Rachamim: The Womb of God’s Mercy

A Little Word Study Before the Poetic Word:

In Hebrew, the word rakhamim or rachamim (רַחֲמִים) is often translated as mercy or compassion. But hidden in its root is something far deeper—it comes from the word rakhum or rechem, meaning womb.

God’s mercy, then, is not cold pity or detached kindness. It is the tender, womb-like compassion of a parent who carries, protects, and nourishes life within. Rachamim reminds us that the mercy of God flows from the very depths of His being, like a mother’s fierce and unrelenting care for her child.

This is the kind of love that meets us when we are at our lowest. When shame tells us we’ve gone too far, rachamim says, “You are still held.” When fear whispers that we are alone, rachamim answers, “I have never let you go.”

The prophets speak often of this mercy:

“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies (rachamim) never come to an end; they are new every morning” (Lamentations 3:22–23).

Every sunrise is proof that God’s compassion is renewed—not recycled, not thinned out, but fresh and full for today.

Rachamim is God’s heart toward us: fierce, nurturing, protective, and endlessly patient. To know His mercy is to rest in the safety of His womb-like love—a love that surrounds us even before we realize we need it.

“Rachamim”

O, my soul, why are you weary

O, my heart, why are you aching 

It hurts… but I know why

This is what happens when broken things mend

There is no healing without hurt on this side of heaven 

So it’s okay to let it hurt

Don’t try to run

Stop trying to escape 

Let it hurt and let it heal 

This is suffering, but for every moment of suffering 

There is rachamim - God’s own heart moves for you

So it’s okay to let it hurt

Don’t run anymore… I AM here

I Am in the suffering so that I can be your salvation

I understand your weary soul

I can hold your aching heart

It hurts, I know, but…

This is where I mend all that’s been broken 

There is hope for you here in all that hurts 

Let it hurt my Love, and I will heal it

This night may be dark, but joy comes in the morning 

There is rachamim for you here in My heart

Here's the deal:

God is not blind or indifferent to your pain, past or present. He wants more than anything to touch and heal what ails your soul… Still don’t believe me?

• Psalm 34:18:

  "The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." 

• Psalm 147:3:

  "He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." 

• Isaiah 61:1:

  "The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners." 

• Matthew 11:28:

  "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." 

• 2 Corinthians 1:3-4:

  "Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God." 

• Romans 8:28:

  "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose." 

• Philippians 4:6-7:

  "Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." 

There is so much proof, and these verses above barely scratch the surface, of how great His love is for us. For the longest time, I wrestled with doubt about God’s love for me. I believed He loved people, yes—but did He really care about me? About every little thing that broke my heart? Could He truly be moved by my pain, my tears, my hidden wounds? Deep down, I wasn’t sure. I feared His love was distant, too big for the small details of my life. Then I stumbled across a Hebrew word that changed everything: rachamim—the deeply personal compassion of God.

And here’s what really laid me open: the very first word God chose to describe His own heart was rachamim. Before anything else, He wanted His people to know that He is compassionate—that His love bends low and moves toward them. In Exodus 34:6–7, when the Lord revealed His character to Moses, the very first word out of His mouth was this: “compassionate” (rachum). Imagine—The Almighty God could have certainly started with His power, His justice, or His holiness, but instead He began with His mercy. What He most wanted us to know is that His love comes first.

Before power, before holiness, before justice—God wanted us to know His heart beats with compassion. This revelation silenced my doubts. God does not just tolerate me; He carries me. He is not indifferent to my heartbreak; He is moved by it. His deepest desire is to heal me, to hold me, to restore me with a love that comes from the very core of who He is. I no longer question if He cares about the little things. I know the God of rachamim is the one who catches every tear I cry and holds me in every heartache. His compassion is not just part of His character—it is the starting point of how He reveals Himself.

Here's the backstory:

This poem came out of a raw moment not long ago, when old wounds bubbled back up to the surface and hope felt paper-thin. I had just pulled into the parking lot at work, trying to steady myself before stepping inside to care for patients. But the grief and shame I’d woken up with had followed me from my bedroom to the driver’s seat, and the long commute hadn’t dulled them one bit. I thought I was done with healing in this area, but here it was again, another layer. My chest felt heavy, my thoughts relentless, and everything in me just wanted to run. Bolt. Escape the ache.

But I knew—running only drags the pain out longer. Deep down, I sensed the Holy Spirit urging me not to outrun my feelings this time, but to write them out. I had tried everything else: stuffing it down, distracting myself, bargaining with God… but none of it worked. It only made the ache heavier. So I quieted my heart and asked God to speak. And in that still moment, He did. Not with a booming voice or a list of demands, but with a whisper that felt like a warm embrace. A whisper of compassion.

In that moment, a Hebrew word for that kind of compassion was brought back to my remembrance - rachamim - a deep, moving mercy straight from His heart. I had forgotten, but God reminded me it wasn’t some distant concept. It was right there, meeting me in the ache I wanted so badly to escape.

This poem wasn’t a clever composition; it was an urgent conversation. It was me talking to God with shaky hands and an open wound. It was my soul finally giving voice to what He was saying. And in the sting of it all, I felt His presence pressing in gently, reminding me that this pain reappearing wasn’t proof of failure. It was evidence of the more excellent healing He had in store for me. I just needed to be still and trust His heart towards mine. Trust His Rachamim. Just as He did that day, I sat in my parked car and wrote this poem—God faithfully continues to show me that His love has never wavered, not even once, not even in my darkest moments (Romans 5:8).

Three truths I learned in that parked-car moment:

1. Healing and hurt are partners, not enemies.
   We become suspicious of pain because it feels like a loss. But healing doesn’t bypass the pain; it walks through it. To insist on comfort above all else is often to reject the very process that mends what is broken. Just as a bone aches when it’s being set right, so does the soul when God begins realigning what’s been fractured.

2. God’s rachamim moves toward—not away from—our suffering.
   Compassion isn’t a passive sympathy from afar. The rachamim of God means His heart inclines toward our wounds. He does not watch us from a distance or merely acknowledge the hurt—He enters it with us. That truth changed everything for me. It made my pain a place of encounter, not exile.

3. Staying is more courageous than fleeing.
   Staying takes more courage than running. When everything in me wants to escape, choosing to stay becomes an act of faith. It’s faith that believes the Lord really is “close to the brokenhearted” and that He “saves those crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18). It’s trust that God will not crush me in my weakness—because His Word says, “A bruised reed He will not break, and a smoldering wick He will not snuff out” (Isaiah 42:3). Staying teaches resilience—not the kind that hardens, but the kind that waits. The kind Isaiah spoke of when he said, “Those who wait on the Lord will renew their strength” (Isaiah 40:31). In the waiting, I’ve seen His hands slowly put back together what I could never have mended on my own.

If you’re in a season like this, here are some gentle next steps that helped me:

• Give the ache words. Write, pray, speak it aloud. Naming the pain takes away some of its power. God can’t heal what you hide.

• Invite God into the exact place that hurts. Don’t offer a summary or generalities—point to the wound and let God meet you there. And be HONEST because He’s not going to meet you where you’re not at, so stop faking it!

• Allow supportive people in. Healing doesn’t happen in isolation. Let someone safe sit with you—another heart can be the hands God uses.

• Be patient with the timeline. Healing takes time, and certain issues may come up more than once. Release unrealistic expectations and let God lead the pace. Healing with God is like a slow, unhurried walk through a garden in the cool of the evening—not a 100-yard dash. No more rushing ahead, no more running away, only resting in step with Him.