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,

As a thread of scarlet are thy lips, And thy speech is comely, As the work of the pomegranate is thy temple behind thy veil,

The watchmen who go round about the city, Found me, smote me, wounded me, Keepers of the walls lifted up my veil from off me.

As the work of the pomegranate is thy temple behind thy veil.