“The fig tree has ripened her figs, And the vines with the tender grapes have given a good fragrance. Rise up, my love, my beautiful one, and come away!
See, you are beautiful, my love! See, you are beautiful! Your eyes are as doves behind your veil. Your hair is like a flock of goats, Going down from Mount Gil‛aḏ.
I was sleeping, But my heart was awake – the voice of my beloved! He knocks, “Open for me, my sister, My love, my dove, my perfect one; For my head is drenched with dew, My locks with the drops of the night.”
Woe to those who go down to Mitsrayim for help, and rely on horses, who trust in chariots because they are many, and in horsemen because they are very strong, but who do not look to the Set-apart One of Yisra’ĕl, nor seek יהוה!