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ot/Song of Songs
I sleep, but my heart is awake: the voice of my kinsman knocks at the
door, saying, Open, open to me, my companion, my sister, my dove, my perfect one: for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night. I have put off my coat; how shall I put it on? I have washed my feet, how shall I defile them? My kinsman put forth his hand by the hole of the door, and my belly moved for him. I rose up to open to my kinsman; my hands dropped myrrh, my fingers choice myrrh, on the handles of the lock. I opened to my kinsman; my kinsman was gone: my soul failed at his speech: I sought him, but found him not; I called him, but he answered me not. The watchman that go their rounds in the city found me, they smote me, they wounded me; the keepers of the walls took away my veil from me. I have charged you, O daughters, by the powers and the virtues of the field: if ye should find my kinsman, what are ye to say to him?...? That I am wounded with love. |
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