I am sleeping, but my heart waketh: 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.'
and lo, as the manner of the sons of men, he is striking against my lips, and I open my mouth, and I speak, and say unto him who is standing over-against me: My lord, by the appearance turned have been my pangs against me, and I have retained no power.
I have heard, and my belly trembleth, At the noise have my lips quivered, Rottenness doth come into my bones, And in my place I do tremble, That I rest for a day of distress, At the coming up of the people, he overcometh it.