Tuesday in Whitsun Week

The Bride of Christ is beautiful!
As Tirzah she is fair,
And comely as Jerusalem,
And terrible as war!

Her hair is as a flock of goats.
That over Gilead roam;
Her teeth are as a flock of sheep.
That from the washing come:

A flock of sheep — where every one
Hath lambs both twin and fair.
Among whose fleecy thousands
Not one is barren there j

And as a piece of pomegranate,
The earliest of the year.
The temples of her glorious brows
Within her locks appear.

Lo! three-score queens in splendour,
And concubines four-score.
And virgins without number
Wait round the Bridegroom's door;

His Dove, His undefiled, is one.
Her mother's only child!
Choice one of her that bare her,
Christ's We! His undefiled.

The daughters saw and blest her.
The queens beheld and praised.
The concubines confest her
Above all others raised.

Who, who is she that looketh forth
Bright as the morning star.
Fair as the moon, clear as the sun.
And terrible as war?

I am my Best-beloved's,
And my Beloved is mine;
He feeds among the lilies.
And wanders where they twine.

Down, down into His garden.
To beds of spices rare.
My Best-beloved is gone to feed.
And gather lilies there.