Exodus 5

Hook

Remember those late-night campfire sessions, the embers glowing like scattered diamonds against the velvet sky? We’d be huddled close, the scent of pine and woodsmoke thick in the air, and someone would strum a guitar, leading us in a song. Maybe it was a classic camp song, something about friendship or bravery, or maybe it was a melody that just felt like it belonged to that moment, to us. And then, someone, usually the most enthusiastic counselor with the widest grin, would say, “Alright campers, let’s sing it out! Let’s feel this song!”

That feeling, that collective exhale of shared experience, that rising tide of ruach – spirit – that’s what I want to bring back to you today. Because the Torah, my friends, is a lot like a really epic campfire song. It’s not just words on a page; it’s meant to be sung, to be felt, to be lived. And right now, we’re going to dive into a passage that’s like the dramatic bridge of our song, a moment where the melody shifts, the stakes rise, and we’re called to a new kind of courage.

Think about it. We’re back in the thick of it, right? The Israelites are still under the thumb of Pharaoh, the oppressor. And Moses and Aaron, our two main characters, have just done some pretty amazing things – the staff turning into a snake, the hand afflicted with leprosy. These were signs, right? Like the opening chords of our song, meant to grab attention, to say, “Hey world, something important is happening here!”

But here’s the thing about a good song, and about life itself: the opening chords are just the beginning. The real power comes in the verses, in the chorus, in how we respond when the music changes. And in Exodus chapter 5, the music definitely changes. Pharaoh, this king with a heart harder than a sun-baked rock, doesn't just ignore the signs. He takes them, chews them up, and spits them back out with a twist. He doesn’t just say “no”; he doubles down. He intensifies the struggle.

It’s like being at camp, and you’ve finally mastered that tricky knot for building a shelter. You’re proud, you show it off, and your counselor says, “Great! Now, build the entire shelter with only that knot, and do it twice as fast!” It’s a test, a challenge, a moment where you have to dig deeper, find a new strength you didn’t even know you had.

In Exodus 5, Moses and Aaron, armed with God’s message and those initial signs, go to Pharaoh. Their request is simple, almost humble: "Let My people go that they may celebrate a festival for Me in the wilderness." A festival! A chance to connect, to be with their God, to breathe free air for a moment. It’s like asking for an extra hour of stargazing time or a chance to sing a favorite song around the campfire a second time. It’s about joy, about connection, about spiritual nourishment.

But Pharaoh’s response? It’s a gut punch. He doesn’t even acknowledge the divine. He scoffs, “Who is יהוה that I should heed him and let Israel go? I do not know יהוה, nor will I let Israel go.” He throws up a wall of ignorance, a fortress of denial. He’s like the camper who refuses to join in the group game, standing on the sidelines with their arms crossed, convinced it’s beneath them, or worse, that it’s a waste of time.

And then, the truly cruel twist. Instead of making life easier, Pharaoh cracks down. He’s not just refusing their request; he’s actively making their lives harder. He says, "The people of the land are already so numerous…and you would have them cease from their labors!" He’s essentially saying, “You think you have it tough? I’ll show you tough.” He takes away their straw, the very material they need to make their bricks, and then demands they produce the same quota. It’s a double whammy, a setup for failure, a deliberate attempt to crush their spirit.

This is the dramatic pause in our song. The melody has taken a dark turn. The strumming guitar is replaced by a low, ominous beat. The bright campfire flames seem to flicker, casting long, unsettling shadows. It’s the moment you realize the adventure is going to be much harder than you thought. It’s the moment you have to decide if you’re going to keep singing, even when the words are difficult, even when the melody is challenging.

The Israelites, burdened by this impossible demand, are beaten. The overseers, the ones who are supposed to be leading, are caught in the middle, facing Pharaoh’s wrath and the people’s despair. They cry out to Moses and Aaron, not with hope, but with anger: “May יהוה look upon you and punish you for making us loathsome to Pharaoh and his courtiers—putting a sword in their hands to slay us.” Ouch. It’s like the camp counselor who tried to organize the fun activity, and when it goes wrong, the campers turn on them, blaming them for the mess.

And Moses? He’s human. He’s a leader, but he’s also feeling the weight of it all. He returns to God, and his prayer is raw, honest, and full of pain: “O my lord, why did You bring harm upon this people? Why did You send me? Ever since I came to Pharaoh to speak in Your name, he has dealt worse with this people; and still You have not delivered Your people.” It’s the cry of someone who feels like they’ve done everything right, followed all the instructions, and yet, the situation has only gotten worse. It’s the moment of doubt, the moment where the song feels like it’s about to fall apart.

This, my friends, is the heart of Exodus 5. It’s not just a story about ancient Egyptians and Hebrews. It’s a story about the challenges we face when we try to bring about change, when we step out in faith, when we try to live our values in a world that often pushes back. It’s about the moments when the easy path disappears, and the path of righteousness becomes a steep, uphill climb, fraught with obstacles and despair.

But here’s the beautiful, resilient truth of our Torah, and of our camp spirit: even in the darkest moments, there’s a melody that persists. Even when the lyrics are hard, there’s a tune that can carry us through. And it’s in these challenging verses, these unexpected turns in the song, that we often find the deepest meaning and the most enduring strength. So let’s lean in, let’s listen closely, and see what this powerful chapter has to teach us about bringing our own Torah home.

Campfire Melody Suggestion:

(Sing to the tune of "This Little Light of Mine")

Pharaoh said, "No way! I won't let them go! Make more bricks, you slaves! Make them faster now!"

But Moses prayed, "Oh Lord, Why is this so hard? You sent me to help them, But it's worse now, Lord!"

Context

This pivotal chapter in the Book of Exodus isn’t just a narrative; it’s a dramatic turning point. It’s where the initial pleas for freedom meet the hardened resistance of oppression, and the spiritual mission escalates into a direct confrontation.

The First Encounter and Pharaoh's Defiance

• The Bold Request: Moses and Aaron, emboldened by God’s promise and the initial signs (which the people had now seen and believed, according to Or HaChaim), approach Pharaoh with a clear, divinely inspired message. Their request is not for outright liberation yet, but for a temporary respite: "Let My people go that they may celebrate a festival for Me in the wilderness" (Exodus 5:1). This is a request for spiritual observance, a chance for the Israelites to reconnect with their God, away from the grueling labor. It’s a test of Pharaoh’s willingness to even acknowledge their existence as a people with their own spiritual needs.

Pharaoh's Escalation: The Nature of Oppression

• The Unseen God: Pharaoh’s response is a chilling display of hubris and willful ignorance. He dismisses the very notion of יהוה, the God of Israel, asking, "Who is יהוה that I should heed him and let Israel go? I do not know יהוה, nor will I let Israel go" (Exodus 5:2). As Ibn Ezra points out, this is likely the first time Pharaoh has encountered this specific divine name, and his reaction is to reject it entirely. He doesn’t just refuse; he denies the legitimacy of their God and their plea. This highlights a core aspect of oppression: the oppressor often seeks to erase the identity and the very source of strength of the oppressed.

• The "Outdoors" Metaphor – The Shifting Sands of Authority: Imagine being a seasoned park ranger, tasked with guiding a group through a beautiful, but challenging, mountain trail. You’ve studied the maps, you know the safe routes, and you’ve taught your group the essential skills. Suddenly, a powerful landowner appears, someone who has always dictated the rules of the land. They tell you that the trail you’ve always used is now off-limits, and that your group must now find a new, more difficult path, carrying twice the load, with no clear instructions. Not only that, but they confiscate the tools you were given to help your group navigate. This is Pharaoh’s move. He’s not just blocking the path; he’s actively making the journey harder, removing the resources, and increasing the demands, all while pretending the original request was simply a distraction from the real work. He’s shifting the very ground beneath their feet, making the familiar terrain treacherous.

The Double Burden: From Straw to Suffering

• The Impossible Quota: Pharaoh’s response is not just a refusal but an active escalation. He orders his taskmasters to stop providing straw, the essential binder for bricks, while still demanding the same quota of bricks. "You shall no longer provide the people with straw for making bricks as heretofore; let them go and gather straw for themselves. But impose upon them the same quota of bricks as they have been making heretofore; do not reduce it, for they are shirkers" (Exodus 5:7-8). This is a deliberate act of sabotage, designed to break the Israelites’ spirit and make their labor even more grueling. It’s a classic tactic of oppression: increasing the burden while removing the means to fulfill it, and then blaming the victim for their supposed inadequacy.

• The Cycle of Blame and Violence: The taskmasters, under pressure from Pharaoh, lash out at the Israelite overseers, who in turn are beaten for failing to meet the impossible demands. The overseers then confront Moses and Aaron, blaming them for the intensified suffering: "May יהוה look upon you and punish you for making us loathsome to Pharaoh and his courtiers—putting a sword in their hands to slay us" (Exodus 5:21). This creates a devastating cycle of blame and violence, where the victims of oppression turn on their leaders, and the leaders are left questioning their mission.

Text Snapshot

“Thus says יהוה, the God of Israel: Let My people go that they may celebrate a festival for Me in the wilderness.” But Pharaoh said, “Who is יהוה that I should heed him and let Israel go? I do not know יהוה, nor will I let Israel go.” That same day Pharaoh charged the taskmasters and overseers of the people, saying, “You shall no longer provide the people with straw for making bricks as heretofore; let them go and gather straw for themselves. But impose upon them the same quota of bricks as they have been making heretofore; do not reduce it, for they are shirkers; that is why they cry, ‘Let us go and sacrifice to our God!’” Then the people scattered throughout the land of Egypt to gather stubble for straw. And the taskmasters pressed them, saying, “You must complete the same work assignment each day as when you had straw.” And the overseers of the Israelites, whom Pharaoh’s taskmasters had set over them, were beaten. Then Moses returned to יהוה and said, “O my lord, why did You bring harm upon this people? Why did You send me? Ever since I came to Pharaoh to speak in Your name, he has dealt worse with this people; and still You have not delivered Your people.”

Close Reading

This chapter is a masterclass in the dynamics of resistance, leadership, and faith when confronted by overwhelming opposition. It’s not just about Pharaoh’s cruelty; it’s about how the Israelites, and their leaders, respond to that cruelty. Let’s unpack some of the deeper currents running through this powerful narrative.

Insight 1: The Echo Chamber of Denial and the Power of Shared Identity

Pharaoh’s immediate, dismissive response, “Who is יהוה that I should heed him… I do not know יהוה, nor will I let Israel go,” is more than just a political statement; it’s an attempt to silence the very possibility of an alternative reality. He is operating within an echo chamber of his own power, where his word is law and his understanding of the world is the only one that matters. He doesn't just refuse to acknowledge the God of Israel; he actively denies His existence within his sphere of influence. This is a profound form of spiritual and cultural erasure.

Think about this in terms of our camp communities. When we were at camp, there was a shared language, a set of inside jokes, a collective understanding of what it meant to be part of that community. We had our own songs, our own traditions, our own unique spirit, our ruach. This shared identity was like a protective shield, a vibrant ecosystem where our values could flourish. Now, imagine trying to bring that ruach back to your everyday life, to your family, and encountering a similar wall of dismissal. Someone might say, "That's just camp stuff," or "Why are you so focused on that?" It's a subtle way of saying, "I don't know that 'God of camp,' and I don't see why it should matter here."

Pharaoh’s denial is a rejection of the Israelites’ kedushah, their holiness, their unique covenantal identity. He sees them as laborers, as a resource, not as a people chosen by God. He wants to strip them of their divine connection, their history, their future, and reduce them to mere cogs in his Egyptian empire. This is precisely why Moses and Aaron’s request to "celebrate a festival for Me in the wilderness" is so significant. It’s not just about a party; it’s an assertion of their identity, a declaration that they belong to a higher power, a power that transcends Pharaoh's dominion.

The commentary of Ibn Ezra is crucial here. He notes that Pharaoh had likely never heard the name יהוה before. Moses, understanding this, adds "the God of Israel," so that Pharaoh would know who they were referring to – not just a generic deity, but the God specifically bound to their people. This is the power of collective identity, the strength found in knowing you are not alone, that you are part of something larger and more enduring than your immediate circumstances.

When Pharaoh denies them straw and increases their workload, he's not just making their lives harder; he's trying to obliterate their shared identity. He’s forcing them to focus solely on the agonizing present, on the Sisyphean task of brick-making. The stubble they must now gather is a symbol of this degradation – it’s the dry, broken remnants of what was once harvest. It’s the spiritual equivalent of being forced to eat dust when you’re craving the bread of life.

But the Torah shows us that even in the face of such profound denial, the spark of shared identity can persist. The Israelites are still called "the people of Israel." Their overseers are still "the overseers of the Israelites." This continuity, this insistence on their collective name, is a subtle act of defiance. It’s like a whispered song in the dark, a reminder that the echo chamber of denial can’t completely drown out the truth of who they are.

Bringing this home, we can ask ourselves: How do we maintain our sense of spiritual identity and shared purpose within our families and communities, especially when the prevailing culture or even just the daily grind seems to deny its importance? It’s about creating our own “wilderness festivals” within our homes – moments of intentional connection, shared prayer, meaningful conversation, or even just singing a Hebrew song. It’s about reminding ourselves and each other that we are part of something sacred, that our lives have a divine dimension that cannot be erased by external pressures. When Pharaoh tries to reduce the Israelites to mere laborers, Moses and Aaron’s mission is to remind them that they are a people with a divine calling. Our mission at home is to do the same for our families.

Insight 2: The Leader's Burden and the Call to Deeper Faith

Moses’ prayer at the end of this chapter is one of the most raw and honest expressions of leadership despair in the entire Torah: “O my lord, why did You bring harm upon this people? Why did You send me? Ever since I came to Pharaoh to speak in Your name, he has dealt worse with this people; and still You have not delivered Your people.” This isn't a prayer of doubt in God's existence, but a profound questioning of the method and the outcome of God’s plan. Moses feels the weight of the suffering, the blame from his own people, and the apparent futility of his mission.

This is the moment the campfire song hits a dissonant chord. You’ve poured your heart into organizing the talent show, you’ve practiced your guitar for weeks, and on the big night, the sound system fails, and half the campers get sick. You feel responsible, you feel defeated, and you might even find yourself asking, “Why did I even try? Why did I think this would work?” Moses, too, is grappling with the dissonance between his divine mandate and the harsh reality on the ground. He followed God’s instructions, he spoke God’s name, and the result was more suffering.

The Haamek Davar commentary offers a crucial nuance here. He suggests that the original divine instruction to Moses was to tell Pharaoh, in God's name, "Let my people go." However, the reason given in chapter 3 was tied to a visible manifestation of God's presence ("for I will be with you," implied by the context of the burning bush and the signs). But in chapter 5, the elders, who were meant to be witnesses and supporters of this divine message, have not come. Therefore, Moses and Aaron cannot frame the request as being due to a direct, visible encounter with God that they have had. They are forced to present the command more as an external decree, which Pharaoh can more easily dismiss. This adds another layer to Moses' despair – he feels he cannot fully present the divine authority as intended, making the resistance even more frustrating.

This is the challenge of being a leader, whether it’s leading a nation, a family, or even just a group of friends. Leaders often bear the brunt of criticism when things go wrong, even when they have done their best. They are the ones who have to stand in the storm, to absorb the arrows of discontent, and to figure out how to move forward. Moses is experiencing this acutely. The overseers, desperate and suffering, turn on him and Aaron, accusing them of putting a sword in Pharaoh’s hand. This is the ultimate betrayal, the ultimate burden for a leader: to be blamed for the very suffering you are trying to alleviate.

But here's where the deeper faith comes in. Moses doesn't give up. He doesn't retreat. He goes back to God. This is the essence of resilience, the strength to continue the conversation even when it’s painful. His prayer, while filled with anguish, is still a prayer. He’s not shouting at the sky; he’s wrestling with God, seeking understanding, seeking a path forward. This is what it means to have faith – not the absence of doubt, but the commitment to continue engaging with the divine, even when the answers are unclear and the suffering is immense.

The Or HaChaim commentary highlights that the word "afterwards" (ve'acharei ken) in verse 1 signifies a fulfillment of a prior divine promise. This suggests that despite the current setback, the larger divine plan is still in motion. The current hardship, however severe, is a step in a longer process. It’s like realizing that the difficult obstacle course at camp, while exhausting, is designed to prepare you for an even greater challenge or accomplishment later.

For us at home, this means understanding that our leadership roles, whether as parents, partners, or community members, will inevitably involve moments of immense difficulty and doubt. We will be tested, we will be blamed, and we will question our own effectiveness. The lesson from Moses is that in these moments, we must not abandon our connection to the divine source of our strength. We must continue to pray, to wrestle, to seek understanding, and to trust that even when the immediate outcome is dire, there is a larger narrative at play. The challenge is to hold onto the belief that our efforts, guided by faith, are not in vain, even when the results are not immediately apparent. It’s about the long game, the enduring melody, even when the current notes are harsh.

Micro-Ritual

The Havdalah of "Turning It Up"

Havdalah is our ancient ritual for marking the transition from the sacred rest of Shabbat to the ordinary week. It’s a beautiful way to savor the last lingering sweetness of holiness before plunging back into our daily lives. But what happens when the week ahead feels particularly daunting, when the "ordinary" feels more like the Egyptian brickyard than a place of rest and rejuvenation? This chapter, Exodus 5, gives us a powerful opportunity to adapt our Havdalah practice, to infuse it with a new kind of intention, a spiritual "turning it up" to face the challenges.

Our traditional Havdalah involves four elements: spices (smell), wine (taste), fire (sight), and a blessing over the separation. These sensory elements are designed to engage our senses and help us appreciate the distinction between Shabbat and the week. But what if, after a week like the one described in Exodus 5 – a week of intensified labor, denied resources, and crushing pressure – we needed more than just a gentle transition? What if we needed to actively invoke a sense of renewed strength and divine presence to carry us through?

Let's call this a "Turning It Up" Havdalah.

The Core Idea: To use the Havdalah framework to not just separate from Shabbat, but to actively draw strength and resilience from our connection to the Divine for the week ahead.

How to Do It (with Variations):

1. The Spices: Aromatic Resilience

• Traditional: We inhale the sweet scent of spices, symbolizing the lingering sweetness of Shabbat and the hope for a pleasant week.
• "Turning It Up" Variation 1 (The "Strength Blend"): Instead of just any spices, choose spices that have a strong, invigorating aroma. Think cinnamon, cloves, or even a crushed bay leaf. As you inhale, imagine these scents fortifying your spirit, like a divine energy drink. Whisper, "May the aroma of holiness strengthen me for the week ahead, just as God's presence strengthens the weary."
• "Turning It Up" Variation 2 (The "Memory Jar"): If you have a small jar or container with spices from a particularly meaningful Shabbat or Jewish experience (perhaps even a dried flower from a camp Shabbat service), use those. As you inhale, recall the strength and joy of that memory. Say, "With this scent, I call forth the spirit of [mention the memory, e.g., 'that inspiring Shabbat song,' or 'the feeling of community at camp'] to infuse my week."

2. The Wine/Grape Juice: Blessing in Every Drop

• Traditional: We look at the wine, a symbol of joy and abundance, and recite a blessing of separation.
• "Turning It Up" Variation 1 (The "Visionary Sip"): As you look at the wine, instead of just seeing it as a separator, see it as a vessel of divine blessing and possibility. Imagine each drop is imbued with the power to overcome obstacles. Before you drink, look at the cup and declare, "May every moment of this week be filled with Your blessing, even in the face of Pharaoh's demands." Then, take a sip, consciously savoring the "taste" of that blessing.
• "Turning It Up" Variation 2 (The "Shared Chalice"): If you are doing Havdalah with family or friends, have everyone pour a small amount of their own juice into a single, larger cup before the blessing. As you recite the blessing, imagine all your individual strengths and prayers merging into a collective force. Say, "As our blessings mingle, so may our strength be multiplied to face the week together."

3. The Fire: Illuminating the Path

• Traditional: We look at the flame of the braided candle, symbolizing light and the creation of fire.
• "Turning It Up" Variation 1 (The "Torch of Courage"): Hold the candle so the light illuminates your hands. As you look at your hands, think about the tasks you will face in the coming week. Say, "May this flame light my hands to do Your work with diligence and courage, even when the task seems impossible. May it illuminate the path forward, even in darkness." Imagine your hands are literally being empowered by the light.
• "Turning It Up" Variation 2 (The "Beacon of Hope"): If possible, hold the candle in a slightly darkened room. As you gaze into the flame, imagine it as a beacon of hope, a symbol that even in the darkest Egyptian nights, a light can shine. Declare, "Like this flame, may my spirit burn brightly with hope and faith, refusing to be extinguished by the burdens of the week. May I be a light to others who struggle."

4. The Blessing of Separation: Asserting Our Divine Connection

• Traditional: The final blessing separates Shabbat from the week.
• "Turning It Up" Variation (The "Declaration of Faith"): After the traditional blessing, add a personal declaration. Look at your family or at the empty space where your Shabbat sanctuary was, and say with conviction: "Pharaoh may deny You, he may increase our burdens, he may take away our straw, but he cannot take away our faith. We are Your people, and we will carry Your light into the week. We declare that we are not mere laborers; we are Your covenant people, and we will celebrate You, even in the wilderness of our challenges."

Why This Works:

This "Turning It Up" Havdalah ritual takes the existing framework of transition and infuses it with the spirit of Exodus 5. Instead of passively accepting the week, we actively prepare for it with a heightened sense of divine empowerment. We are not just saying goodbye to Shabbat; we are saying hello to the week with renewed courage, drawing on the very essence of our faith to face the "Pharaohs" of our own lives. It’s about transforming the act of separation into an act of spiritual fortification. It's about remembering that even when the world tries to deny our God and our purpose, we have the power to assert our divine connection and to carry that sacred fire into every corner of our lives.

Chevruta Mini

Let's get your thinking cap on, just like a good camp counselor preparing for a tricky activity! Imagine you're sitting with a friend, maybe over a cup of tea or coffee, and you're discussing this chapter. Here are a couple of questions to spark your conversation:

Question 1: The "Straw" in Your Life

The Israelites were denied their straw, the essential material for their work, and then expected to produce the same quota. This is a clear metaphor for being set up for failure, for having your resources deliberately removed while demands remain the same.

• Think about your own life: What are the modern-day equivalents of "straw" for you? What essential resources, support systems, or even mental/emotional energy do you need to do your "work" (whether that's your job, your family responsibilities, your personal projects, or your spiritual practice)?
• When have you felt like Pharaoh deliberately removed your "straw," making your tasks harder and your goals seem unattainable? How did that make you feel, and how did you try to cope?

Question 2: Moses' Prayer and Your Own Moments of Doubt

Moses’ prayer in Exodus 5:22-23 is incredibly human and relatable: "O my lord, why did You bring harm upon this people? Why did You send me? ...he has dealt worse with this people; and still You have not delivered Your people.” He's questioning the effectiveness of his mission and God's intervention.

• Recall a time when you felt like Moses: A moment when you were trying to do something good, maybe for your family, community, or even yourself, and it seemed like things only got worse. You followed the "instructions," you put in the effort, and the outcome was discouraging.
• What did you do in that moment of doubt? Did you retreat? Did you complain? Did you, like Moses, turn back to the source of your strength (God, a loved one, your own inner resilience) to wrestle with the situation? What did you learn from that experience about perseverance and faith?

Takeaway + Citations

This week, we’ve journeyed through the dramatic and often painful confrontation in Exodus 5. We’ve seen Pharaoh’s denial and escalation, the Israelites’ suffering, and Moses’ raw plea. But we’ve also unearthed the enduring power of shared identity and the quiet strength of persistent faith, even in the face of overwhelming odds.

The takeaway is this: Our spiritual journey is not always a smooth ascent; it’s often a wilderness trek, marked by unexpected storms and seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Pharaoh's actions are a stark reminder that the forces of oppression, whether external or internal, seek to strip us of our resources, deny our core identity, and crush our spirit. But just as the Israelites held onto their name, and Moses held onto his conversation with God, we too can find strength.

When our "straw" is removed, when our efforts seem to yield only more hardship, we are called to a deeper form of resilience. This isn't about denying the pain or the frustration. It's about remembering who we are, drawing on the collective strength of our communities (like our camp family!), and continuing to engage with the divine source of our inspiration, even when the answers are unclear. The "Turning It Up" Havdalah is a practical way to do just that – to consciously fortify ourselves, to declare our faith, and to carry that sacred light into the demanding landscape of our week.

Remember the campfire songs, the shared melodies that carried us through the night. The Torah is our ongoing song, and even its most challenging verses, like Exodus 5, offer a powerful tune of resilience, identity, and enduring hope. Let’s keep singing it, together.

Citations

• Exodus 5
• Ibn Ezra on Exodus 5:1:1
• Ibn Ezra on Exodus 5:1:2
• Ibn Ezra on Exodus 5:1:3
• Or HaChaim on Exodus 5:1:1
• Haamek Davar on Exodus 5:1:1
• Haamek Davar on Exodus 5:1:2
• Haamek Davar on Exodus 5:1:3
• Rashi on Exodus 5:1:1