Lo, thou `art' fair, my friend, lo, thou `art' fair, Thine eyes `are' doves behind thy veil, Thy hair as a row of the goats That have shone from mount Gilead,
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.'
Wo `to' those going down to Egypt for help, And on horses lean, And trust on chariots, because many, And on horsemen, because very strong, And have not looked on the Holy One of Israel, And Jehovah have not sought.