I have entered my garden, my treasure, my bride! I gather myrrh with my spices and eat honeycomb with my honey. I drink wine with my milk. Young Women of Jerusalem Oh, lover and beloved, eat and drink! Yes, drink deeply of your love!
I slept, but my heart was awake, when I heard my lover knocking and calling: “Open to me, my treasure, my darling, my dove, my perfect one. My head is drenched with dew, my hair with the dampness of the night.”
But I responded, “I have taken off my robe. Should I get dressed again? I have washed my feet. Should I get them soiled?”
My lover tried to unlatch the door, and my heart thrilled within me.
I jumped up to open the door for my love, and my hands dripped with perfume. My fingers dripped with lovely myrrh as I pulled back the bolt.
I opened to my lover, but he was gone! My heart sank. I searched for him but could not find him anywhere. I called to him, but there was no reply.
The night watchmen found me as they made their rounds. They beat and bruised me and stripped off my veil, those watchmen on the walls.
Make this promise, O women of Jerusalem— If you find my lover, tell him I am weak with love.
Why is your lover better than all others, O woman of rare beauty? What makes your lover so special that we must promise this?
My lover is dark and dazzling, better than ten thousand others!
His head is finest gold, his wavy hair is black as a raven.
His eyes sparkle like doves beside springs of water; they are set like jewels washed in milk.
His cheeks are like gardens of spices giving off fragrance. His lips are like lilies, perfumed with myrrh.
His arms are like rounded bars of gold, set with beryl. His body is like bright ivory, glowing with lapis lazuli.
His legs are like marble pillars set in sockets of finest gold. His posture is stately, like the noble cedars of Lebanon.
His mouth is sweetness itself; he is desirable in every way. Such, O women of Jerusalem, is my lover, my friend.