Surah Adh-Dhariyat (The Winnowing Winds) — Full Text
Ayah 1
وَٱلذَّٰرِيَـٰتِ ذَرْوًا
By the [winds] scattering [dust], dispersing [it]
This surah opens with a powerful series of oaths, and the first one references the winds that scatter — carrying dust, seeds, and pollen across the earth. In classical Arabic poetry, oaths by natural phenomena carried immense rhetorical weight, and the Quran elevates this tradition to a divine level. The "scattering and dispersing" evokes an image of winds sweeping across vast desert landscapes, something the original audience would have witnessed daily. But there's a deeper layer here — these winds are not random or chaotic. They operate within a precise system ordained by God, scattering life-giving elements exactly where they need to go. It's a subtle invitation right from the first verse to look at nature not as mere background noise, but as evidence of purposeful design.
Ayah 2
فَٱلْحَـٰمِلَـٰتِ وِقْرًا
And the [clouds] carrying a load [of water]
The oath continues with those "carrying a load" — most scholars interpret this as clouds heavy with rain. Think about that image for a moment: massive bodies of water suspended in the sky, carried across continents by atmospheric currents, only to release their burden at precisely the right time and place. The Arabic word for "load" here suggests something weighty and significant, not a casual burden. Some commentators also see a reference to winds carrying pollen or even to angels carrying out divine commands. The layered meaning is part of the Quran's literary genius — each interpretation reinforces the same core message about a universe governed by intention rather than accident.
Ayah 3
فَٱلْجَـٰرِيَـٰتِ يُسْرًا
And the ships sailing with ease
Now we get ships gliding across the ocean with ease — a sight that would have been awe-inspiring to the people of seventh-century Arabia. The word used suggests smooth, effortless movement, as if the seas themselves were cooperating with human endeavor. There's something profound about a massive vessel riding the surface of an ocean that could swallow it whole, held aloft by physical laws that humans didn't invent but learned to harness. Some scholars also read this as referring to the celestial bodies sailing through space along their orbits. Either way, the verse points to the same truth: there is a facilitating power behind what we often take for granted.
Ayah 4
فَٱلْمُقَسِّمَـٰتِ أَمْرًا
And the [angels] apportioning [each] matter,
The final oath in this opening sequence refers to those who distribute the divine command — widely understood as the angels who carry out God's decrees throughout creation. Rain falls here, sustenance goes there, a soul is given life, another is taken — all orchestrated through these agents of the divine will. This verse ties together the previous three oaths beautifully: the winds scatter, the clouds carry, the ships sail, and behind all of it, there are angels executing a master plan. It paints a picture of a universe that is anything but random. Every element, from the microscopic to the cosmic, has a role and a commander.
Ayah 5
إِنَّمَا تُوعَدُونَ لَصَادِقٌ
Indeed, what you are promised is true.
After those four dramatic oaths, here comes the punchline — what you've been promised is absolutely, undeniably true. The structure is deliberate: God swears by these awe-inspiring phenomena of nature to confirm a single reality that many people doubt. And what is that promise? The resurrection, the afterlife, the accountability that awaits every soul. The emphasis here — "surely true" — isn't casual reassurance. It's a categorical divine statement backed by the most solemn oaths imaginable. If the winds, the clouds, the ships, and the angels all operate with perfect reliability within God's system, then the promise of what comes next is no less certain.
Ayah 6
وَإِنَّ ٱلدِّينَ لَوَٰقِعٌ
And indeed, the recompense is to occur.
And the Judgment — the Day when every deed is weighed and every soul is held accountable — is absolutely going to happen. This verse doubles down on the previous one, making it crystal clear that the Day of Judgment isn't a metaphor or a maybe. The Arabic uses an emphatic construction that leaves no room for ambiguity. It's interesting that God chooses to affirm this through the lens of nature's reliability — as if to say, "You trust that rain will fall and winds will blow, so why do you doubt that justice will come?" For the original audience in Mecca, many of whom denied the resurrection outright, this was a direct challenge to their worldview.
Ayah 7
وَٱلسَّمَآءِ ذَاتِ ٱلْحُبُكِ
By the heaven containing pathways,1
Now a new oath begins — by the heaven full of pathways. The Arabic word "hubuk" is fascinating and has been interpreted in multiple ways: woven paths, orbital tracks, beautiful patterns, or even the ripple-like textures you see in sand dunes or cloud formations. Modern readers can't help but think of the countless orbital paths of planets, stars, and galaxies crisscrossing the cosmos. The ancient Arabs, gazing up at a sky unpolluted by city lights, would have seen the Milky Way in breathtaking detail — a highway of stars stretching across the dome above them. Whether you read this as referring to beauty, structure, or cosmic pathways, the message is the same: the sky above you is not empty chaos but an intricately woven masterpiece.
Ayah 8
إِنَّكُمْ لَفِى قَوْلٍ مُّخْتَلِفٍ
Indeed, you are in differing speech.1
Here's where the oaths land their target — you people are in deeply contradictory speech about this message. Some say Muhammad is a poet, others call him a sorcerer, still others say he's possessed. They can't even agree on what to accuse him of, which ironically proves that none of their accusations hold water. If someone were truly a poet, you wouldn't also call him a madman — the two don't fit together. This verse exposes the intellectual dishonesty of the Meccan opposition. They weren't arriving at their rejection through careful reasoning; they were grasping at whatever dismissal felt convenient in the moment. It's a pattern that repeats throughout history — when people don't want to accept an inconvenient truth, their objections tend to be scattered and self-contradicting.
Ayah 9
يُؤْفَكُ عَنْهُ مَنْ أُفِكَ
Deluded away from it [i.e., the Qur’ān] is he who is deluded.
This is a sobering statement — the one who is deluded away from the truth is someone who was already inclined toward delusion. There's a cyclical quality to it: turning away from guidance leads to further turning away, until a person is so deep in their own fog that they can't even see the fog anymore. The Arabic phrasing has an almost passive quality, as if the deluded person isn't actively choosing ignorance so much as being swept along by it. It's a warning about the dangers of intellectual complacency. When you stop questioning your assumptions and stop engaging honestly with evidence, you don't stay in a neutral place — you drift further and further from clarity.
Ayah 10
قُتِلَ ٱلْخَرَّٰصُونَ
Destroyed are the misinformers1
"Cursed be the liars" — or more precisely, destroyed are the compulsive speculators, those who make grand pronouncements about the unseen without any knowledge or authority. The Arabic "kharrasun" refers to people who guess wildly and then state their guesses as certainties. These aren't people who are simply mistaken; they're people who fabricate claims about God, the afterlife, and the Prophet with no basis whatsoever. In our modern context, this is a reminder about the danger of speaking confidently about things you know nothing about — especially when it concerns matters of ultimate truth and consequence. Intellectual humility isn't just a virtue here; its absence is described as worthy of divine censure.
Ayah 11
ٱلَّذِينَ هُمْ فِى غَمْرَةٍ سَاهُونَ
Who are within a flood [of confusion] and heedless.
These liars are further described as being submerged in a flood of heedlessness — the Arabic "ghamra" suggests being overwhelmed and engulfed, like someone drowning in deep water. They're not just distracted; they're completely submerged in their unawareness, unable to come up for air. The imagery is powerful because a drowning person often doesn't even realize how much danger they're in until it's too late. This is the spiritual condition of people so consumed by worldly concerns, entertainment, and self-satisfaction that the big questions of existence never even register. They float through life without ever asking where they came from, why they're here, or where they're going.
Ayah 12
يَسْـَٔلُونَ أَيَّانَ يَوْمُ ٱلدِّينِ
They ask, "When is the Day of Recompense?"
And from the depths of their heedlessness, they mockingly ask, "So when is this Day of Judgment supposed to happen?" The question isn't sincere — it's sarcastic. They're not genuinely curious about the timeline; they're using the question as a way to dismiss the entire concept. It's the ancient equivalent of someone rolling their eyes and saying, "Sure, sure, any day now." This kind of rhetorical dismissal is actually a defense mechanism — by treating the warning as a joke, they avoid having to seriously grapple with its implications. The Quran records their question not to dignify it but to set up the devastating answer that follows.
Ayah 13
يَوْمَ هُمْ عَلَى ٱلنَّارِ يُفْتَنُونَ
[It is] the Day they will be tormented over the Fire.
Here's the answer they didn't want — on that Day, they will be tested over the Fire, exposed to its torment. The word "yuftanun" comes from the same root as "fitna," which can mean trial, testing, or even the process of refining gold by burning away impurities. The irony is sharp: they asked for the Day of Judgment as a taunt, and now they're told exactly what that Day holds for them. There's a grim poetic justice in the fact that the very thing they mocked becomes the thing they must endure. The verse strips away their casual sarcasm and replaces it with a stark, unflinching picture of consequence.
Ayah 14
ذُوقُوا۟ فِتْنَتَكُمْ هَـٰذَا ٱلَّذِى كُنتُم بِهِۦ تَسْتَعْجِلُونَ
[And will be told], "Taste your torment. This is that for which you were impatient."
"Taste your trial — this is what you were so eager to rush." The command to "taste" is repeated throughout the Quran in contexts of punishment, and it carries an intimate, inescapable quality — you can't taste something at a distance. They wanted the Day of Judgment to come quickly as proof, as a dare, as a challenge to the Prophet — well, here it is. Be careful what you wish for takes on an entirely new dimension when it's the Creator of the universe responding to your taunt. This verse closes the loop on their mockery with devastating finality. What was once their punchline has become their sentence.
Ayah 15
إِنَّ ٱلْمُتَّقِينَ فِى جَنَّـٰتٍ وَعُيُونٍ
Indeed, the righteous will be among gardens and springs,
The scene shifts dramatically — from the fire and torment of the mockers to the lush gardens and flowing springs awaiting the righteous. This contrast is classic Quranic rhetoric, juxtaposing the fates of the heedless and the mindful side by side so the listener can feel the weight of the difference. The word "muttaqin" — the God-conscious, the righteous — describes people who lived with an awareness of accountability, who let that awareness shape their choices. Their reward isn't arbitrary; it's the natural flowering of a life lived with purpose and moral seriousness. Gardens and springs in the Arabian context represent the absolute pinnacle of comfort and abundance — everything the harsh desert withholds, Paradise provides in endless measure.
Ayah 16
ءَاخِذِينَ مَآ ءَاتَىٰهُمْ رَبُّهُمْ ۚ إِنَّهُمْ كَانُوا۟ قَبْلَ ذَٰلِكَ مُحْسِنِينَ
Accepting what their Lord has given them. Indeed, they were before that doers of good.
They'll be gratefully receiving whatever their Lord gives them, because even before Paradise, they were people who excelled in doing good. The phrase "muhsinin" — good-doers or people of excellence — is significant. These aren't people who merely avoided sin; they actively pursued goodness. They went above and beyond what was required, driven not by obligation alone but by genuine love for what is right. The verse also implies a beautiful continuity: their excellence in this life naturally flows into the excellence of their reward in the next. They were already living in a kind of spiritual garden — Paradise is simply the full, eternal blossoming of what they planted in their earthly days.
Ayah 17
كَانُوا۟ قَلِيلًا مِّنَ ٱلَّيْلِ مَا يَهْجَعُونَ
They used to sleep but little of the night,1
Here's a window into what made them so special — they used to sleep very little at night. This doesn't mean they were insomniacs; it means they voluntarily gave up the comfort of sleep to stand before God in prayer during the quiet hours when the rest of the world was unconscious. The night prayer — tahajjud — has always held a special place in Islamic spirituality because it requires genuine sincerity. Nobody sees you pray at 3 AM except God. There's no social reward, no audience, no recognition. Just you and your Creator in the stillness of the night. That kind of devotion can't be faked, and the Quran highlights it as a defining characteristic of the truly righteous.
Ayah 18
وَبِٱلْأَسْحَارِ هُمْ يَسْتَغْفِرُونَ
And in the hours before dawn they would ask forgiveness,
And in the pre-dawn hours — that sacred sliver of time just before the first light — they would seek God's forgiveness. This is remarkable: these are already described as righteous people, good-doers, people of the night prayer, and yet they still feel the need to ask for forgiveness. It speaks to a profound humility. The closer you get to God, the more aware you become of your own shortcomings. It's the spiritual paradox at the heart of true piety — the best people feel the most need for mercy. The pre-dawn hours, known as "ashar" in Arabic, were considered the most spiritually potent time for supplication, a moment when heaven and earth feel closest to each other.
Ayah 19
وَفِىٓ أَمْوَٰلِهِمْ حَقٌّ لِّلسَّآئِلِ وَٱلْمَحْرُومِ
And from their properties was [given] the right of the [needy] petitioner and the deprived.
And in their wealth, there was a recognized right for those who asked and those who were too dignified to ask. This is one of the most socially revolutionary verses in the Quran — it reframes charity not as generosity from the rich but as a right belonging to the poor. The person in need isn't receiving a favor; they're receiving what was always theirs. Notice the distinction between "the one who asks" and "the deprived" — the latter refers to those who suffer in silence, too proud or too ashamed to beg. The truly righteous don't wait for someone to come to them with a hand outstretched; they actively seek out those who are struggling quietly and ensure they receive their due. This is social consciousness elevated to an act of worship.
Ayah 20
وَفِى ٱلْأَرْضِ ءَايَـٰتٌ لِّلْمُوقِنِينَ
And on the earth are signs for the certain [in faith]
Now the surah pivots to a grand tour of evidence — and in the earth are signs for those who possess certainty. Every mountain range, every river system, every ecosystem teeming with interdependent life forms is a sign pointing to a Creator. But the qualifier is crucial: these signs are visible to "those who are certain" — people who have already opened their hearts to the possibility of a higher truth. It's not that the signs aren't there for everyone; it's that perception requires a certain readiness of the soul. A geologist can study rock formations for decades and see only geology, while another person looks at the same landscape and sees the handwriting of God. The difference isn't in the evidence — it's in the observer.
Ayah 21
وَفِىٓ أَنفُسِكُمْ ۚ أَفَلَا تُبْصِرُونَ
And in yourselves. Then will you not see?
And within your own selves — will you not then see? This is perhaps the most intimate verse in this passage. Forget the mountains and the oceans for a moment — look inward. Your own body, your consciousness, your ability to think and feel and wonder — these are signs of staggering proportions. The human body contains roughly 37 trillion cells, each one performing thousands of chemical reactions per second in perfect coordination. Your brain processes information in ways that the most advanced supercomputers still can't replicate. And yet most of us walk through life never pausing to marvel at the miracle that we are. The verse is almost incredulous — how can you look for proof of God's existence when you ARE the proof?
Ayah 22
وَفِى ٱلسَّمَآءِ رِزْقُكُمْ وَمَا تُوعَدُونَ
And in the heaven is your provision and whatever you are promised.
And in the sky is your provision and everything you've been promised. On the surface, this refers to rain — the literal sustenance that falls from above and makes agriculture, and therefore civilization, possible. But the verse carries a deeper resonance: your rizq, your provision, is decreed and distributed from a heavenly source. It's already been allocated, already been planned. This doesn't mean you stop working or planning — it means you stop agonizing and losing sleep over whether there will be enough. For people living in a harsh desert environment where drought could mean death, being told that their provision is secured in the heavens would have been profoundly reassuring. And honestly, it still is, even for those of us who worry about paychecks instead of rainfall.
Ayah 23
فَوَرَبِّ ٱلسَّمَآءِ وَٱلْأَرْضِ إِنَّهُۥ لَحَقٌّ مِّثْلَ مَآ أَنَّكُمْ تَنطِقُونَ
Then by the Lord of the heaven and earth, indeed, it is truth - just as [sure as] it is that you are speaking.
Then God swears by Himself — by the Lord of the heaven and the earth — that all of this is as true as the fact that you can speak. That's an extraordinary comparison. You don't doubt your own ability to speak, do you? You don't wake up each morning wondering whether language is real. It's that obvious, that self-evident, that undeniable — and so is everything God has just described. The oath by God Himself is the most solemn oath possible, reserved for truths of the highest magnitude. Some scholars note that the comparison to speech is also a subtle jab at the skeptics: you use God-given faculties like speech every day without questioning them, yet you question the God who gave them to you.
Ayah 24
هَلْ أَتَىٰكَ حَدِيثُ ضَيْفِ إِبْرَٰهِيمَ ٱلْمُكْرَمِينَ
Has there reached you the story of the honored guests of Abraham?1 -
The surah now transitions into narrative mode — has the story of Ibrahim's honored guests reached you? This is a storytelling formula the Quran uses to draw the listener in, creating anticipation before revealing the details. The guests are described as "honored," which is significant because they are actually angels in human form, though Ibrahim doesn't know this yet. The story that follows serves multiple purposes: it illustrates Ibrahim's legendary hospitality, it delivers the miraculous news of a son in old age, and it introduces the destruction of the people of Lut — all woven together in a single, compact narrative. For the Meccan audience, who revered Ibrahim as their ancestor, this story would have carried enormous weight.
Ayah 25
إِذْ دَخَلُوا۟ عَلَيْهِ فَقَالُوا۟ سَلَـٰمًا ۖ قَالَ سَلَـٰمٌ قَوْمٌ مُّنكَرُونَ
When they entered upon him and said, "[We greet you with] peace." He answered, "[And upon you] peace; [you are] a people unknown."
When the guests entered upon Ibrahim, they greeted him with "Peace," and he responded with "Peace" — but then he noted to himself that these were unfamiliar people. The exchange of salam was the standard greeting of the righteous, and Ibrahim's immediate reciprocation shows his noble character. But his observation that they were strangers is important — it shows his perceptiveness without diminishing his hospitality. In the desert culture of Arabia, welcoming strangers was a sacred duty, even if you didn't know who they were or where they came from. Ibrahim doesn't interrogate them or turn them away; his very next action is to prepare food for them. This is hospitality in its purest form — extended freely, without conditions or calculations.
Ayah 26
فَرَاغَ إِلَىٰٓ أَهْلِهِۦ فَجَآءَ بِعِجْلٍ سَمِينٍ
Then he went to his family and came with a fat [roasted] calf.
Without missing a beat, Ibrahim slips away to his household and returns with a fattened calf — roasted and ready to serve. The detail about the calf being "fat" tells us this wasn't leftovers or a quick snack; this was the best he had, prepared generously for people he'd never met before. In the ancient Near East, slaughtering a calf for guests was a sign of the highest honor and hospitality. Ibrahim didn't ask them to wait, didn't check if they were "worth" the expense, didn't offer something cheaper first. He went straight for the premium offering. This is the Ibrahimic standard of generosity — give your best, give it first, and give it without being asked.
Ayah 27
فَقَرَّبَهُۥٓ إِلَيْهِمْ قَالَ أَلَا تَأْكُلُونَ
And placed it near them; he said, "Will you not eat?"
He placed the food near them — not in front of them in a demanding way, but close enough to be inviting — and gently said, "Will you not eat?" The phrasing is beautifully courteous; it's an invitation, not a command. He's not pressuring them but making them comfortable. When the angels didn't eat — because angels don't consume food — Ibrahim began to sense that something was unusual about these visitors. The Quran captures this moment of social delicacy with remarkable precision. Ibrahim is the perfect host, attentive to his guests' comfort, but their refusal to eat triggers an instinctive unease. In Arab culture, a guest who refuses food might signal hostile intentions, which explains what happens next.
Ayah 28
فَأَوْجَسَ مِنْهُمْ خِيفَةً ۖ قَالُوا۟ لَا تَخَفْ ۖ وَبَشَّرُوهُ بِغُلَـٰمٍ عَلِيمٍ
And he felt from them apprehension.1 They said, "Fear not," and gave him good tidings of a learned boy.
Ibrahim felt a flicker of fear — and the angels immediately perceived it and reassured him: "Don't be afraid." Then they delivered the real purpose of their visit: glad tidings of a knowledgeable son. The fear Ibrahim felt was natural and human; when guests refuse your food in that cultural context, it could mean trouble. But the angels quickly dissolve his anxiety and replace it with joy. The son promised here is generally understood to be Ishaq (Isaac), who would indeed grow to be a prophet of great wisdom. Imagine the emotional whiplash — from the tension of hosting mysterious strangers who won't eat, to the sudden announcement that your deepest wish for a child is about to be fulfilled. This is divine storytelling at its most emotionally compelling.
Ayah 29
فَأَقْبَلَتِ ٱمْرَأَتُهُۥ فِى صَرَّةٍ فَصَكَّتْ وَجْهَهَا وَقَالَتْ عَجُوزٌ عَقِيمٌ
And his wife approached with a cry [of alarm] and struck her face and said, "[I am] a barren old woman!"
Then Sarah — Ibrahim's wife — comes forward, and her reaction is wonderfully human. She strikes her face in astonishment and exclaims, "An old, barren woman!" The gesture of striking or touching one's face was a common expression of shock and disbelief in that culture — it's the ancient equivalent of someone gasping and covering their mouth. She's not rejecting the good news; she's overwhelmed by it. She's lived her entire life with the pain of infertility, and now, at an age when hope should have been long extinguished, she's being told she'll have a child. Her reaction is so raw and genuine that it bridges thousands of years — any person who has struggled with what seems impossible can feel the echo of her astonishment.
Ayah 30
قَالُوا۟ كَذَٰلِكِ قَالَ رَبُّكِ ۖ إِنَّهُۥ هُوَ ٱلْحَكِيمُ ٱلْعَلِيمُ
They said, "Thus has said your Lord; indeed, He is the Wise, the Knowing."
The angels respond with calm authority — "Thus has your Lord said. Indeed, He is the All-Wise, the All-Knowing." In other words, don't measure God's promise by your human limitations. If He says it will happen, it will happen, because He is the one who designed the very laws of biology you think are working against you. The names invoked here — Al-Hakim (the All-Wise) and Al-Alim (the All-Knowing) — are deliberately chosen. God's wisdom means this isn't a random miracle; it's part of a larger plan. And His knowledge means He knows exactly what Ibrahim and Sarah need, what the world needs, and when the time is right. Sometimes the most profound comfort comes from simply being reminded that the One in charge knows what He's doing.
Ayah 31
۞ قَالَ فَمَا خَطْبُكُمْ أَيُّهَا ٱلْمُرْسَلُونَ
[Abraham] said, "Then what is your business [here], O messengers?"
Now Ibrahim, reassured and overjoyed, shifts gears and asks the angels directly — "So what is your real mission, O messengers?" He's perceptive enough to realize that a group of angels wouldn't descend to earth just to deliver baby news. There must be something bigger going on. This question reveals Ibrahim's intellectual sharpness and his concern for others — he senses that these messengers carry a heavier burden beyond his personal good news. It's a pivot point in the narrative, transitioning from a moment of intimate family joy to the grim business of divine justice. Ibrahim is about to learn that while blessings flow toward the righteous, destruction is heading toward the wicked.
Ayah 32
قَالُوٓا۟ إِنَّآ أُرْسِلْنَآ إِلَىٰ قَوْمٍ مُّجْرِمِينَ
They said, "Indeed, we have been sent to a people of criminals1
The angels reveal their true mission — they've been sent to a criminal people. The word "mujrimin" carries the connotation of deep, habitual sinfulness — not people who made a mistake, but people who made sin their way of life. This is the community of Lut (Lot), whose depravity had reached a point where divine intervention became inevitable. The juxtaposition in this narrative is striking: the same angels who just delivered news of a miraculous birth are now on their way to deliver catastrophic destruction. Mercy and justice, creation and annihilation, all carried by the same messengers in the same journey. It's a powerful reminder that God's attributes work in concert — His mercy doesn't negate His justice, and His justice doesn't diminish His mercy.
Ayah 33
لِنُرْسِلَ عَلَيْهِمْ حِجَارَةً مِّن طِينٍ
To send down upon them stones of clay,
The punishment is described with terrifying specificity — stones of baked clay will rain down upon them. These aren't ordinary rocks; they're divinely crafted projectiles, each one purpose-made for destruction. The imagery echoes descriptions of volcanic or meteorological catastrophe, and the archaeological evidence from the Dead Sea region — where the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah are traditionally located — does show signs of a cataclysmic event. The Quran's attention to the material detail of the punishment underscores its reality; this isn't metaphorical wrath but a physical, historical event that left its mark on the landscape. The specificity is also meant as a warning: if God describes the punishment this precisely, He means business.
Ayah 34
مُّسَوَّمَةً عِندَ رَبِّكَ لِلْمُسْرِفِينَ
Marked in the presence of your Lord for the transgressors."
Each stone was "marked" — designated by your Lord for the transgressors. The word "musawwama" suggests that these stones were individually tagged, almost like addressed packages of divine retribution. There's something deeply unsettling about the precision here — not indiscriminate destruction, but targeted justice where every transgressor receives their specific portion. This detail also implies that the innocent won't be caught in the crossfire; the punishment is surgical, not chaotic. It reinforces one of the Quran's core theological principles: God's justice is never random or careless. Every consequence is proportionate, every target is deliberate, and no one bears a burden that isn't theirs to bear.
Ayah 35
فَأَخْرَجْنَا مَن كَانَ فِيهَا مِنَ ٱلْمُؤْمِنِينَ
So We brought out whoever was in them [i.e., the cities] of the believers.
Before the destruction fell, God brought out the believers who were living among the condemned community. This is a crucial detail — divine punishment doesn't fall on the righteous alongside the wicked. God's system of justice includes an extraction plan for those who maintained their faith even in the most corrupted of environments. The word "akhrajna" — We brought out — implies active divine intervention, not just a warning to leave. God didn't simply inform the believers and leave them to figure it out; He actively facilitated their escape. It's a reassuring message for believers in any era who find themselves surrounded by moral corruption: God sees you, God distinguishes you, and God will not let you be swept up in a punishment meant for others.
Ayah 36
فَمَا وَجَدْنَا فِيهَا غَيْرَ بَيْتٍ مِّنَ ٱلْمُسْلِمِينَ
And We found not within them other than a [single] house of Muslims.1
But when God looked into that city, He found only one household of Muslims — one single family that had submitted to Him. The picture is devastatingly bleak: an entire civilization, and only one house held people of faith. This is the household of Prophet Lut and his believing family members. It serves as both a historical fact and a timeless warning about how deeply corruption can penetrate a society, to the point where only a tiny remnant of faith survives. The verse also subtly distinguishes between "believers" and "Muslims" — those who had inner faith and those who demonstrated it through submission — though in this context, the lone faithful household embodied both.
Ayah 37
وَتَرَكْنَا فِيهَآ ءَايَةً لِّلَّذِينَ يَخَافُونَ ٱلْعَذَابَ ٱلْأَلِيمَ
And We left therein a sign for those who fear the painful punishment.
And God left in that place a sign — a lasting reminder for those who fear the painful punishment. The ruins of the destroyed cities serve as a billboard of divine justice visible to anyone willing to look. Travelers passing through the Dead Sea region for centuries would have seen the desolate landscape and heard the stories of what happened there. The Quran's audience — the Meccan Arabs — would have been familiar with these sites through their trade routes to Syria. But the sign is only meaningful to those who "fear" — to those whose hearts are soft enough to learn from the fate of others. For the heedless, even the most dramatic ruins are just interesting geography, nothing more.
Ayah 38
وَفِى مُوسَىٰٓ إِذْ أَرْسَلْنَـٰهُ إِلَىٰ فِرْعَوْنَ بِسُلْطَـٰنٍ مُّبِينٍ
And in Moses [was a sign], when We sent him to Pharaoh with clear authority.1
The narrative continues its tour of divine justice — and in the story of Musa is another sign, when God sent him to Pharaoh with clear authority. Musa wasn't sent empty-handed; he carried miracles and proofs that left no rational room for denial. The phrase "clear authority" suggests both the miraculous signs — the staff, the radiant hand — and the irrefutable logic of Musa's message. Pharaoh wasn't dealing with vague claims or ambiguous prophecies; he was confronted with evidence that demanded a response. The parallel to the Meccan situation is unmistakable: just as Pharaoh was given clear proof and rejected it, the leaders of Mecca were being given the Quran — the clearest proof of all — and choosing to look the other way.
Ayah 39
فَتَوَلَّىٰ بِرُكْنِهِۦ وَقَالَ سَـٰحِرٌ أَوْ مَجْنُونٌ
But he turned away with his supporters and said, "A magician or a madman."
But Pharaoh turned away with all the might of his establishment and dismissed Musa as either a magician or a madman. Notice the "or" — even Pharaoh couldn't settle on a consistent accusation. Sound familiar? The Meccans were doing the exact same thing to Muhammad, cycling through contradictory labels because none of them actually fit. Pharaoh's arrogance is laid bare in this verse: he didn't turn away alone but made sure to bring his supporters, his court, his power structure with him. Tyranny rarely operates in isolation; it needs an ecosystem of enablers, flatterers, and yes-men. The word "ruknihi" — his supporters or his strength — emphasizes that Pharaoh's rejection was a collective institutional failure, not just one man's stubbornness.
Ayah 40
فَأَخَذْنَـٰهُ وَجُنُودَهُۥ فَنَبَذْنَـٰهُمْ فِى ٱلْيَمِّ وَهُوَ مُلِيمٌ
So We took him and his soldiers and cast them into the sea, and he was blameworthy.
So God seized Pharaoh and his entire army and cast them into the sea — and Pharaoh was fully deserving of blame. The brevity of this verse is devastating. An entire empire, centuries of power, a man who declared himself a god — all swept away in a single sentence. The Quran doesn't linger on the drama of the drowning; it states it as simple fact, almost matter-of-factly, because the outcome was inevitable from the moment Pharaoh chose defiance. The final note — "while he was blameworthy" — is a theological stamp confirming that Pharaoh earned every bit of what came to him. He wasn't a victim of circumstance; he was a man who had every opportunity to choose differently and refused.
Ayah 41
وَفِى عَادٍ إِذْ أَرْسَلْنَا عَلَيْهِمُ ٱلرِّيحَ ٱلْعَقِيمَ
And in ʿAad [was a sign], when We sent against them the barren wind.1
And in the people of Aad is yet another sign — when God sent against them the barren wind. Aad were a powerful ancient civilization, famous for their massive structures and their physical strength, located in the southern Arabian Peninsula. The wind that destroyed them is described as "aqeem" — barren, sterile, carrying no rain, no benefit, no life. It was purely destructive. The irony is painful: wind, which normally brings clouds and rain and life, became their instrument of death. Everything they relied on — their buildings, their strength, their sense of invincibility — proved useless against an invisible, intangible force. It's a humbling reminder that the mightiest human achievements are fragile before the gentlest of God's forces.
Ayah 42
مَا تَذَرُ مِن شَىْءٍ أَتَتْ عَلَيْهِ إِلَّا جَعَلَتْهُ كَٱلرَّمِيمِ
It left nothing of what it came upon but that it made it like disintegrated ruins.
That wind left nothing it touched intact — it reduced everything to something like crumbling, disintegrated ruins. The Arabic "ka-l-ramim" suggests something decayed and pulverized, like old bones turned to dust. Imagine structures that were meant to last forever, reduced to rubble by nothing more than moving air. The totality of the destruction is emphasized: not some things, not most things, but everything the wind touched was obliterated. For the Meccan audience, who prided themselves on their own accomplishments and trade networks, this was a pointed warning. The Aad were far more powerful than the Quraysh, and they were erased from the earth. Power and prosperity are no protection against divine reckoning.
Ayah 43
وَفِى ثَمُودَ إِذْ قِيلَ لَهُمْ تَمَتَّعُوا۟ حَتَّىٰ حِينٍ
And in Thamūd, when it was said to them, "Enjoy yourselves for a time."
And in the Thamud — when they were told, "Enjoy yourselves for a time." The Thamud were another powerful Arabian civilization, famous for carving homes into mountains — some of their ruins in places like Madain Salih are still visible today. God sent them Prophet Salih and gave them a miraculous she-camel as a sign, along with a warning. When they killed the camel in defiance, they were given three days — a final, measured window before the punishment arrived. The phrase "enjoy yourselves for a time" carries an ominous weight. It sounds like permission but reads like a countdown. Every moment of that borrowed time was ticking toward an ending they chose for themselves.
Ayah 44
فَعَتَوْا۟ عَنْ أَمْرِ رَبِّهِمْ فَأَخَذَتْهُمُ ٱلصَّـٰعِقَةُ وَهُمْ يَنظُرُونَ
But they were insolent toward the command of their Lord, so the thunderbolt seized them while they were looking on.
But they arrogantly defied the command of their Lord, and so the thunderbolt seized them while they were watching it come. The word "yanzurun" — while they were looking — is chilling. They saw the punishment approaching and could do nothing to stop it. There was no escape, no negotiation, no last-minute reprieve. Some scholars describe this as a massive blast — perhaps lightning, perhaps a volcanic explosion, perhaps an earthquake accompanied by a deafening sound. Whatever its exact nature, the fact that they witnessed it coming adds a layer of horror. They had been warned, they had been given time, and they chose defiance. Now they could only watch as the consequences of that choice arrived.
Ayah 45
فَمَا ٱسْتَطَـٰعُوا۟ مِن قِيَامٍ وَمَا كَانُوا۟ مُنتَصِرِينَ
And they were unable to arise, nor could they defend themselves.
They couldn't even stand up, let alone defend themselves or help one another. The Thamud, who carved homes into solid rock, who were legendary for their engineering prowess and physical might, were rendered completely helpless. The verse uses two negations — they could not rise, and they could not be victorious — to emphasize the totality of their powerlessness. All their strength, all their technology, all their collective might was meaningless against a divine decree. It's a pattern the Quran returns to again and again: human power, no matter how impressive, is always conditional, always borrowed, always subject to the will of the One who granted it in the first place.
Ayah 46
وَقَوْمَ نُوحٍ مِّن قَبْلُ ۖ إِنَّهُمْ كَانُوا۟ قَوْمًا فَـٰسِقِينَ
And [We destroyed] the people of Noah before; indeed, they were a people defiantly disobedient.
And before all of these — before Aad, before Thamud, before Pharaoh — there was the people of Nuh, who were a defiantly disobedient people. Nuh's story is the oldest of these cautionary tales, stretching back to the earliest chapters of human civilization. His people rejected his message for centuries — the Quran tells us he preached for 950 years — and their destruction by the Great Flood became the original template for divine judgment against persistent rebellion. By placing Nuh's people at the end of this historical sequence, the Quran creates a sense of accumulating evidence: this is not a one-time event but a recurring pattern. Every generation that chose arrogance over submission met the same fate, from the very beginning of human history.
Ayah 47
وَٱلسَّمَآءَ بَنَيْنَـٰهَا بِأَيْي۟دٍ وَإِنَّا لَمُوسِعُونَ
And the heaven We constructed with strength,1 and indeed, We are [its] expander.
And the heaven — We constructed it with great power, and indeed, We are its expanders. This verse has fascinated modern readers because of its striking resonance with the scientific discovery of the expanding universe. The Arabic word "musi'un" — derived from "wasi'a," meaning to expand or to make vast — describes God as the one who continues to expand the cosmos. In 1929, Edwin Hubble observed that galaxies are moving away from each other, confirming that the universe is indeed expanding — a fact stated in this seventh-century text. Whether or not you read this as a direct scientific prediction, the verse at minimum communicates that creation is not static. It's an ongoing process, a continuous act of divine power that didn't stop after some initial moment of creation.
Ayah 48
وَٱلْأَرْضَ فَرَشْنَـٰهَا فَنِعْمَ ٱلْمَـٰهِدُونَ
And the earth We have spread out, and excellent is the preparer.
And the earth — We have spread it out, and how excellent is the Spreader. The earth's surface has been made habitable, with its terrain shaped in ways that support life — flat plains for agriculture, valleys for water collection, varied ecosystems for biodiversity. The verse praises God's own craftsmanship, a kind of divine signature of satisfaction with the work. The Arabic word "mahd" suggests something laid out comfortably, like a bed or a cradle, emphasizing that the earth was designed for human habitation and comfort. It's an invitation to appreciate the ground beneath your feet not as a random accident of cosmic debris, but as an intentionally prepared home — made by a Creator who takes pride in making it just right.
Ayah 49
وَمِن كُلِّ شَىْءٍ خَلَقْنَا زَوْجَيْنِ لَعَلَّكُمْ تَذَكَّرُونَ
And of all things We created two mates [i.e., counterparts]; perhaps you will remember.
And from everything, We created pairs — so that perhaps you will reflect and remember. The principle of pairing runs through all of creation: male and female, positive and negative, matter and antimatter, day and night, land and sea. Even at the subatomic level, particles have antiparticles. This universal duality points to a singular Creator — because the pairs themselves didn't choose to be paired. Someone designed the system. The purpose clause — "so that you may remember" — is key. The existence of pairs is meant to trigger recognition of the One who is beyond all duality, who has no pair, no opposite, no equal. Every couple, every contrast, every complementary force in the universe is a signpost pointing to the uniqueness of God.
Ayah 50
فَفِرُّوٓا۟ إِلَى ٱللَّهِ ۖ إِنِّى لَكُم مِّنْهُ نَذِيرٌ مُّبِينٌ
So flee to Allāh.1 Indeed, I am to you from Him a clear warner.
So flee to Allah — this is the turning point, the practical conclusion of everything that came before. After all the oaths, the signs, the historical warnings, and the cosmic evidence, the instruction is beautifully simple: run to God. Not walk, not wander, but flee — as if from a burning building, as if your life depends on it, because spiritually, it does. The imagery of fleeing is deliberate; it implies urgency and a recognition of danger. You're not just moving toward something good — you're escaping something terrible. The Prophet speaking here identifies himself as a clear warner, someone whose job is to sound the alarm. The question for the listener is whether they'll heed it or keep sleeping.
Ayah 51
وَلَا تَجْعَلُوا۟ مَعَ ٱللَّهِ إِلَـٰهًا ءَاخَرَ ۖ إِنِّى لَكُم مِّنْهُ نَذِيرٌ مُّبِينٌ
And do not make [as equal] with Allāh another deity. Indeed, I am to you from Him a clear warner.
And do not set up any other god alongside Allah — I am a clear warner to you from Him. This verse reinforces the most fundamental message of every prophet who ever lived: monotheism. Don't divide your devotion, your dependence, your ultimate loyalty between God and anything else. The repetition of "clear warner" from the previous verse is intentional — it emphasizes both the urgency and the clarity of the message. There is no ambiguity here, no room for creative interpretation. The warning is straightforward, and the warner has done his job by delivering it plainly. What remains is for the listener to decide: will you take the one God seriously, or will you continue distributing your worship among things that can neither help nor harm you?
Ayah 52
كَذَٰلِكَ مَآ أَتَى ٱلَّذِينَ مِن قَبْلِهِم مِّن رَّسُولٍ إِلَّا قَالُوا۟ سَاحِرٌ أَوْ مَجْنُونٌ
Similarly, there came not to those before them any messenger except that they said, "A magician or a madman."
And just like that, the surah pulls back to reveal an almost tragic historical pattern — no messenger came to any previous people without being called a sorcerer or a madman. The same two accusations, recycled across centuries, hurled at every prophet by every stubborn generation. There's an almost weary quality to this observation, as if God is pointing out the predictability of human resistance to truth. It should be comforting to Muhammad and to every person who stands up for truth and gets mocked for it: you're not alone, and the response you're getting is not unique. It's the standard playbook of those who can't refute the message, so they attack the messenger instead.
Ayah 53
أَتَوَاصَوْا۟ بِهِۦ ۚ بَلْ هُمْ قَوْمٌ طَاغُونَ
Did they suggest it to them?1 Rather, they [themselves] are a transgressing people.
Did they pass this accusation down to each other like some kind of inherited script? The question is rhetorical and laced with irony — did each generation of deniers bequeath their insults to the next, like a family heirloom of stubbornness? Of course not. They simply share the same fundamental problem: transgression, arrogance, an unwillingness to submit to anything greater than themselves. The Arabic "tawaasaw" implies a kind of mutual recommending or transmitting, as if the Quran is sarcastically asking whether there's a denial manual being passed down through the centuries. The answer — "Nay, they are a transgressing people" — cuts through the sarcasm to the root cause. Different generations, same disease.
Ayah 54
فَتَوَلَّ عَنْهُمْ فَمَآ أَنتَ بِمَلُومٍ
So leave them, [O Muḥammad], for you are not to be blamed.
So turn away from them, Muhammad — you are not to be blamed. This is a moment of divine consolation for the Prophet, who had spent years pouring his heart into calling the Meccans to guidance, facing rejection, mockery, and hostility at every turn. God is telling him: you've done your part, and if they refuse, that's on them, not on you. The phrase "you are not to be blamed" lifts a weight from the Prophet's shoulders. He wasn't failing — they were. This is a profound lesson for anyone engaged in the work of calling people toward truth and goodness: your responsibility is to deliver the message with sincerity and clarity. You are not responsible for how people respond.
Ayah 55
وَذَكِّرْ فَإِنَّ ٱلذِّكْرَىٰ تَنفَعُ ٱلْمُؤْمِنِينَ
And remind, for indeed, the reminder benefits the believers.
And keep reminding — because reminding benefits the believers. Even if the stubborn don't listen, the believers do. Even if the reminder doesn't convert the hostile, it strengthens the faithful. This verse establishes that the purpose of prophetic teaching — and by extension, all sincere counsel — isn't solely about converting the opposition. It's also about nourishing those who already believe. Every khutbah, every lesson, every conversation about faith serves the dual purpose of inviting the distant and fortifying the near. The reminder benefits the believers by rekindling their motivation, refreshing their knowledge, and pulling them back from the drift that naturally occurs in the daily grind of life.
Ayah 56
وَمَا خَلَقْتُ ٱلْجِنَّ وَٱلْإِنسَ إِلَّا لِيَعْبُدُونِ
And I did not create the jinn and mankind except to worship Me.
And I did not create the jinn and humankind except to worship Me. This is arguably one of the most quoted and most profound verses in the entire Quran — a single sentence that answers the biggest question any conscious being can ask: why do I exist? The answer is worship, but "worship" in Islam is not limited to ritual prayer and fasting. It encompasses every act done with consciousness of God — working, parenting, creating, learning, even resting, when done with the right intention. The Arabic "li-ya'budun" comes from "ibadah," which itself comes from "abd" — a servant. The purpose of existence is to live in a state of willing, conscious servitude to the Creator. Not because He needs it, as the next verses will clarify, but because it's the condition in which human beings find their highest fulfillment.
Ayah 57
مَآ أُرِيدُ مِنْهُم مِّن رِّزْقٍ وَمَآ أُرِيدُ أَن يُطْعِمُونِ
I do not want from them any provision, nor do I want them to feed Me.
I do not want from them any provision, nor do I want them to feed Me. God immediately dispels any notion that worship is transactional — He doesn't need your prayers the way a king needs his subjects' taxes. He's not running low on anything. He doesn't benefit from your devotion in the way a human master benefits from a servant's labor. This verse is liberating when you truly absorb it: the entire purpose of worship is for YOUR benefit, not God's. Prayer, charity, fasting — these are gifts disguised as obligations, exercises designed to elevate the worshipper, not to enrich the worshipped. God is utterly self-sufficient. When He commands worship, He's prescribing medicine for the human condition, not collecting payment for Himself.
Ayah 58
إِنَّ ٱللَّهَ هُوَ ٱلرَّزَّاقُ ذُو ٱلْقُوَّةِ ٱلْمَتِينُ
Indeed, it is Allāh who is the [continual] Provider,1 the firm possessor of strength.
Indeed, Allah — He is the All-Provider, the Possessor of unbreakable strength. The name "Ar-Razzaq" — the ultimate Provider — appears here in its most emphatic form, preceded by the word "Huwa" (He) for additional emphasis. God is not just a provider; He is THE Provider, the source from which all sustenance flows. The additional descriptor — "Possessor of Power, the Strong" — reinforces that His ability to provide is backed by limitless strength. He doesn't provide reluctantly or with limited resources. There's an ocean of reassurance in this verse for anyone who worries about their livelihood, their future, their children's wellbeing. The One who created you specifically to worship Him is also the One who guaranteed your provision. You were never meant to figure it out alone.
Ayah 59
فَإِنَّ لِلَّذِينَ ظَلَمُوا۟ ذَنُوبًا مِّثْلَ ذَنُوبِ أَصْحَـٰبِهِمْ فَلَا يَسْتَعْجِلُونِ
And indeed, for those who have wronged is a portion [of punishment] like the portion of their companions [i.e., predecessors], so let them not impatiently urge Me.
So indeed, for those who do wrong, there is a portion of punishment just like the portion that struck their predecessors — so let them not ask Me to hasten it. The wrongdoers of Mecca will receive the same kind of reckoning that destroyed the Aad, the Thamud, the people of Nuh, and the people of Lut. Their turn is coming, and it's as certain as the turns that came before. The final clause — "so let them not ask Me to hasten" — is a direct callback to the mockers in verse 12 who sarcastically demanded, "When is this Day of Judgment?" God's response is chillingly patient: it's coming, and you really don't want to speed it up. The patience of divine justice isn't weakness; it's giving people every possible chance before the door finally closes.
Ayah 60
فَوَيْلٌ لِّلَّذِينَ كَفَرُوا۟ مِن يَوْمِهِمُ ٱلَّذِى يُوعَدُونَ
And woe to those who have disbelieved from their Day which they are promised.
Then woe — utter devastation and ruin — to those who disbelieve, from the Day which they are promised. The surah ends where it began: with the certainty of the promised Day. It opened with oaths confirming that the promise is true and the Judgment will occur, and it closes with a final warning to those who refuse to believe in that Day. The word "wayl" — woe — is one of the heaviest words in the Quranic vocabulary, denoting a valley of punishment in the Hereafter or simply the most extreme form of loss and regret. It's not a curse spoken in anger; it's a statement of fact spoken in sadness. The entire surah has been building toward this final, unavoidable conclusion: the Day is coming, the evidence is overwhelming, and the only rational response is to flee to God before it's too late.