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Proverbs 31 — A queen mother's unfiltered advice and the woman who redefined remarkable
9 min read
fresh.bible editorialYou need to know who's talking before any of this makes sense. These aren't the words of , or some anonymous sage dropping from a distance. This is a mother — a queen mother — pulling her son aside and telling him what nobody else in the palace will.
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King Lemuel isn't mentioned anywhere else in the Bible. We don't know his . We don't know his reign. But we have his mother's words, and they've outlived whatever empire he ruled. The first nine verses are her direct advice — urgent, honest, unfiltered. Then starting at verse 10, the chapter shifts into a poem that gets quoted at weddings and Mother's Day services all the time. But it's saying something far more interesting than most people realize.
This is an oracle — a prophetic word — and it came from a woman who had clearly watched powerful men destroy themselves. Lemuel's mother told him:
"What are you doing, my son? What are you doing, the son I carried? The son I made vows over?
Don't waste your strength on women who will ruin you. Don't hand your power to the things that have destroyed kings before you."
Three times she said it. "What are you doing?" That's not casual curiosity. That's a mother watching her son drift toward something dangerous and refusing to stay quiet. She'd carried him, prayed over him, dedicated him to God — and she wasn't about to let him throw it all away without a fight. The repetition isn't poetic filler. It's urgency.
Then she got specific — and countercultural for someone advising royalty. His mother continued:
"It's not for kings to drink wine, Lemuel. It's not for rulers to chase strong drink. If they do, they'll forget the law and twist the rights of every person who's suffering under them.
Give strong drink to the one who's dying. Give wine to the one drowning in grief. Let them drink and forget their poverty. Let them stop remembering their pain."
Catch the contrast? Wine might be a for someone in agony — but for someone with power? It's a disaster. A leader with a clouded mind doesn't just hurt himself. He forgets the people depending on him. He stops seeing the vulnerable. He bends toward whoever's in the room when he's compromised. Her point was razor-sharp: your clarity isn't just for you. Other people's lives depend on it.
That principle hasn't aged a day. Anyone with influence — a boss, a parent, a leader of anything — has a responsibility to stay clear-headed. Not because enjoyment is bad, but because people are counting on you to see straight.
The queen mother closed her direct advice with two commands that might be the most important lines in the chapter. She told her son:
"Open your mouth for those who can't speak for themselves — for the rights of everyone who's been left behind.
Speak up. Judge fairly. Defend the poor and the needy."
This is what power is for. Not prestige, not comfort, not building a legacy people admire. Power exists so that the people without a voice can borrow yours. She wasn't telling her son to be a good person in some vague, abstract sense — she was telling him his throne had a purpose, and it wasn't his own comfort.
Every position of influence comes with this same question: are you using your voice for yourself, or for the people who don't have one?
Here the chapter shifts. What follows is an poem — in the original , each verse begins with the next letter of the alphabet. It's carefully crafted, deliberately structured. And whether it's the mother still speaking or a separate composition Lemuel preserved, the portrait it paints is unlike anything the culture expected. The poem opens:
A woman of excellence — who can find her? She's worth far more than jewels.
Her husband trusts her completely, and he never lacks for anything.
She brings him good, never harm, every single day of her life.
Notice the opening question. "Who can find her?" It's not saying this woman doesn't exist. It's saying she's rare. And the reason she's rare isn't her appearance or her social standing. It's everything that comes next — a list of qualities that has nothing to do with the things culture usually celebrates.
The portrait starts filling in, and it's not what most people expect. The poem continues:
She finds wool and flax and works with eager hands.
She's like a merchant ship — bringing her resources from far away.
She gets up while it's still dark, provides food for her whole household, and gives her workers their share.
She evaluates a field and buys it. With her own earnings, she plants a vineyard.
Read that again slowly. She's sourcing materials. She's managing logistics. She's up before dawn — not because someone told her to, but because she has a vision and she's executing it. She's evaluating real estate, making investment decisions, starting a vineyard with her own money.
This isn't a portrait of someone staying quietly in the background. This is an entrepreneur. A strategist. Someone who sees opportunity and moves on it. In a culture that often limited women's public roles, this poem gives her the full picture — provider, investor, leader of her household. That's not a modern reinterpretation. It's right there in the text.
The portrait keeps building — and the range of what she does is striking. The poem describes her:
She rolls up her sleeves and gets to work. Her arms are strong.
She knows her work is profitable. Her light doesn't go out at night.
Her hands work the spindle. Her fingers hold the thread.
She opens her hands to the poor and reaches out to the needy.
When winter comes, she's not worried — her whole household is dressed for the cold.
She makes beautiful things for her home. Her own clothing is fine linen and purple.
Her husband is respected at the city gates, where he sits among the leaders of the land.
Here's what's remarkable. She's strong — physically and in purpose. Her lamp stays lit because she's not done yet. And right in the middle of all this drive and competence, the poem drops this: "She opens her hands to the poor."
She's not building an empire for herself. The same hands that work the spindle and evaluate real estate — those are the hands that reach toward the needy. Strength and generosity aren't competing values in this poem. They're the same thing.
And notice — her husband's reputation among the community leaders? The poem connects it directly to her. The household she built is the foundation his public standing on.
The portrait shifts from what she does to who she is. The poem continues:
She makes linen garments and sells them. She supplies sashes to the merchants.
Strength and dignity are her clothing, and she laughs at the days to come.
When she speaks, it's with wisdom. Kindness is the law on her tongue.
She watches over everything in her household and never eats the bread of idleness.
That line — "strength and dignity are her clothing." In a world that constantly asks women to dress themselves in anxiety about the future, she's laughing at what's coming. Not because she's naive. Because she's done the work. She's prepared. She's built something solid. The future doesn't scare her because she's already invested in it.
And then verse 26. When she opens her mouth, two things come out: and kindness. Not one or the other — both. She's not kind in a way that avoids hard truths, and she's not wise in a way that cuts people. She figured out something most people never do — how to be honest and warm at the same time.
The poem reaches its peak. The people closest to her rise to say what everyone already knows. Her children stand and call her . Then her husband speaks up:
"Many women have done remarkable things, but you — you surpass them all."
And then the poem delivers the line the whole chapter has been building toward:
Charm is deceptive. Beauty fades. But a woman who fears the Lord — she will be praised.
Give her the credit she's earned. Let her own work speak for her wherever people gather.
Every algorithm, every curated feed, every cultural message about what makes a woman valuable — the poem saw it all coming and said: that's not it. That was never it. Charm can be performed. Beauty is temporary. But the deep, reverent orientation toward God that shapes everything else — that's what the entire portrait has been describing. Every early morning, every open hand to the poor, every wise word, every strong arm — it all flows from that one source.
And the final line? "Let her own work speak for her." She doesn't need someone else to validate what she's built. The evidence is already there — in the lives she's touched, the household she's held together, the people she's lifted. The work speaks for itself. It always does.