Lack of closeness is pressing against her, as she lies alone.
In the midst of evening’s thick, black cloud she muses.
Now that the night is summoned and she rests in deep stillness, what reply will He give?
Under covers and under her veils, she hides from the world.
She pauses to revel in the distance of her lover.
“You are fair, a delight, and loyal,” He responds.
Her nature fights against such claims.
She replies with truth,
“I, in my love am stubborn and pressing advantage with pure seduction.
What bitter shame.”
Come, her heart beckons Him, but still he presses His need to be away.
How selfish she is, but so pleasantly.
She coils up into a ball and convinces herself that He will be fragile.
Can her impatient longing quicken His pace?
Surely His reply wouldn't bring disgrace!
Her despairing sigh in the night is given the same answer.
No hope of aroused completion.
His voice, firm, fixed, and longing.
“I must prepare a place. I have many delights to give you. I must prepare a place. Wait”
So like Him to delight her and make her lovesick with another trait.
He carves the rafters, saws the beams, hammers the nails.
To His hard effort, not thanks did He receive.
From His being He exhales such patience.
He looks upon the place He is building.
He envisions more beauty for His love that beckons Him so.
He takes out another nail.
She hears the sound of his carpentry.
The echo carries love's renewal across night air
to reach her there.
She repents.
Love achieves.
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