O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the covert of the steep place, Let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice: For sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely.
I was asleep, but my heart waked: 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, My locks with the drops of the night.
And I heard a voice from heaven saying, Write, Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours; for their works follow with them.