There is a remarkable teaching attributed to the Alter Rebbe concerning Rabbi Akiva:
“Concerning Rabbi Akiva: when he recited Song of Songs, his eyes flowed with tears … from the soul’s cleaving to its root above, beyond what his soul could bear, so that ‘there is no ruler over the spirit to restrain it.’”
The passage, found in Likutei Torah, Ki Teitzei, is substantially represented by this translation. Yet its meaning is considerably deeper than the suggestion that Rabbi Akiva was simply moved to tears by the beauty of Shir HaShirim.
Rabbi Akiva did not merely understand Shir HaShirim intellectually. He experienced what its words describe.
The key to the Alter Rebbe’s explanation is דביקות הנפש בשרשה למעלה (devekut hanefesh beshorshah lemaalah — the cleaving of the soul to its root Above).
To understand what that means, we must first understand what Shir HaShirim meant to Rabbi Akiva.
In Mishnah Yadayim 3:5, Rabbi Akiva famously declares:
כל הכתובים קודש ושיר השירים קודש קדשים
(Kol haketuvim kodesh, veShir HaShirim kodesh kodashim — All the Writings are holy, but Shir HaShirim is the Holy of Holies.)
That description is extraordinary. He does not merely call Shir HaShirim sacred. He places it within the spiritual category of the innermost chamber of the Mikdash.
Why?
Because its language of love, longing, separation and reunion describes something fundamental about the relationship between G-D and Israel and, at the level of the individual Jew, between the soul and its Divine source.
When Rabbi Akiva recited Shir HaShirim, therefore, he was not observing this relationship from a distance. His own soul responded to what his lips were saying.
His tears were the physical manifestation of that response.
A Love the Soul Could Barely Contain
The Alter Rebbe describes Rabbi Akiva’s experience as arising from a cleaving to the soul’s root Above that exceeded what his soul could bear.
That requires careful understanding.
The purpose of עבודת השם (avodat Hashem — service of G-D) is not for the soul to escape the body. We were placed within physical existence precisely so that physical existence might be sanctified through Torah and mitzvot.
Yet the soul possesses an inherent attraction towards its Source.
Under extraordinary circumstances, אהבה (ahavah — love) and דביקות (devekut — cleaving) can become so intense that the soul no longer wishes to experience itself as an independent existence. It longs instead to become utterly absorbed within its Divine source.
Chassidut describes this upward movement as רצוא (ratzo — running forth).
The soul runs towards G-D.
But רצוא must ordinarily be followed by שוב (shov — returning).
The soul must return to embodied existence because G-D did not place us here merely to yearn for Heaven. He placed us here to make this world holy.
The danger of רצוא without שוב is therefore not sin, but spiritual excess: the yearning of the soul becoming greater than the body can contain.
This is the condition the Alter Rebbe identifies in Rabbi Akiva.
“There Is No Ruler Over the Spirit”
The Alter Rebbe’s language invokes Kohelet 8:8:
אין אדם שליט ברוח לכלוא את הרוח
(Ein adam shalit baruach likhlo et haruach — A person has no mastery over the spirit to restrain the spirit.)
There comes a point at which ordinary containment fails.
Rabbi Akiva’s tears were therefore not merely an emotional response. Something far more profound was occurring.
The body was reaching the limit of its ability to contain the soul’s consciousness of G-D.
And when we consider Rabbi Akiva’s life as a whole, this becomes still more striking.
The Torah commands us to love G-D:
בכל נפשך
(bechol nafshecha — with all your soul).
Chazal explain this as אפילו הוא נוטל את נפשך (afilu hu notel et nafshecha — even if He takes your soul).
In Berachot 61b, as Rabbi Akiva is being tortured to death by the Romans, he explains that throughout his life he had wondered when he would finally have the opportunity to fulfil these words completely.
He then recites the Shema.
And he prolongs the word:
אחד
(Echad — One)
until his soul departs.
There is a remarkable continuity between that final moment and the tears described by the Alter Rebbe.
When Rabbi Akiva recited Shir HaShirim, his soul yearned towards its root so intensely that his body responded with tears.
At the end of his life, while declaring the absolute Oneness of G-D, that same movement of the soul reached its ultimate expression.
Running Forth — and Returning
Yet we would misunderstand the Alter Rebbe if we concluded that the ideal Jewish spiritual life consists of attempting to escape physical existence.
It does not.
The normal and necessary rhythm of Jewish life is רצוא ושוב (ratzo vashov — running forth and returning).
We approach G-D.
And then we return.
We pray—and return to the world.
We study Torah—and return to the world.
We experience Shabbat—and enter another week.
The test of the encounter with holiness is ultimately what we bring back with us.
We bring holiness into our homes, our businesses, our speech, our relationships and our treatment of another person. We give tzedakah. We eat according to Torah. We conduct business honestly. We sanctify Shabbat. We perform mitzvot with physical objects in a physical world.
The soul may wish to ascend, but G-D commands it to transform the place in which He has put it.
Rabbi Akiva represents an extraordinary case because his רצוא was so powerful that the physical vessel could scarcely contain it.
His tears were the point at which the invisible movement of the soul became visible upon the body.
“Draw Me After You; We Shall Run”
This gives extraordinary meaning to words Rabbi Akiva knew intimately:
משכני אחריך נרוצה
(Mashcheni acharecha narutzah — Draw me after You; we shall run after You.)
— Shir HaShirim 1:4
Rabbi Akiva knew what that running meant.
And when Shir HaShirim says:
חולת אהבה אני
(Cholat ahavah ani — I am sick with love.)
— Shir HaShirim 2:5
these words were not poetic exaggeration to him.
They described an actual possibility within the Jewish soul: a longing for G-D so intense that ordinary physical existence can scarcely contain it.
Perhaps this is why Rabbi Akiva could recognise Shir HaShirim as קודש קדשים (kodesh kodashim — the Holy of Holies).
He was not merely interpreting its metaphor.
He had entered it.
The Alter Rebbe’s description of Rabbi Akiva crying while reciting Shir HaShirim consequently teaches us something profound about the nature of the Jewish soul.
Beneath all the distractions of physical existence, the soul remembers where it came from.
It recognises its Source.
It longs for its Source.
And sometimes, in a soul as extraordinary as Rabbi Akiva’s, that recognition becomes so powerful that the body can no longer conceal what is happening within.
Then the soul speaks through tears.