Study Desk

There's no one like her on earth, never has been, never will be. She's a woman beyond compare. My dove is perfection, Pure and innocent as the day she was born, and cradled in joy by her mother. Everyone who came by to see her exclaimed and admired her— All the fathers and mothers, the neighbors and friends, blessed and praised her:

Dance, dance, dear Shulammite, Angel-Princess! Dance, and we'll feast our eyes on your grace! Everyone wants to see the Shulammite dance her victory dances of love and peace.

Shapely and graceful your sandaled feet, and queenly your movement— Your limbs are lithe and elegant, the work of a master artist. Your body is a chalice, wine-filled. Your skin is silken and tawny like a field of wheat touched by the breeze. Your breasts are like fawns, twins of a gazelle. Your neck is carved ivory, curved and slender. Your eyes are wells of light, deep with mystery. Quintessentially feminine! Your profile turns all heads, commanding attention. The feelings I get when I see the high mountain ranges —stirrings of desire, longings for the heights— Remind me of you, and I'm spoiled for anyone else! Your beauty, within and without, is absolute, dear lover, close companion. You are tall and supple, like the palm tree, and your full breasts are like sweet clusters of dates. I say, "I'm going to climb that palm tree! I'm going to caress its fruit!" Oh yes! Your breasts will be clusters of sweet fruit to me, Your breath clean and cool like fresh mint, your tongue and lips like the best wine. The Woman Yes, and yours are, too—my love's kisses flow from his lips to mine. I am my lover's. I'm all he wants. I'm all the world to him! Come, dear lover— let's tramp through the countryside. Let's sleep at some wayside inn, then rise early and listen to bird-song. Let's look for wildflowers in bloom, blackberry bushes blossoming white, Fruit trees festooned with cascading flowers. And there I'll give myself to you, my love to your love! Love-apples drench us with fragrance, fertility surrounds, suffuses us, Fruits fresh and preserved that I've kept and saved just for you, my love.

class="poetry"> Shapely and graceful your sandaled feet, and queenly your movement— Your limbs are lithe and elegant, the work of a master artist. Your body is a chalice, wine-filled. Your skin is silken and tawny like a field of wheat touched by the breeze. Your breasts are like fawns, twins of a gazelle. Your neck is carved ivory, curved and slender. Your eyes are wells of light, deep with mystery. Quintessentially feminine! Your profile turns all heads, commanding attention. The feelings I get when I see the high mountain ranges —stirrings of desire, longings for the heights— Remind me of you, and I'm spoiled for anyone else! Your beauty, within and without, is absolute, dear lover, close companion. You are tall and supple, like the palm tree, and your full breasts are like sweet clusters of dates. I say, "I'm going to climb that palm tree! I'm going to caress its fruit!" Oh yes! Your breasts will be clusters of sweet fruit to me, Your breath clean and cool like fresh mint, your tongue and lips like the best wine. The Woman Yes, and yours are, too—my love's kisses flow from his lips to mine. I am my lover's. I'm all he wants. I'm all the world to him! Come, dear lover— let's tramp through the countryside. Let's sleep at some wayside inn, then rise early and listen to bird-song. Let's look for wildflowers in bloom, blackberry bushes blossoming white, Fruit trees festooned with cascading flowers. And there I'll give myself to you, my love to your love! Love-apples drench us with fragrance, fertility surrounds, suffuses us, Fruits fresh and preserved that I've kept and saved just for you, my love.

class="poetry"> Shapely and graceful your sandaled feet, and queenly your movement— Your limbs are lithe and elegant, the work of a master artist. Your body is a chalice, wine-filled. Your skin is silken and tawny like a field of wheat touched by the breeze. Your breasts are like fawns, twins of a gazelle. Your neck is carved ivory, curved and slender. Your eyes are wells of light, deep with mystery. Quintessentially feminine! Your profile turns all heads, commanding attention. The feelings I get when I see the high mountain ranges —stirrings of desire, longings for the heights— Remind me of you, and I'm spoiled for anyone else! Your beauty, within and without, is absolute, dear lover, close companion. You are tall and supple, like the palm tree, and your full breasts are like sweet clusters of dates. I say, "I'm going to climb that palm tree! I'm going to caress its fruit!" Oh yes! Your breasts will be clusters of sweet fruit to me, Your breath clean and cool like fresh mint, your tongue and lips like the best wine. The Woman Yes, and yours are, too—my love's kisses flow from his lips to mine. I am my lover's. I'm all he wants. I'm all the world to him! Come, dear lover— let's tramp through the countryside. Let's sleep at some wayside inn, then rise early and listen to bird-song. Let's look for wildflowers in bloom, blackberry bushes blossoming white, Fruit trees festooned with cascading flowers. And there I'll give myself to you, my love to your love! Love-apples drench us with fragrance, fertility surrounds, suffuses us, Fruits fresh and preserved that I've kept and saved just for you, my love.

class="poetry"> Shapely and graceful your sandaled feet, and queenly your movement— Your limbs are lithe and elegant, the work of a master artist. Your body is a chalice, wine-filled. Your skin is silken and tawny like a field of wheat touched by the breeze. Your breasts are like fawns, twins of a gazelle. Your neck is carved ivory, curved and slender. Your eyes are wells of light, deep with mystery. Quintessentially feminine! Your profile turns all heads, commanding attention. The feelings I get when I see the high mountain ranges —stirrings of desire, longings for the heights— Remind me of you, and I'm spoiled for anyone else! Your beauty, within and without, is absolute, dear lover, close companion. You are tall and supple, like the palm tree, and your full breasts are like sweet clusters of dates. I say, "I'm going to climb that palm tree! I'm going to caress its fruit!" Oh yes! Your breasts will be clusters of sweet fruit to me, Your breath clean and cool like fresh mint, your tongue and lips like the best wine. The Woman Yes, and yours are, too—my love's kisses flow from his lips to mine. I am my lover's. I'm all he wants. I'm all the world to him! Come, dear lover— let's tramp through the countryside. Let's sleep at some wayside inn, then rise early and listen to bird-song. Let's look for wildflowers in bloom, blackberry bushes blossoming white, Fruit trees festooned with cascading flowers. And there I'll give myself to you, my love to your love!

The Chorus Who is this I see coming up from the country, arm in arm with her lover? The Man I found you under the apricot tree, and woke you up to love. Your mother went into labor under that tree, and under that very tree she bore you.

class="poetry"> I wish you'd been my twin brother, sharing with me the breasts of my mother, Playing outside in the street, kissing in plain view of everyone, and no one thinking anything of it. I'd take you by the hand and bring you home where I was raised by my mother. You'd drink my wine and kiss my cheeks. Imagine! His left hand cradling my head, his right arm around my waist! Oh, let me warn you, sisters in Jerusalem: Don't excite love, don't stir it up, until the time is ripe—and you're ready. The Chorus Who is this I see coming up from the country, arm in arm with her lover? The Man I found you under the apricot tree, and woke you up to love. Your mother went into labor under that tree, and under that very tree she bore you. The Woman Hang my locket around your neck, wear my ring on your finger. Love is invincible facing danger and death. Passion laughs at the terrors of hell. The fire of love stops at nothing— it sweeps everything before it. Flood waters can't drown love, torrents of rain can't put it out. Love can't be bought, love can't be sold— it's not to be found in the marketplace. My brothers used to worry about me: "Our little sister has no breasts. What shall we do with our little sister when men come asking for her? She's a virgin and vulnerable, and we'll protect her. If they think she's a wall, we'll top it with barbed wire. If they think she's a door, we'll barricade it."

Quit scraping and fawning over mere humans, so full of themselves, so full of hot air! Can't you see there's nothing to them?

Doom to you who use lies to sell evil, who haul sin to market by the truckload, Who say, "What's God waiting for? Let him get a move on so we can see it. Whatever The Holy of Israel has cooked up, we'd like to check it out."

That's why God flamed out in anger against his people, reached out and knocked them down. The mountains trembled as their dead bodies piled up in the streets. But even after that, he was still angry, his fist still raised, ready to hit them again. He raises a flag, signaling a distant nation, whistles for people at the ends of the earth. And here they come— on the run! None drag their feet, no one stumbles, no one sleeps or dawdles. Shirts are on and pants buckled, every boot is spit-polished and tied. Their arrows are sharp, bows strung, The hooves of their horses shod, chariot wheels greased. Roaring like a pride of lions, the full-throated roars of young lions, They growl and seize their prey, dragging it off—no rescue for that one! They'll roar and roar and roar on that Day, like the roar of ocean billows. Look as long and hard as you like at that land, you'll see nothing but darkness and trouble. Every light in the sky will be blacked out by the clouds.

He said, "Go and tell this people: "‘Listen hard, but you aren't going to get it; look hard, but you won't catch on.' Make these people blockheads, with fingers in their ears and blindfolds on their eyes, So they won't see a thing, won't hear a word, So they won't have a clue about what's going on and, yes, so they won't turn around and be made whole."

Wail! God 's Day of Judgment is near— an avalanche crashing down from the Strong God! Everyone paralyzed in the panic, hysterical and unstrung, Doubled up in pain like a woman giving birth to a baby. Horrified—everyone they see is like a face out of a nightmare.

"Dispatch a gift of lambs," says Moab, "to the leaders in Jerusalem— Lambs from Sela sent across the desert to buy the goodwill of Jerusalem. The towns and people of Moab are at a loss, New-hatched birds knocked from the nest, fluttering helplessly At the banks of the Arnon River, unable to cross: ‘Tell us what to do, help us out! Protect us, hide us! Give the refugees from Moab sanctuary with you. Be a safe place for those on the run from the killing fields.'" "When this is all over," Judah answers, "the tyrant toppled, The killing at an end, all signs of these cruelties long gone, A new government of love will be established in the venerable David tradition. A Ruler you can depend upon will head this government, A Ruler passionate for justice, a Ruler quick to set things right." We've heard—everyone's heard!—of Moab's pride, world-famous for pride— Arrogant, self-important, insufferable, full of hot air. So now let Moab lament for a change, with antiphonal mock-laments from the neighbors! What a shame! How terrible! No more fine fruitcakes and Kir-hareseth candies! All those lush Heshbon fields dried up, the rich Sibmah vineyards withered! Foreign thugs have crushed and torn out the famous grapevines That once reached all the way to Jazer, right to the edge of the desert, Ripped out the crops in every direction as far as the eye can see. I'll join the weeping. I'll weep right along with Jazer, weep for the Sibmah vineyards. And yes, Heshbon and Elealeh, I'll mingle my tears with your tears! The joyful shouting at harvest is gone. Instead of song and celebration, dead silence. No more boisterous laughter in the orchards, no more hearty work songs in the vineyards. Instead of the bustle and sound of good work in the fields, silence—deathly and deadening silence. My heartstrings throb like harp strings for Moab, my soul in sympathy for sad Kir-heres. When Moab trudges to the shrine to pray, he wastes both time and energy. Going to the sanctuary and praying for relief is useless. Nothing ever happens. This is God 's earlier Message on Moab. God 's updated Message is, "In three years, no longer than the term of an enlisted soldier, Moab's impressive presence will be gone, that splendid hot-air balloon will be punctured, and instead of a vigorous population, just a few shuffling bums cadging handouts."

We've heard—everyone's heard!—of Moab's pride, world-famous for pride— Arrogant, self-important, insufferable, full of hot air. So now let Moab lament for a change, with antiphonal mock-laments from the neighbors! What a shame! How terrible! No more fine fruitcakes and Kir-hareseth candies! All those lush Heshbon fields dried up, the rich Sibmah vineyards withered! Foreign thugs have crushed and torn out the famous grapevines That once reached all the way to Jazer, right to the edge of the desert, Ripped out the crops in every direction as far as the eye can see. I'll join the weeping. I'll weep right along with Jazer, weep for the Sibmah vineyards. And yes, Heshbon and Elealeh, I'll mingle my tears with your tears! The joyful shouting at harvest is gone. Instead of song and celebration, dead silence. No more boisterous laughter in the orchards, no more hearty work songs in the vineyards. Instead of the bustle and sound of good work in the fields, silence—deathly and deadening silence. My heartstrings throb like harp strings for Moab, my soul in sympathy for sad Kir-heres. When Moab trudges to the shrine to pray, he wastes both time and energy. Going to the sanctuary and praying for relief is useless. Nothing ever happens.

Everybody everywhere, all earth-dwellers: When you see a flag flying on the mountain, look! When you hear the trumpet blown, listen!

On that Day, Egyptians will be like hysterical schoolgirls, screaming at the first hint of action from God -of-the-Angel-Armies. Little Judah will strike terror in Egyptians! Say "Judah" to an Egyptian and see panic. The word triggers fear of the God -of-the-Angel-Armies' plan against Egypt.

A Message concerning the desert at the sea: As tempests drive through the Negev Desert, coming out of the desert, that terror-filled place, A hard vision is given me: The betrayer betrayed, the plunderer plundered. Attack, Elam! Lay siege, Media! Persians, attack! Attack, Babylon! I'll put an end to all the moaning and groaning. Because of this news I'm doubled up in pain, writhing in pain like a woman having a baby, Baffled by what I hear, undone by what I see. Absolutely stunned, horror-stricken, I had hoped for a relaxed evening, but it has turned into a nightmare.

In the midst of the shouting, I said, "Let me alone. Let me grieve by myself. Don't tell me it's going to be all right. These people are doomed. It's not all right." For the Master, God -of-the-Angel-Armies, is bringing a day noisy with mobs of people, Jostling and stampeding in the Valley of Vision, knocking down walls and hollering to the mountains, "Attack! Attack!" Old enemies Elam and Kir arrive armed to the teeth— weapons and chariots and cavalry. Your fine valleys are noisy with war, chariots and cavalry charging this way and that. God has left Judah exposed and defenseless. You assessed your defenses that Day, inspected your arsenal of weapons in the Forest Armory. You found the weak places in the city walls that needed repair. You secured the water supply at the Lower Pool. You took an inventory of the houses in Jerusalem and tore down some to get bricks to fortify the city wall. You built a large cistern to ensure plenty of water. You looked and looked and looked, but you never looked to him who gave you this city, never once consulted the One who has long had plans for this city. The Master, God -of-the-Angel-Armies, called out on that Day, Called for a day of repentant tears, called you to dress in somber clothes of mourning. But what do you do? You throw a party! Eating and drinking and dancing in the streets! You barbecue bulls and sheep, and throw a huge feast— slabs of meat, kegs of beer. "Seize the day! Eat and drink! Tomorrow we die!" God -of-the-Angel-Armies whispered to me his verdict on this frivolity: "You'll pay for this outrage until the day you die." The Master, God -of-the-Angel-Armies, says so. The Master, God -of-the-Angel-Armies, spoke: "Come. Go to this steward, Shebna, who is in charge of all the king's affairs, and tell him: What's going on here? You're an outsider here and yet you act like you own the place, make a big, fancy tomb for yourself where everyone can see it, making sure everyone will think you're important. God is about to sack you, to throw you to the dogs. He'll grab you by the hair, swing you round and round dizzyingly, and then let you go, sailing through the air like a ball, until you're out of sight. Where you'll land, nobody knows. And there you'll die, and all the stuff you've collected heaped on your grave. You've disgraced your master's house! You're fired—and good riddance! "On that Day I'll replace Shebna. I will call my servant Eliakim son of Hilkiah. I'll dress him in your robe. I'll put your belt on him. I'll give him your authority. He'll be a father-leader to Jerusalem and the government of Judah. I'll give him the key of the Davidic heritage. He'll have the run of the place—open any door and keep it open, lock any door and keep it locked. I'll pound him like a nail into a solid wall. He'll secure the Davidic tradition. Everything will hang on him—not only the fate of Davidic descendants but also the detailed daily operations of the house, including cups and cutlery. "And then the Day will come," says God -of-the-Angel-Armies, "when that nail will come loose and fall out, break loose from that solid wall—and everything hanging on it will go with it." That's what will happen. God says so.

A Country of Cowards A Message concerning the Valley of Vision: What's going on here anyway? All this partying and noisemaking, Shouting and cheering in the streets, the city noisy with celebrations! You have no brave soldiers to honor, no combat heroes to be proud of. Your leaders were all cowards, captured without even lifting a sword, A country of cowards captured escaping the battle. In the midst of the shouting, I said, "Let me alone. Let me grieve by myself. Don't tell me it's going to be all right. These people are doomed. It's not all right." For the Master, God -of-the-Angel-Armies, is bringing a day noisy with mobs of people, Jostling and stampeding in the Valley of Vision, knocking down walls and hollering to the mountains, "Attack! Attack!" Old enemies Elam and Kir arrive armed to the teeth— weapons and chariots and cavalry. Your fine valleys are noisy with war, chariots and cavalry charging this way and that. God has left Judah exposed and defenseless. You assessed your defenses that Day, inspected your arsenal of weapons in the Forest Armory. You found the weak places in the city walls that needed repair. You secured the water supply at the Lower Pool. You took an inventory of the houses in Jerusalem and tore down some to get bricks to fortify the city wall. You built a large cistern to ensure plenty of water. You looked and looked and looked, but you never looked to him who gave you this city, never once consulted the One who has long had plans for this city. The Master, God -of-the-Angel-Armies, called out on that Day, Called for a day of repentant tears, called you to dress in somber clothes of mourning. But what do you do? You throw a party! Eating and drinking and dancing in the streets! You barbecue bulls and sheep, and throw a huge feast— slabs of meat, kegs of beer. "Seize the day! Eat and drink! Tomorrow we die!" God -of-the-Angel-Armies whispered to me his verdict on this frivolity: "You'll pay for this outrage until the day you die." The Master, God -of-the-Angel-Armies, says so. The Master, God -of-the-Angel-Armies, spoke: "Come. Go to this steward, Shebna, who is in charge of all the king's affairs, and tell him: What's going on here? You're an outsider here and yet you act like you own the place, make a big, fancy tomb for yourself where everyone can see it, making sure everyone will think you're important. God is about to sack you, to throw you to the dogs. He'll grab you by the hair, swing you round and round dizzyingly, and then let you go, sailing through the air like a ball, until you're out of sight. Where you'll land, nobody knows. And there you'll die, and all the stuff you've collected heaped on your grave. You've disgraced your master's house! You're fired—and good riddance! "On that Day I'll replace Shebna. I will call my servant Eliakim son of Hilkiah. I'll dress him in your robe. I'll put your belt on him. I'll give him your authority. He'll be a father-leader to Jerusalem and the government of Judah. I'll give him the key of the Davidic heritage. He'll have the run of the place—open any door and keep it open, lock any door and keep it locked. I'll pound him like a nail into a solid wall. He'll secure the Davidic tradition. Everything will hang on him—not only the fate of Davidic descendants but also the detailed daily operations of the house, including cups and cutlery. "And then the Day will come," says God -of-the-Angel-Armies, "when that nail will come loose and fall out, break loose from that solid wall—and everything hanging on it will go with it." That's what will happen. God says so.