism. The mockers turned instruction into baby talk; God intended it as a resting place for the weary (Isaiah 28:9–12). Practically, that means approaching Scripture not as a box of slogans but as the living voice of the Lord, received by faith and acted upon with quiet courage. The result is steadiness when panic sweeps others away and patience when God’s corrections arrive (Isaiah 28:16; James 1:21–25).

Measured discipline is mercy aimed at bread. The farmer does not thresh forever, and God does not either (Isaiah 28:27–29). Trials may feel like endless plowing, but Isaiah teaches us to expect seasons: tilling that breaks hard ground, sowing that seems small, pressing that separates chaff from grain, and grinding that yields food for many. Praying this chapter means asking God to calibrate the pressure for our good and to end the season at the right time, trusting his magnificent wisdom.

Leaders bear special responsibility to reject the intoxications that blur judgment. Isaiah’s tables were smeared because priests and prophets reeled (Isaiah 28:7–8). Today the blurring can come from pride, partisanship, or the addiction to applause as much as from literal drink. The call is to sobriety of mind and holiness of life so that God’s people are protected rather than manipulated, and so that the spirit of justice and the strength at the gate are known again in the land (Isaiah 28:5–6; 1 Peter 5:2–3).

Conclusion

Isaiah 28 holds up two crowns, two voices, and two foundations. One crown is a fading garland on the brows of revelers who mistake wealth for wisdom and alliances for safety; the other is the Lord himself, a glorious wreath for a remnant taught to judge with justice and to stand with strength at the gate (Isaiah 28:1–6). One voice mocks God’s word as baby talk; another voice speaks rest to the weary and warns that foreign lips will carry the lesson home if mercy is refused (Isaiah 28:9–13). One foundation is a covenant with death, a lie that promises immunity; the other is a tested stone in Zion on which the trusting stand firm when the scourge comes morning by morning (Isaiah 28:15–19). God’s “strange work” shocks, yet it serves his wonderful plan, plowing, sowing, and threshing with wisdom that aims at bread and ends in stability measured by justice and righteousness (Isaiah 28:21; Isaiah 28:23–29).

The path forward is clear and concrete. Come to the Stone. Let God’s line and plumb test our walls. Call lies what they are and refuse to hide in them. Receive Scripture as rest and not as noise. Ask the Lord to calibrate his corrections and to restore sobriety to those who lead, so that the spirit of justice returns to the bench and strength rises at the gate (Isaiah 28:5–6; Isaiah 28:16–17). In doing so, the church bears quiet witness that safety does not come from bargaining with death but from trusting the One God has laid in Zion, whose foundation holds now and will hold when every lesser shelter fails (1 Peter 2:6; Isaiah 33:6).

“See, I lay a stone in Zion, a tested stone, a precious cornerstone for a sure foundation; the one who relies on it will never be stricken with panic. I will make justice the measuring line and righteousness the plumb line.” (Isaiah 28:16–17)