My Beloved

I am my love's and he is mine,
And this is his desire,
That with his beauty I may shine
In radiant attire.
And this will be-when all of me
Is pruned and purged with fire.
Come, my Beloved, let us go
Forth to the waiting field;
And where thy choicest fruit trees grow,
Thy pruning knife now wield
That at thy will and through thy skill
Their richest store may yield.
And spices give a sweet perfume,
And vines show tender shoots,
And all my trees burst forth in bloom,
Fair buds from bitter roots.
There will not I my love deny,
But yield thee pleasant fruits.



(Cant 7:10-13), Hannah Hurnard
'Hinds' Feet on High Places'