CHAPTER 5
I have come
to my garden,
my sister,
my bride;
I have gathered
my myrrh
with
my spice.
I have eaten
my honeycomb
with
my honey;
I have drunk
my wine
with
my milk.
Eat,
O friends,
and drink;
drink freely,
O beloved.
I
sleep,
but my heart
is awake.
A sound!
My beloved
is knocking:
“Open to me,
my sister,
my darling,
my dove,
my perfect one.”
My head
is drenched
with dew,
my hair
with the dampness
of the night.
I
rose up
to open
for my beloved.
My hands
dripped
with myrrh,
my fingers
with flowing
myrrh
on
the handles
of the bolt.
I
opened
for my beloved,
but he
had turned
and gone.
My heart
sank
at his departure.
I sought him,
but did not
find him.
I called,
but he did not
answer.
I encountered
the watchmen
on their rounds
of the city.
They beat me
and bruised me;
they took away
my cloak,
those guardians
of the walls.
How
is your beloved
better than others,
O most beautiful
among women?
How
is your beloved
better than another,
that you
charge us so?
His cheeks
are like beds
of spice,
towers
of perfume.
His lips
are like lilies,
dripping
with flowing
myrrh.
His arms
are rods
of gold
set
with chrysolite.
His body
is an ivory
panel
bedecked
with sapphires.
His legs
are pillars
of marble
set
on
bases
of pure gold.
His appearance
is like Lebanon,
as majestic
as the cedars.
His mouth
is most sweet;
he is altogether
lovely.
This
is my beloved,
and this
is my friend,
O daughters
of Jerusalem.