Song of Songs.
Chapter 5.
I have come to my garden, my sister-spouse, || I have plucked my myrrh with my spice, || I have eaten my comb with my honey, || I have drunk my wine with my milk. Eat, O friends, drink, || Indeed, drink abundantly, O beloved ones! 
I am sleeping, but my heart wakes: The sound of my beloved knocking! “Open to me, my sister, my friend, || My dove, my perfect one, || For my head is filled with dew, || My locks with drops of the night.” 
I have put off my coat, how do I put it on? I have washed my feet, how do I defile them? 
My beloved sent his hand from the network, || And my bowels were moved for him. 
I rose to open to my beloved, || And my hands dripped myrrh, || Indeed, my fingers were flowing with myrrh, || On the handles of the lock. 
I opened to my beloved, || But my beloved withdrew—he passed on, || My soul went forth when he spoke, I sought him, and did not find him. I called him, and he did not answer me. 
The watchmen who go around the city, || Found me, struck me, wounded me, || Keepers of the walls lifted up my veil from off me. 
I have adjured you, daughters of Jerusalem, || If you find my beloved—What do you tell him? That I am sick with love! 
What is your beloved above any beloved, || O beautiful among women? What is your beloved above any beloved, || That thus you have adjured us? 
My beloved is clear and ruddy, || Conspicuous above a myriad! 
His head is pure gold—fine gold, || His locks flowing, dark as a raven, 
His eyes as doves by streams of water, || Washing in milk, sitting in fullness. 
His cheeks are as a bed of the spice, towers of perfumes, || His lips—lilies, dripping and flowing with myrrh, 
His hands rings of gold, set with beryl, || His heart bright ivory, covered with sapphires, 
His limbs pillars of marble, || Founded on sockets of fine gold, || His appearance as Lebanon, choice as the cedars. 
His mouth is sweetness—and all of him desirable, || This is my beloved, and this my friend, || O daughters of Jerusalem! 
