A song for Valentine’s Day

We had another storytelling evening last night. It was as well attended as our last one, but a good night nevertheless. I ended the evening with a retelling of the Song of Songs. It does not took well as a story (not enough narrative tension), but the language and sentiment are so beautiful that it made a great ‘prose poem’. Here’s what I said …

There is a story in the Bible called the Song of Songs. This is how it begins: ‘This is Solomon’s Song of Songs, more wonderful than any other.’ Under the reign of King Solomon there was a great period of learning, wisdom, poetry, literature. It was the golden age, the renaissance, of Israel’s history. Some of it was inspired by the Spirit of God: hymns to God’s glory, wisdom to live by, meditations on suffering, songs of praise. But only this Song is the Song of Songs. The Holy of Holiest was a way of saying the most holy place. The Song of Songs is a way of saying the best of all songs. And that is how it is described: it is ‘more wonderful than any other.’

And what do you think are the opening words of this song of songs, this best of songs, this song which is ‘more wonderful than any other’? ‘Kiss me.’ And what are the next words? ‘Kiss me again.’ And who is speaking? It is a young woman in love.

(I guess you might have worked out that she was in love.)

I want to tell you the story of the Song of Songs. The Bible describes the relationship between God and his people, between Jesus and his church, as a marriage – with all that deep love and commitment. So we see something of that in this story. But this is a love story. Indeed, some people think it was written when arranged marriages were common as a celebration of romantic love. Here is a 3,000-year-old love story.

Kiss me, kiss me again.

We don’t know her name. We don’t know his name. He calls her his ‘Shulammite woman’ – probably from the word ‘shalom’ or wholeness or peace. She is the one who makes him feel whole. She makes him feel complete. So we’ll call her the Shulammite woman.

Dark am I, yet lovely.

That’s how she describes herself. She is a country . She is dark and ruddy from hours in the fields. She feels intimidated by the fair-skinned, perfumed, young sophisticates of urban Jerusalem. ‘Don’t stare at me,’ she says as she walks in the city. She doesn’t dress in the latest fashions. She doesn’t have the latest hairstyles. She hears their muttered comments. She sees their pointing fingers. ‘Don’t stare at me because I am dark,’ she says.

My brothers made me take care of the vineyards,
but my own vineyard I have neglected.

She’s been working the fields, pruning the grapes, collecting the harvest. She has not had time to make herself beautiful. She has not been able to keep her hands soft and her skin fair.

Dark am I, yet lovely.

Where can our two lov ers meet? Where can they talk away from the gossips and the scornful looks of the Jerusalem young women?

She has an idea.

In the hustle and bustle of the market, she leans in to him.

Where are you grazing? she whispers.

Follow my sheep, he replies.

The next day she sees his sheep flowing like a white stream through the grasses and shrubs of the hillside, creating a path for her to follow.

And so at noon they lie together in the shade, backs to the earth, looking up at the sky and imagine being married.

The beams of our house are cedars; our rafters are firs, he says.

The soft grass is our bed, she cries.

And they trade praises …

You’re so beautiful, your eyes are like doves.
You are so handsome, pleasing beyond words!

Like a lily among thistles is my darling among young women.
Like the finest apple tree in the orchard is my lover among young men.

I sit in his delightful shade
and taste his delicious fruit.
He has taken me to the banquet hall;
and his banner over me is love.

It is a moment of high passion, alone together in the fields with only the sheep for company. But it is also a moment of restraint:

Promise me, O women of Jerusalem,
by the gazelles and wild deer,
do not arose or awaken love
until it so desires, until its time has come.

She thinks he is like a young stag when he comes to her.

He thinks she is like the first warm sunshine of spring.

Arise, my darling, my beautiful one,
and come with me.
See! Winter is past;
the rains are over and gone.
Flowers appear on the earth;
the season of singing has come;
the cooing of doves is heard is our land.

The time is near. But still they sing:

Do not arose or awaken love
until it so desires, until its time has come.

Then finally one day, she is at home in her village, nestled among the hills. And she sees on the horizon a cloud of dust. Who is this coming up from the desert? It is her lov er, her king, her groom. There he is escorted by his friends, all so heavily perfumed she can smell them at a distance.

Slowly, oh so slowly, he makes his way across the plane, through the hills and into the village whether she is ready in a simple new dress and flowers in her hair. It may not be Jerusalem chic, but it is takes his breath away.

How beautiful you are, my darling.
Oh, how beautiful.
Your eyes are like doves.
Your hair likes streams.
Your lips like scarlet ribbon.
Your kisses like honey.
Your brea sts like fawns.
There is no flaw in you at all.
More pleasing than wine.
More fragrant than spice.
You have stolen my heart.

(That sounds like a cliché to us, but it was the first time it had ever been said, some 3,000 years ago.)

You are my private garden, my treasure, my bride,
a secluded spring, a hidden fountain.
Your thig hs shelter a paradise of pomegranates.

As the two lov ers move from the marriage ceremony to the marriage bed, she whispers:

Awake, north wind!
Rise up, south wind!
Blow on my garden
and spread its fragrance all around.
Come into your garden, my love;
taste its finest fruits.

And he responds …

I have entered my garden, my treasure, my bride!
I gather myrrh with my spices
and eat honeycomb with my honey.
I drink wine with my milk.
Oh, lover and beloved, eat and drink!
Yes, drink deeply of your love!

Place me like a seal over your heart,
like a seal on your arm.
For love is as strong as ,
its passion as enduring as the grave.
Love flashes like fire,
the brightest kind of flame.
Many waters cannot quench love,
nor can rivers drown it.
If a man tried to buy love
with all his wealth,
his offer would be utterly scorned.

The Song ends with the Shulammite woman saying, ‘King Solomon has a vineyard that he rents out. But my vineyard, my garden, is mine to give. And I have built a wall around it. Only my lov er can enter.’

My beloved is mine and I am his,
and his banner over me is love.