“Behold, a virgin shall conceive.” It is the proof-text for the virgin birth — and it turns on one Hebrew word that does not mean “virgin.” Here is how a young woman became a virgin on the way from Hebrew into Greek, and what was built on the difference.
When the Gospel of Matthew wants to show that Jesus's birth fulfilled prophecy, it reaches back seven centuries to a single line in Isaiah: “Behold, a virgin shall conceive, and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel.” It is one of the most consequential sentences in the Western world — the scriptural foundation of the doctrine that Mary conceived as a virgin. And it rests on a word that, in the Hebrew Isaiah wrote, does not say “virgin.”
The word is עַלְמָה ʿalmâ. It means a young woman — a girl of marriageable age. Hebrew has a more specific word for “virgin,” בְּתוּלָה bᵉṯûlâ, and Isaiah did not use it. This is not a fringe claim or a modern provocation; it is in the standard lexicons, and it is why the most careful modern translations — and the entire Jewish tradition — render the line “the young woman shall conceive.” The question this page is built around is not whether the doctrine is true (a question no dictionary can settle). It is narrower and stranger: how did a young woman become a virgin? The answer is a chain of translations, each link defensible, that together fixed a meaning the Hebrew left open.
A word's meaning is its uses. עַלְמָה is rare — it appears only a handful of times in the Hebrew Bible — so we can lay out every occurrence and read the range directly. Watch for whether the context is about virginity at all, or simply about youth. Click each to open it.
The pattern is clear: עַלְמָה marks a woman by her youth, not her virginity. In most places virginity is simply not in view. Where a young unmarried woman is meant, virginity would ordinarily be assumed — so “virgin” is not exactly wrong; it is narrower than the Hebrew, naming as a fact what the word leaves to context. That gap — between what a word states and what it implies — is the whole story. It is the space the Greek translation walked into.
Here is the stratigraphy of the sentence, each layer a real text with its real wording, from Isaiah's Hebrew down to the doctrine. Watch the word cross into Greek, narrow, get quoted as prophecy, harden into Latin — and watch a group of later Jewish translators try, and fail, to widen it back. Click any layer.
Behind the translation question is a second one: what was the sign in the first place? Isaiah 7 is set in a specific crisis — Jerusalem, around 734 BCE, under siege by two enemy kings. Read in that moment, the sign is a clock: a child will be born, and before he is old enough to tell right from wrong, the threat will be gone. Read through Matthew, the same words point across seven centuries to a different birth. Both readings are real; they are not the same reading. Move between them.
The doctrine the Greek made possible became, like Moses's horns, a thing you can see — painted ten thousand times. Here is the Annunciation: the moment Isaiah's sign was read onto.
Here is Isaiah 7:14 across the public-domain Bibles, verbatim. The split runs along the line you would expect — and one you might not. Translations from the Greek and Latin read virgin; the Jewish translations, working from the Hebrew, read young woman. And in the twentieth century, when a committee of scholars put “young woman” into an English Bible from the Hebrew, someone set it on fire.
| translation | Isaiah 7:14, as printed | reads |
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It is tempting to tell this as a story about an error — that the virgin birth “rests on a mistranslation.” That is too crude, and it is not what the texts show. παρθένος was a defensible rendering of עַלְמָה when the Septuagint was made: the Greek word's own range then was wider than “virgin,” and a young unmarried woman was its natural sense. Matthew, writing in Greek and reading the Greek Bible, found the word already there and saw in it something the Hebrew had not closed off. Jerome, who knew the Hebrew perfectly well, argued that עַלְמָה meant a secluded young woman and so implied a virgin. Each step is reasonable. What the chain produced, though, is a certainty the first link never had. The Hebrew offered a young woman, and left her virginity to the reader. The Greek named it. The Latin fixed it. The doctrine inherited it. And the gap closed so completely that, twenty-six centuries later, restoring the open word to an English Bible was an act someone answered with a match.
Isaiah wrote a word that left a question open. Every translation after had to answer it — and the answer became a doctrine, then a painting, then a thing worth burning a book over.