O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, In the secret places of the stairs, Let me see thy countenance, Let me hear thy voice; For sweet is thy voice, And thy countenance is comely.
I sleep, but my heart waketh: It is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, My dove, my undefiled: For my head is filled with dew, And my locks with the drops of the night.
And I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their works do follow them.