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.