Be delivered as a roe from the hand, And as a bird from the hand of a fowler.
To the Overseer. --By David. In Jehovah I trusted, how say ye to my soul, `They moved to Thy mountain for the bird?
Our soul as a bird hath escaped from a snare of fowlers, The snare was broken, and we have escaped.
For He delivereth thee from the snare of a fowler, From a calamitous pestilence.
Surely in vain is the net spread out before the eyes of any bird.
I have adjured you, daughters of Jerusalem, By the roes or by the hinds of the field, Stir not up nor wake the love till she please!
My beloved is like to a roe, Or to a young one of the harts. Lo, this--he is standing behind our wall, Looking from the windows, Blooming from the lattice.