Expositor's Bible: The Book of Ecclesiastes — Background and Themes
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n number as the sands by the sea, eating, drinking, and making merry.... And Judah and Israel dwelt safely, every man under his vine and under his fig-tree, from Dan even to Beersheba, all the days of Solomon" (1 Kings iv. 20, 25). But as we read this Book we gather from it the picture of a social state in which kings were childish, and princes addicted to revelry and drunkenness (x. 16); great fools were lifted to high places and rode on stately horses, while nobles were degraded and had to tramp through the mire (x. 6, 7); the race was not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor riches to the intelligent, nor favour to the learned (ix. 11). The most eminent public services were suffered to pass unrewarded, and were forgotten the moment the need for them was passed (ix. 14, 15). Property was so insecure that to amass wealth was only to multiply extortions, and to fall a prey to the cupidity of princes and judges, insomuch that the sluggard who folded his hands, so long as he had bread to eat, was esteemed wiser than the diligent merchant who applied himself to the labours and anxieties of traffic (iv. 5, 6). Life was as insecure as property, and stood at the caprice of men who were slaves to their own lusts; a hasty word spoken in the divan of any one of the satraps, or even a resentful gesture, might provoke the most terrible outrages (viii. 3, 4; x. 4). The true relation between the sexes was violated; the ruling classes crowded their harems with concubines, and even the wiser sort of men took to themselves any woman they desired; while, with cynical injustice, they first degraded women, and then condemned them as alike and altogether bad, their hands chains, their love a snare (vii. 26, 28; ix. 9). The oppressions of the time were so constant, so cruel, and life grew so dark beneath them, that those who died long ago were counted happier than those who were still alive; while happier than either were those who had not been born to see the intolerable evils on which the sun looked calmly down day by day (iv. 1-3). In fine, the whole fabric of the State was fast falling into ruin and decay, through the greed and sloth of rulers who taxed the people to the uttermost in order to supply their wasteful luxury (x. 18, 19); while yet, so dreadful was their tyranny and their spies so ubiquitous, that no man dared to breathe a word against them even to the wife of his bosom and in the secrecy of the bed-chamber (x. 20): the only consolation of the oppressed was the grim hope that a time of retribution would overtake their tyrants, from which neither their power nor their craft should be able to save them (viii. 5-8).
Nothing would be more difficult than to accept this as a picture of the social and political features of the Hebrew commonwealth during the reign of Solomon, or even during those later years of his reign in which his rule grew hard and despotic. Nothing can well be more incredible than that this should be intended as a picture of his reign, save that it should be a picture _drawn by his own hand_! To suppose Solomon the author of this Scripture is to suppose that the wisest of kings and of men was base enough to pen a deliberate and malignant libel on himself, his time, and his realm! On the other hand, the description, dark and lurid as it is, exactly accords with all we know of the terrible condition of the Jews who wept in captivity by the waters of Babylon under the later Persian rule, or were ground under the heels of the Persian satraps after their return to the land of their fathers. In all probability, therefore, as our most competent authorities are agreed, the Book is a poem rather than a chronicle, written by an unknown Hebrew author, during the Captivity or shortly after the Return, certainly not before B.C. 500, and probably somewhat later.[3]
Samuel Cox's commentary on Ecclesiastes, first delivered as lectures in 1867 and revised for the Expositor's Bible series, opens with a frank acknowledgment of its own history: the book had been out of print for over twenty years before this edition. Cox explains that he felt compelled to rewrite rather than simply reprint, and his preface names the scholars whose work he found most helpful—Delitzsch, Wright, Plumptre, Perowne, and especially Ginsburg, whose commentary he calls 'by far the best' though too learned for popular use. This self-aware framing sets the tone for a work that aims to bridge academic rigor and pastoral accessibility.
A Translation That Intervenes
Cox does not merely comment on the received text; he supplies his own translation of Ecclesiastes, and the excerpts show him intervening directly in the wording. In chapter 6, for instance, he renders the Preacher's observation as 'it is better to enjoy the good we have than to crave a good beyond our reach'—a paraphrase that smooths the Hebrew into a maxim. Elsewhere, he inserts marginal glosses like 'Vanity' and 'The Quest in the Golden Mean' to guide the reader's interpretation. This translational choice reveals Cox's conviction that the biblical text requires active mediation, not passive repetition. His commentary thus becomes a layered document: the original, his rendering, and his exposition all compete for the reader's attention.
The Preacher as Practical Moralist
Cox reads Ecclesiastes not as a skeptical treatise but as a series of arguments against misplaced trust. In the excerpts, he repeatedly frames the Preacher's claims as 'arguments'—'the Preacher's arguments against an undue love of riches'—and tests their soundness: 'Are they not sound arguments?' This rhetorical move turns the biblical text into a case to be weighed. Cox also distinguishes between the rich and the poor in their relation to wealth, observing that 'it is those who have not tried them' who trust in riches most. The commentary thus becomes a moral psychology, diagnosing the illusions that drive human craving. Cox's Preacher is less a philosopher than a counselor, exposing the gap between what we pursue and what we actually need.
Pace and the Rhetoric of Restlessness
The excerpts reveal a distinctive rhythm in Cox's prose: short, punchy questions ('What advantage have they?') alternate with longer, cumulative sentences that mimic the Preacher's own restless cataloging. In one passage, Cox lists three reasons why wealth breeds 'vexation of spirit,' each introduced by 'One is,' 'Another reason is,' 'And a third reason is.' This structural repetition gives the argument a driving, almost sermonic momentum. Yet the pace also slows for reflective asides, as when Cox notes that 'the thirst of the soul is still unslaked' and that God 'has given men an immortal nature, with cravings that wander through eternity.' The alternation between rapid argument and meditative pause mirrors the Preacher's own movement between observation and reflection, making the commentary feel like a live performance rather than a static analysis.
Cox's commentary rewards readers who attend to its own compositional history: the twenty-year gap between editions, the careful acknowledgment of predecessors, the decision to retain 'the vivacity of a first exposition.' These details are not mere background; they shape how Cox handles the Preacher's voice. Readers will find that the commentary's own restlessness—its shifts between translation, argument, and reflection—echoes the very text it seeks to explain. To read Cox is to watch a Victorian preacher wrestle with an ancient skeptic, and to see that struggle become part of the exposition itself.
Years among these shelves, I've watched Expositor's Bible: The Book of Ecclesiastes whisper of hollow gain, of chasing wind. And yet, beside it rests The Future of Islam — Text and Context, another voice asking what endures when empires of ambition fade. They share a quiet patience, these two, each finding value not in grasping, but in the honest looking. A gentle kinship, indeed.
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