I have come to my garden-my sister, my bride. I gather my myrrh with my spices. I eat my honeycomb with my honey. I drink my wine with my milk. Eat, friends! Drink, be intoxicated with love!
I sleep, but my heart is awake. A sound! My love is knocking! Open to me, my sister, my darling, my dove, my perfect one. For my head is drenched with dew, my hair with droplets of the night.
I have taken off my clothing. How can I put it back on? I have washed my feet. How can I get them dirty?
My love thrust his hand through the opening, and my feelings were stirred for him.
I rose to open for my love. My hands dripped with myrrh, my fingers with flowing myrrh on the handles of the bolt.
I opened to my love, but my love had turned and gone away. I was crushed that he had left. I sought him, but did not find him. I called him, but he did not answer.
The guards who go about the city found me. They beat and wounded me; they took my cloak from me- the guardians of the walls.
Young women of Jerusalem, I charge you: if you find my love, tell him that I am lovesick.
What makes the one you love better than another, most beautiful of women? What makes him better than another, that you would give us this charge?
My love is fit and strong, notable among ten thousand.
His head is purest gold. His hair is wavy and black as a raven.
His eyes are like doves beside streams of water, washed in milk and set like jewels.
His cheeks are like beds of spice, towers of perfume. His lips are lilies, dripping with flowing myrrh.
His arms are rods of gold set with topaz. His body is an ivory panel covered with sapphires.
His legs are alabaster pillars set on pedestals of pure gold. His presence is like Lebanon, as majestic as the cedars.
His mouth is sweetness. He is absolutely desirable. This is my love, and this is my friend, young women of Jerusalem.