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,

My beloved sent his hand from the net-work, And my bowels were moved for him.

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

As the chorus of 'Mahanaim.' How beautiful were thy feet with sandals, O daughter of Nadib. The turnings of thy sides are as ornaments, Work of the hands of an artificer.

If she is a wall, we build by her a palace of silver. And if she is a door, We fashion by her board-work of cedar.