Song of Songs

How can I put it on again? I have already washed my feet, how can I dirty them?” My beloved stretches his hand through the door - and my being longs for him. I rise to open the door for my beloved; my hands are dripping with myrrh, my fingers are streaming with myrrh oil, all over the handles of the latch. I open for my beloved - he has slipped away; gone. I had fainted for him as he spoke - I search for him, I cannot find him; I call out, but he does not answer. The guards find me, those who go around the town; they beat me, they wound me, they pull my scarf from me, those guardians of the walls. Swear to me, daughters of Jerusalem; if you find my beloved, swear that you will tell him - tell him I am sick with love. [Friends] What makes your lover so much more than other lovers, you most beautiful of women? What makes your lover so much more than other men, that this is what you have us swear? [She] He is bright, my beloved, he is blooming; you would know him among ten thousand. His face glows like gold, fine gold, his hair in locks like palm-flowers, raven black. Yet his eyes are like doves, drinking at springs, washed in milk, at rest by the well. His cheeks are like beds of balsam, where perfume herbs are grown. His lips smell like lilies, flowing with myrrh oil. His arms are like golden bars, set with beryl stones. His stomach is hewn like solid ivory, inlaid with lapis lazuli. His legs stand firm as marble pillars, fixed on gold foundations. Seeing him is like looking at Lebanon, and he is as choice as its cedars. His mouth is filled with sweetness, for all of him, my longing. This is my beloved, this is my love, daughters of Jerusalem. [Friends] Where has your beloved gone, most beautiful of women? Where has your beloved turned? We shall search for him with you. [She] My beloved has gone to his garden, down to the beds of balsam; to pasture in the gardens, to gather in lilies. I am my beloved’s - my beloved is my own, who pastures among the lilies. [He] My love, you are as beautiful as Tirzah, as lovely as Jerusalem, terrifying as the flagged armies. Turn your eyes from me, for they have overwhelmed me. Your hair is like a flock of goats streaming down from Gilead. Your teeth are like a flock of ewes rising up from cleaning; each bears twins, two and two, not one among them lost. Your forehead, like a pomegranate, glows through your tresses. Queens there are sixty; eighty concubines, and maids there are without number. But my dove, my perfection, is one; one, unique to her mother - the shining one she bore. Look at her, you girls, acknowledge she is blessed; look, queens and concubines - and praise her.”