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.