Consider Her is Naomi Grace's part of the CONSIDER HER cycle — a three-part telling of Job 1–2 with Job reimagined as a woman. This is her side of it: on the ground, in a cold kitchen, asking why, with no explanation offered and none coming.

Music Track Story

Slow and piano-led at 65 BPM, with deep ambient pads, subtle strings and a distant wordless choir sitting underneath everything. Her voice is gospel-trained and, deliberately, barely used — breathy and fragile in the verses, straining in the choruses, cracking outright in the bridge. The strength is audibly there and audibly unavailable to her. She only lets it go once, in the final chorus, and by then it costs her something to do it.

The lyric follows Job closely and refuses everything Job refuses. When she sings that she came into this life with nothing and will leave the same way, that's Job 1:21 almost unaltered. When the friends arrive to explain that she must have sinned somehow, those are Job's comforters — and the song's flat, exact reply is that God knows her heart right now. This record rejects, in plain terms, the idea that suffering is evidence of wrongdoing. The friends are wrong, and the song says so.

What it will not do is explain the pain away. The chorus asks four questions in a row and gets no answers, because Job's questions never got any either. What she gets instead is a choice, made three times: still I choose, still I stay.

At the record's centre every instrument drops out completely and she says one line into total silence — you can take it all, but You can't take Him from me. It's the loudest moment in the song and there's nothing playing under it.

And the choir isn't an effect. That distant, wordless presence underneath her is the only hint the record gives that the room isn't as empty as she thinks. She never notices it. Anyone who has heard the rest of the cycle knows exactly what it is — because across three records a conversation is held about this woman, terms are set, and she hears none of it. Her whole song is a question the audience has already been given the answer to.

The ending refuses triumph. Soft piano returns and she comes all the way back down to the smallest possible statement of faith, said quietly to an empty room: even here, You're still God. Not You will fix this, not this is for a reason — just, You are still there, and I am still here, and it is still awful. It isn't a comfort record and it doesn't resolve into one. What it offers instead is rarer: not comfort, but company.

This record deals directly with suffering, isolation and despair. If any of it lands close to home, support is available — in the UK and Ireland, Samaritans on 116 123, free, any time, or text SHOUT to 85258; in the US, call or text 988. You don't have to be in crisis to get in touch.