It is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting in that that is the end of all men, and the living taketh it to heart.
Ecclesiastes 7 opens a run of short, blunt comparisons. This one sends the reader away from the party and into the house of mourning, because death is the end of every person, and only the living can still take that in.
Commentators note a shift in tone at this point in the book. The argument gives way to advice for people who must live in a world whose wrongs are not yet put right.
Here the Preacher turns from the argument that came before to practical rules for living, however paradoxical they sound. They are wise words in the middle of vanity and sorrow. They guard a man while the evil cannot yet be judged in power or put right.
The same writer adds a limit. Ecclesiastes weighs life as it stands now.
The day of death closes the sorrow of the world that birth brings fallen man into. No doubt Christ changes all, but that is not the truth discussed here. This is the present scene. So there is profit in going to the house of mourning rather than the house of feasting. There is profit too in a rebuke from the wise rather than the song of fools, which is only noise and a blaze that lasts a moment.
The funeral is useful because the mourner is still alive and can still take it in. One writer notes how hard modern habits work to stop that.
So it is with death. There is a desire to keep death out of sight as much as possible. Ugly cemeteries must go. In their place come rooms for ashes, with beautiful flowers and no sign of death about them. People build crematoriums as temples of light. They cover even the coffin with a purple cloth and lay wreaths of flowers on it. But will this feverish desire to hide every trace of death alter grim facts? Will it do away with what comes after death? Certainly not.
The same writer then names who gains when people bury this lesson:
That is exactly what the devil does not wish — that survivors should lay the solemn teaching of death to heart. On the contrary, he wants every trace of such an unpleasant thing as death put out of sight. Hiding death, by whoever does it, runs counter to this Scripture.
One writer speaks straight to the reader who dreads funerals.
I don't wonder that you dislike funerals, and would not care to be alone in a room, or in a house, with a corpse. I don't blame you for fearing death, but it just shows, my friend, where you really are as to your soul's state. You do not know the fruit and effect of Christ's death.
Death cuts through what noise and busyness keep at bay:
It is not a difficult matter to avoid the preacher of the gospel and his warnings. It is easy, in the rush of business and the whirl of pleasure, to shut out all thought of God and eternity. But then death arrives, and it will not wait. It brushes aside friends, pleasures, wealth and daily pursuits, and everything changes. When the soul is left alone with death and eternity, the solemn facts of God and forever force themselves into view. God, sin and eternity must become intensely real in the hour of death.
For the believer, the lesson does not end in gloom. Sorrow proves the better teacher, and glory will show its worth:
It is true that we learn what life really is from our sorrows rather than from our joys... There is no shadow of doubt about this. When the tried and suffering saint reaches glory and sees things in heavenly light, he will realise that his trials in times of sorrow and stress taught him the most precious lessons, and proved to him what life really is... "And many a rapturous minstrel, among those saints of light, will say of his sweetest music, I learned it in the night."
- The setting — the chapter turns to plain wisdom for people living in the middle of vanity and sorrow.
- The fact — the day of death closes the sorrow that birth brought fallen man into. The funeral tells the truth the feast hides.
- The chance — only the living can lay it to heart, which is why hiding every trace of death runs against this verse.
- The signal — dread of funerals shows where a soul stands. It does not know the fruit and effect of Christ's death.
- The outcome — sorrow teaches what joy cannot. In glory the tried saint will see that his hardest hours taught him most.
Vexation is better than laughter; for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better.
Ecclesiastes 7 turns from argument to short, blunt sayings about life. This one flips ordinary instinct: a grave face does the heart more good than a party. The claim raises two questions — how does sadness improve anyone, and does it always?
The verse sits inside a run of "better than" statements. One commentator marks the change of tone at the start of the chapter.
Here the Preacher turns from the reasoned argument of what goes before to practical sayings that urge us on, however much they sound like paradoxes. They are wise words in the middle of vanity and sorrow. They guard a man while the evil cannot yet be judged in power or put right.
The same writer notes that these sayings deal with life as it stands now, not with life as Christ later changes it.
The day of death closes the sorrow of the world, into which birth brings fallen man. No doubt, Christ changes all; but this is not the truth under discussion here, only the present scene.
A note on the wording. The ESV says that by sadness of face "the heart is made glad." Older translations say "the heart is made better," and render the first word as "vexation" rather than "sorrow." Commentators quote it both ways, and both senses run through what follows.
Why should a sad face help? Because grief is where the real lessons land.
It is true that we learn what life really is from our sorrows rather than from our joys… There is no shadow of doubt about this. When the tried and suffering believer reaches glory and sees things in heavenly light, he will realise the truth. It was what he went through in times of sorrow and stress that taught him the most precious lessons, proving to him what life really is.
If sorrow is the better teacher, who arranges the lesson? One writer answers from this verse.
People have often asked why God allows the people He has set His love on to suffer this way. The answer is simple. It is because He loves them. There may be other reasons, but this is the main one… The wise man tells us, "By sorrow the heart is made better," and experience teaches us that this is true. How easily evil attaches itself to the best of us! But the furnace of affliction separates the dross from the purer metal and burns it away… Going through the trial is not pleasant. It would be no trial if it were. But a morning of joy follows the night of sorrow.
The verse is not a promise that pain makes people good. Sorrow singles a person out. What comes of it depends on whether God is at work in it.
Sorrow singles each of us out. That is part of the good of it, because in this way grace and God become personal to each of us too… Greater distresses purify and enlarge the heart, when they work under the good hand of God. This is by no means their necessary effect, however: apart from Him, they may harden and narrow it. But then apart from Him, prosperity will do the same; nothing is good, except as He works in it and through it for good.
Another writer adds a warning. People can grieve hard over losses that leave their souls untouched.
There is a mourning that is far from making anyone blessed. Many can weep over a dead child who cannot mourn over a crucified Saviour. Worldly sorrows hasten our funerals. The sorrow of the world works death.
Praising the house of mourning is not the same as moving in.
Those who suffer face a danger: giving all their days to grief. That means filling the mind with nothing but sad circumstances. How wise to turn to Him who makes all things work together for good! This makes the heart cheerful, which is, or has, a continual feast.
Commentators also differ in how much weight they give the Preacher's conclusions here. One reads the whole run of comparisons as the highest reach of human reasoning rather than revelation.
He starts off in a new direction; he turns moralist and philosophises about the better things. He climbs high with his reasoning and his conclusions… Perhaps being good, having the better things morally, and doing good, will satisfy the soul of man. That is the heart "in which eternity is set." And so he makes his observations in seven comparisons.
- Setting. These are wise words spoken in the middle of vanity and sorrow, guarding a man while evil still cannot be put right.
- Sorrow teaches. We learn what life really is from our sorrows rather than our joys — lessons only seen fully in glory.
- Love sends it. God allows His loved ones to suffer because He loves them; in the furnace the dross is burned away.
- Not automatic. Distress purifies only under God's good hand. Apart from Him it hardens and narrows — and so does prosperity.
- Not permanent. Giving all your days to grief just fills the mind with sadness. Turning to Him who works all things for good makes the heart cheerful.
The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning, but the heart of fools in the house of mirth.
Ecclesiastes 7 turns from long argument to short, blunt sayings. This one names two houses — one of mourning, one of mirth — and asks which one your heart calls home.
One writer notes the turn these sayings make, and the purpose behind them:
Here the Preacher turns from the argument that went before to practical sayings that urge us on, however contradictory they sound. They are wise words in the middle of vanity and sorrow. They guard a man while the evil around him cannot yet be judged in power or put right.
So these sayings are for people who still live in a world God has not yet put right.
The same writer weighs the two houses, and marks off what belongs to this present scene:
The day of death closes the sorrow of this world, the sorrow that birth brings fallen man into. No doubt Christ changes all; but that is not the truth discussed here. Here it is the present scene. So there is profit in going to the house of mourning rather than the house of feasting, and profit in a rebuke from the wise rather than the song of fools. That song is mere noise and blaze for a moment.
Two pairs stand together here: mourning with the rebuke of the wise, mirth with the song of fools. One pair teaches; the other only makes noise. Note also what the writer sets aside. Christ changes everything — but this verse measures life as it now stands, where birth brings a man into sorrow and death closes it.
The wise are not in the house of mourning because they enjoy misery. They are there because that is where the lessons are.
It is true that we learn what life really is from our sorrows rather than from our joys… There is no shadow of doubt about it. One day the tried and suffering believer will reach glory and see things in heaven's light. Then he will realise that his trials in times of sorrow and stress taught him the most precious lessons. They proved to him what life really is.
The house of mourning is also where reality becomes unavoidable. The same writer asks who we should ask about the value of things:
Ask the dying, not the living, what they think of things. Not one of them has ever said that gold, or honour on earth, or this world's pleasure was of real value to them on a death bed.
One writer describes what the fool's laughter is worth:
It may be noisy, empty and sparkling for a moment, and then it is put out forever. That, sadly, is what the so-called pleasure of the wicked is like. But what shall we say of the fearful condition of those who are feeling the sharp sting of sin after the pleasure is gone?
The fool's heart lives where the noise is. But the sparkle dies, and the sting of sin outlasts the pleasure.
The wise heart is not a miserable heart. One writer sets two kinds of gladness side by side:
The world finds a passing merriment in filthiness, indecent talk and clowning around. That does not suit a believer. The quiet, deep joy of praise suits believers, not the laughter of the fool.
Commentators differ on how to take these verses. One writer treats them as wise guidance. Another reads the opening of the chapter as the searcher's own reasoning, after everything else had failed him:
He starts now in a new direction; he turns moralist and philosophises on the better things. He climbs high with his reason and deductions. He had come to the conclusion that life is not worth living… Perhaps being good, having the better things morally, and doing good will satisfy the heart of man, the heart in which eternity is set. And so he makes his observations in seven comparisons.
On this reading, the search is still running: reason climbs high, and still asks what will satisfy the heart.
- Two houses. Mourning and mirth are two addresses, not two moods. The verse asks where your heart lives, not where it visits.
- Two teachers. The house of mourning goes with the rebuke of the wise. The house of mirth goes with the song of fools — "mere noise and blaze for a moment."
- Two lessons. Sorrow teaches "what life really is." The fool's laughter is bright, loud and quickly out, leaving "the sharp sting of sin after the pleasure is gone."
- Two joys. The wise heart is not sour. It trades "the laughter of the fool" for "the quiet, deep joy of praise."
- Two readings. Some take these sayings as wise words to guard a person while evil goes unpunished. Others read them as a searcher's own reasoning, climbing high and still unsatisfied.