The voice of my beloved, behold he cometh leaping upon the mountains, skipping over the hills.
My beloved is like a roe, or a young hart. Behold he standeth behind our wall, looking through the windows, looking through the lattices.
Behold my beloved speaketh to me: Arise, make haste, my love, my dove, my beautiful one, and come.
For winter is now past, the rain is over and gone.
The flowers have appeared in our land, the time of pruning is come: the voice of the turtle is heard in our land:
The fig tree hath put forth her green figs: the vines in flower yield their sweet smell. Arise, my love, my beautiful one, and come:
My dove in the clefts of the rock, in the hollow places of the wall, shew me thy face, let thy voice sound in my ears: for thy voice is sweet, and thy face comely.