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FeatureArts & Culture

The eight most Jewish songs of Leonard Cohen

Ahead of a festival marking 10 years since the singer’s death, we celebrate his deeply Jewish lyrics
Ittay Flescher
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Leonard Cohen performing at King’s Garden, Odense, Denmark, August 2013 (Image: Takahiro Kyono/Wikimedia Commons)

Published: 27 October 2026

Last updated: 27 October 2026

Perpetually dressed in a simple fedora and a well-worn Armani suit, Leonard Cohen did not look like an international pop star. He looked every bit the old man davening in Caulfield shul.

Cohen (aka Eliezer Ben Nissan) grew up deeply embedded in Jewish life: his grandfather and great-grandfather served as presidents of Shaar Hashomayim synagogue in Montreal, and his great-great-uncle, Rabbi Zvi Hirsch Cohen, was the unofficial Chief Rabbi of Canada.

Reflecting on his childhood, Cohen once remarked: “It was very Messianic. I was told I was a descendant of Aaron, the High Priest. My parents actually thought we were Kohanim, the real thing. I was expected to grow into manhood leading other men … In some part of my young soul, I took that very seriously.”

For many Jews, listening to Cohen’s music feels so familiar it's like catching up with an old friend. Many of his lyrics quote Jewish texts or use Jewish stories. I grew up in a synagogue where he was regularly quoted in the Dvar Torah (sermon). 

As his 10th Yahrzeit approaches, here are eight classics unpacked for their Jewish references and meanings. 

Hallelujah

Cohen likely first heard the psalm on which this song is based in synagogue, as a prayer packed with praise and filled with certainty about God’s might.

Cohen’s 1984 version strips away the glorifying adjectives and embeds “but” in every verse, reflecting his complex relationship with faith and organised religion.

The song centres on King David, who delighted angels playing his harp at night yet sinned egregiously when he saw Bathsheba bathing on a roof, committing adultery and orchestrating her husband's death. This led to disastrous rebellions, personal tragedy, and a fractured kingdom. Cohen, who suffered from deep depression, strongly identified with David as a fellow musician: when failure strikes and nothing makes sense, all that remains is to offer up praise.

The beauty of Cohen’s Hallelujah lies not in joy, but in praises whispered amidst grief. The lyrics validate hardship: even in brokenness and darkness, we can choose to praise. It is a profoundly Jewish concept that all hallelujahs, both perfect and broken, carry equal value.

Among countless remarkable renditions online, this version in Hebrew, English, and Arabic by Tamir Greenberg and Valeri Hamaty is my favourite, as it captures something unique. A man, a woman, a Jew, an Arab, two shivering yet complete voices together in an unlikely harmony that radiates peace. 

If It Be Your Will

Traditional Jewish liturgy is replete with prayers that open with the words Yehi Ratzon Milfanecha (May It Be Your Will). Cohen uses this formula, evoking the iconic Yom Kippur confession where the chazan begs to be kept from sin before davening on our behalf. 

But in his song, Cohen radically shifts the dynamic by swapping “May” for “If.”

In doing so, Cohen captures our fundamental vulnerability. He points out that even our ability to speak is conditional, a temporary gift that can be revoked at any moment, stripping away our modern illusion of complete self-determination.

The song's strength lies in its acceptance of powerlessness. Cohen doesn't offer praise from grand, triumphant sanctuaries, but “from this broken hill.” 

As a Jew balancing between tradition and scepticism, I find Cohen’s shift from “May” to “If” profoundly honest. I’m not alone. Rabbi Mishael Zion suggests that after the trauma of the Shoah, perhaps “If” is the only authentic posture left for prayer. 

Singing this version at Shira Melbourne, is one of my most powerful memories of Yom Kippur.

The song acknowledges our fragility, not as something to overcome but as the necessary starting point to a real search for meaning.

Anthem

Throughout the generations, rabbis have offered many reasons for the Temple’s destruction. In this song, Cohen evokes a Talmudic story that says Jerusalem fell because a rabbi had rejected an imperfect offering. When Rome sends a calf to the Temple, an enemy secretly blemishes it. The Sages want to sacrifice it to prevent war, but Rabbi Zechariah ben Avkulas insists on ritual purity. His refusal to accept imperfection leads straight to the Temple's ruin.

Leonard Cohen’s Anthem gives us the Jewish antidote to this rigid mindset: “Forget your perfect offering/Ring the bells that still can ring/There is a crack, a crack in everything/That's how the light gets in.”

Rooted in the Kabbalistic view of a broken world, Cohen warns against perfectionism. Demanding total purity destroys us; growth enters through our flaws and our willingness to serve anyway.

Over the past three years, I have heard many weave Cohen’s lyric into statements to help make sense of our fractured world, evoking the shattered tablets resting inside the Ark and the lives shattered by terrorism and war. 

Rabbi Zechariah thought holiness required complete perfection, but Cohen grasped the deeper truth: holiness begins when we embrace our cracks and accept who we are. 

Everybody Knows

I never understood the true depth of that song until I sang it at shul on the Friday night after Leonard Cohen died, the very same week Donald Trump defeated Hillary Clinton to become the 45th President of the United States.

Leading Kabbalat Shabbat with my guitar at Shira on November 11, 2016, just days after the election shook the global political landscape and news of Cohen’s passing sent shockwaves around the world, Everybody Knows ceased to be an abstract track from 1988. In that moment, the lyrics read like a modern Psalm written for an America standing on the precipice of deep division, uncertainty, and moral reckoning:

“Everybody knows that the war is over/ Everybody knows the good guys lost/ Everybody knows the fight was fixed/ The poor stay poor, the rich get rich ...”

Cohen’s warning about what can happen to democracy in the hands of demagogues, that Trump’s authority cannot be blindly trusted, and that “the plague is coming” a few years before Covid-19 was sadly prophetic.

Surrounded by a community grappling with grief for both a beloved Jewish poet and the shattered promise of electing America's first female president, the song became an unflinching acknowledgement of a world that suddenly felt immensely cruel and unfair.

Story of Isaac

Of the many ways Americans protested the Vietnam War, music was at the forefront, from Fortunate Son to Give Peace a Chance, and Edwin Starr’s explosive War, What Is It Good For.

But while those tracks tackled the politics of the late '60s head-on, Leonard Cohen took a timeless, spiritual approach in his 1969 masterpiece, Story of Isaac.

The song retells the biblical story from Isaac’s perspective, giving voice to the victim lying on the altar, staring up at the terrifying zealotry of a father ready to strike. 

Cohen transforms an ancient narrative into an urgent warning to any generation of leaders willing to sacrifice their youth for political dogma, warning: “You who build the altars now to sacrifice the children, you must not do it anymore.”

As a peace educator living in Jerusalem, Mount Moriah is not an abstract literary setting; it's the real mountain 10 minutes from my home. Cohen’s critique speaks directly to the cycle of intergenerational sacrifice we see around us, where political and religious certainty so often values an ideology or land over the living breath of a child. Story of Isaac remains a vital moral compass, reminding us that no religious belief should ever justify sending children to their deaths. 


Who by Fire

This song draws transparently on the prayer U’nataneh Tokef, recited on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Both prayer and song enumerate the potential fates over which we have no control. 

The song has been given new life recently by Tzachi Gatzek, who wrote a Hebrew adaptation a month after October 7, 2023.

“And who by fire, and who by water/Who in the morning, and who in the dark/Who in Be'eri, and who in Nir Oz, and who shall call their names?”

It needs no explanation. Just watch and cry. 

Dance Me to the End of Love

How can the same song feel so appropriate at both a wedding and a funeral? It’s a question that sits with me every time I hear the opening chords of Dance Me to the End of Love.

For a long time, I knew it as an intimate dance song, a favourite for romantic proposals and weddings. But behind its warm rhythms lies a much darker history. Cohen shared in a 1995 radio interview that the song was inspired by the Shoah, specifically the Jewish musicians in death camps who were forced to play what he described as a “burning violin” near the crematoria while their fellow prisoners were murdered. 

The Jewish Independent

Auschwitz prisoner orchestra performing near camp barracks, 1941. Source: Shoah Memorial

Yet, Cohen did not make a song of pure sadness. He connected deep love with the end of life, showing that love can stand up against total darkness. Sung at a wedding, it is a promise to stay together through everything until the very end. Sung at a funeral, it reminds us that love and human connection last, even when life comes to an end. 

You Want it Darker

The title track of his final album, You Want it Darker confronts mortality and human violence through a stark, haunting dialogue with God. 

Deeply rooted in Jewish liturgy, the song pairs the Hebrew word Hineni (Here I am) with haunting backing vocals from Montreal’s Shaar Hashomayim Synagogue choir.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks interpreted it as a righteous protest against human cruelty committed in the name of religion, while simultaneously echoing the Kaddish prayer to affirm faith amid grief. Rather than a total rejection of belief, it serves as a poignant acceptance of life's end, declaring a readiness to step into the dark while honouring the complex bond between humanity and God.

On October 13, 2016, Cohen gave what would be his final interview with KCRW's Chris Douridas, sharing his own understanding of Hineni:

“That declaration of readiness, no matter what the outcome, that's a part of everyone's soul ... It's just a part of my nature and, I think, everybody else's nature to offer oneself at the critical moment, when the emergency becomes articulate. It's only when the emergency becomes articulate that we can locate that willingness to serve.”

At the end of the event, he thanked the audience and added, “I hope we can do this again, I intend to stick around till a hundred-and-twenty.”

He died three weeks later at age 82. May his memory be a blessing.

Leonard Cohen Festival
Bondi Pavillion
November 8, 2pm to 9pm 
Tickets: leonardcohenfestival.com

A special Spotify playlist of 32 Leonard Cohen songs, performed in Hebrew.

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About the author

Ittay Flescher

Ittay Flescher

Ittay Flescher is the Jerusalem Correspondent for The Jewish Independent. For over 20 years, he has worked as an educator, journalist, and peacebuilder in Melbourne and Jerusalem. His book, The Holy and the Broken: A Cry for Israeli-Palestinian Peace from a Land that Must Be Shared, was longlisted for the 2025 Walkley Book Awards.

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