Song of Songs 3:6–11 (WEB)
Who is this who comes up from the wilderness like pillars of smoke,
perfumed with myrrh and frankincense,
with all spices of the merchant?
Behold, it is Solomon’s carriage!
Sixty mighty men are around it,
of the mighty men of Israel.
They all handle the sword, and are expert in war.
Every man has his sword on his thigh,
because of fear in the night.
King Solomon made himself a carriage
of the wood of Lebanon.
He made its pillars of silver,
its bottom of gold, its seat of purple,
the middle of it being paved with love,
from the daughters of Jerusalem.
Go out, you daughters of Zion, and see King Solomon,
with the crown with which his mother has crowned him,
in the day of his weddings,
in the day of the gladness of his heart.
The woman has barely finished describing her nighttime search when the Song changes scenes dramatically. The lonely streets disappear, and something magnificent approaches from the wilderness. Smoke or dust rises in columns. The air is heavy with myrrh, frankincense, and imported spices. Sixty armed warriors surround an elaborate royal carriage made with wood from Lebanon, silver, gold, and purple. At the center of the spectacle stands Solomon, crowned by his mother on what the poem explicitly calls “the day of his weddings, in the day of the gladness of his heart.”
This is one of the clearest reasons not to read Song of Songs as though it were a continuous modern novel. We have moved from a woman apparently lying in bed and searching for her beloved through the city at night to a public royal procession without the narrator stopping to explain how much time has passed, whether the previous scene was a dream, or exactly how this scene relates chronologically to what came before it. The Song arranges poetic movements around love and desire rather than giving us the narrative transitions we would expect from historical prose.
What the new scene gives us unmistakably is public celebration. Until now much of the Song has focused upon what the lovers say to and about one another. Their desire has been personal and increasingly intimate. Here the imagery expands outward. There are warriors, daughters of Jerusalem, daughters of Zion, royal wealth, a crown, a procession, and finally a wedding. Love that has largely occupied private conversation is now placed within a public and social setting.
The repeated references to Solomon also bring back the interpretive question we raised in Study 1. Is Solomon himself the bridegroom throughout the Song? Is this a separate royal scene placed within the poetry? Does the Song intentionally contrast Solomon’s royal magnificence with another beloved? Different reconstructions answer those questions differently, and this passage is one of the major pieces of evidence in the debate. What we should not do is pretend the text has supplied more information than it actually has. Here the figure is explicitly Solomon, his carriage is identified, his mother crowns him, and the occasion is associated with his wedding. Those observations are secure even if the larger dramatic reconstruction remains debated.
The display itself is extraordinary. Sixty warriors surround the carriage, each armed and experienced in battle because of “fear in the night.” The detail probably reflects the realities of royal travel in a world where valuable processions required protection. The effect within the poem, however, is grandeur. This wedding is not happening quietly. The king approaches with enough security to protect a small treasury because the carriage effectively is one. Lebanon supplies its wood, silver forms its pillars, gold its base, and purple—an expensive color associated with wealth and status—covers its seat.
Then the description ends with an unusual phrase: “the middle of it being paved with love, from the daughters of Jerusalem.” The Hebrew is difficult, and translations differ over exactly what part of the carriage is being described and how the daughters of Jerusalem participate in its decoration. Whatever the precise construction, “love” appears unexpectedly amid the materials. Cedar, silver, gold, purple—and love. The procession’s physical magnificence ultimately serves a wedding, and the poem does not allow the wealth surrounding Solomon to become the emotional center of the scene.
That becomes particularly interesting when we remember where the Song will eventually end. In 8:7 we will hear that if a man offered all the wealth of his house for love, he would be utterly scorned. Here we are looking at a king surrounded by extraordinary wealth on his wedding day. We should not draw the final conclusion before the Song develops the theme for us, but we should remember the image. Solomon can build an impressive carriage. He can surround himself with armed men. He can furnish his procession with silver, gold, purple, perfume, and imported wood. None of those things is identical with the love the Song celebrates.
The final verse makes the occasion explicit and unexpectedly personal. The daughters of Zion are told to come and look at Solomon wearing the crown his mother placed upon him “in the day of the gladness of his heart.” For all the royal spectacle, the poem describes the wedding as a source of joy to the bridegroom. Whatever else may surround this marriage, the day is associated with gladness.
Then chapter 4 begins, and the poem narrows its focus dramatically. We have seen the carriage, the guards, the precious materials, the perfume, and the crown. Now all that public magnificence recedes as the bridegroom looks at the woman.
And now we finally get the goats.
You Are All Beautiful
Song of Songs 4:1–7 (WEB)
Behold, you are beautiful, my love.
Behold, you are beautiful.
Your eyes are like doves behind your veil.
Your hair is as a flock of goats,
that descend from Mount Gilead.
Your teeth are like a newly shorn flock,
which have come up from the washing,
where every one of them has twins.
None is bereaved among them.
Your lips are like scarlet thread.
Your mouth is lovely.
Your temples are like a piece of a pomegranate behind your veil.
Your neck is like David’s tower built for an armory,
whereon a thousand shields hang,
all the shields of the mighty men.
Your two breasts are like two fawns that are twins of a roe,
which feed among the lilies.
Until the day is cool, and the shadows flee away,
I will go to the mountain of myrrh,
to the hill of frankincense.
You are all beautiful, my love.
There is no spot in you.
And there they are.
The goats.
If the comparison to Pharaoh’s steed required some explanation in the previous study, the bridegroom has apparently decided that the safest course is to continue through the entire animal kingdom. Her hair reminds him of goats. Her teeth remind him of sheep. Her breasts remind him of twin fawns. Somewhere between those comparisons, her neck becomes a military tower covered with shields. Read as a collection of modern pickup lines, this is a man taking extraordinary risks.
Read as Hebrew love poetry, however, the passage is beautiful.
Modern scholars commonly call this kind of extended physical description a wasf, borrowing an Arabic term for descriptive poetry that praises features of the beloved one after another. Similar descriptive techniques are known from Near Eastern love poetry. The purpose is not photographic accuracy. The images communicate the lover’s delight by associating the beloved with things considered beautiful, abundant, graceful, valuable, or impressive within the poet’s world.
That distinction matters enormously for understanding the goats.
“Your hair is as a flock of goats, that descend from Mount Gilead” does not mean that individual strands of her hair resemble individual goats. Imagine a flock moving down the slopes of a mountain at a distance. Dark animals flow together across the landscape in rippling movement. The comparison is visual and dynamic. Her hair falls and moves like that flock descending the mountainside. What sounds absurd when we isolate the noun goats becomes evocative once we allow ourselves to see the scene the poet is describing.
Mount Gilead was a mountainous region east of the Jordan known for pastureland and livestock. An original hearer familiar with such landscapes could picture the movement far more readily than most modern readers can. We are the ones who require explanation because most of us have never stood at the bottom of a Near Eastern hillside watching a flock of dark goats descend toward us. The problem is not that ancient people had terrible flirting skills. Their visual vocabulary is simply not ours.
The teeth comparison works similarly. He describes them as freshly shorn sheep coming up from washing, each with its twin and none missing. Whiteness, cleanliness, symmetry, and completeness all contribute to the image. “None is bereaved among them” is a wonderfully poetic way of observing, among other things, that she apparently has all her teeth.
That last detail may not sound especially impressive to people with modern dentistry, but beauty is always described within a real historical world. Teeth that are white, orderly, and complete are attractive now; they were certainly attractive in a world without whitening strips, orthodontists, implants, and twice-yearly dental cleanings.
Once again, the imagery becomes considerably less strange when we stop demanding that an ancient poet compliment his bride using twenty-first-century language.
Her lips are compared to scarlet thread, drawing attention to their color and delicate shape, while her mouth is simply called lovely. Her temples or cheeks behind the veil resemble a piece of pomegranate, likely invoking its rich reddish color. The veil does not prevent him from seeing her beauty; it gives the poet another layer through which to describe what he sees.
Then he reaches her neck and apparently returns briefly to military architecture.
“Your neck is like David’s tower built for an armory, whereon a thousand shields hang, all the shields of the mighty men.”
The precise tower intended by “David’s tower” is uncertain, and attempts to identify a particular archaeological structure go beyond what the poem allows us to establish confidently. The imagery suggests height, dignity, strength, and impressive adornment. The shields hanging upon the tower may correspond poetically to jewelry decorating her neck. Just as the previous wedding procession combined beauty with royal and military splendor, the man draws from a world where towers and shields could communicate magnificence rather than ugliness.
This is one of the most important habits we can develop while reading the Song: ask what the comparison contributes before asking what the object literally looks like. Poetry works through association. A woman’s neck does not need to have the dimensions of a defensive fortification for the image to work any more than someone’s eyes must possess feathers to be “like doves.”
Then his gaze moves lower, and there is considerably less ambiguity about what he is admiring.
“Your two breasts are like two fawns that are twins of a roe, which feed among the lilies.”
We should neither panic nor pretend that breasts means something else.
The Hebrew refers to her breasts. The man finds them beautiful.
The comparison with twin fawns evokes delicacy, symmetry, softness, and perhaps movement, while the surrounding lilies preserve the natural imagery that has filled the Song from the beginning. Again, the poet describes the woman’s body through living creation rather than anatomically. That allows the language to be openly erotic without becoming crude. He is looking at the woman he loves, his attention moves across her body, and he tells her what he sees.
The literary placement matters. The poem has deliberately placed this sustained bodily praise immediately after explicit wedding imagery. We should not turn that literary sequence into a reconstructed chronology more confidently than the Song allows, but neither should we ignore the arrangement. Public wedding celebration is followed immediately by intimate admiration of the bride.
That is a very different biblical picture from the idea that holiness requires married people to become embarrassed about sexual attraction. The man’s desire for the woman’s body is not treated as an unfortunate primitive impulse that marriage reluctantly legitimizes. His delight belongs naturally within the poetry’s celebration of love.
Yet notice how the description ends:
“You are all beautiful, my love. There is no spot in you.”
That sentence gathers the individual descriptions back into the whole person. He has noticed her eyes, hair, teeth, lips, face, neck, and breasts, but his conclusion is not that he has discovered an acceptable collection of body parts.
She is beautiful to him.
“There is no spot in you” is the language of a lover’s gaze, not an objective medical certification that the woman possesses no physical imperfection. Love poetry does not require us to imagine a biologically flawless woman. It tells us how she appears to the person delighting in her. Earlier she was conscious of the sun’s effects upon her appearance and worried about being stared at. Now the man who loves her looks carefully and sees no defect worth mentioning.
That completes a movement that began all the way back in 1:5. The woman introduced herself with an awareness of how others might evaluate her appearance. Her beloved has answered that insecurity repeatedly, not by telling her physical beauty is meaningless, but by telling her she is beautiful to him.
And he is nowhere near finished.
You Have Captivated My Heart
Song of Songs 4:8–11 (WEB)
Come with me from Lebanon, my bride,
with me from Lebanon.
Look from the top of Amana,
from the top of Senir and Hermon,
from the lions’ dens,
from the mountains of the leopards.
You have ravished my heart, my sister, my bride.
You have ravished my heart with one of your eyes,
with one chain of your neck.
How beautiful is your love, my sister, my bride!
How much better is your love than wine!
The fragrance of your perfumes than all kinds of spices!
Your lips, my bride, drip like the honeycomb.
Honey and milk are under your tongue.
The smell of your garments is like the smell of Lebanon.
The description changes in verse 8.
He has spent the opening verses admiring her body, but now he repeatedly addresses her as “my bride.” That designation will continue throughout the remainder of chapter 4, and its concentration here is significant. The erotic language that follows is not detached from relationship. The woman whose body he desires is repeatedly identified as his bride.
The geographical imagery is difficult. Lebanon, Amana, Senir, and Hermon all point northward toward impressive mountainous country. Deuteronomy 3:9 tells us that the Sidonians called Hermon Sirion while the Amorites called it Senir, so the names belong to the geography of Israel’s northern world. The references to lions’ dens and mountains of leopards add danger and wildness. Whether we are supposed to imagine the woman literally located somewhere in those mountains is doubtful. The invitation functions poetically: come with me from those distant, elevated, dangerous places.
That continues a pattern we have already seen. In 2:10 the man said, “Rise up, my love, my beautiful one, and come away.” Here he calls again, but now with the language of bride and bridegroom. Attraction has not disappeared as commitment becomes more explicit. If anything, it intensifies.
Then he tells her what she does to him:
“You have ravished my heart, my sister, my bride.”
The Hebrew verb is unusual and occurs only here in the Hebrew Bible, making its precise nuance difficult to establish.
English translations variously render it “ravished my heart,” “captivated my heart,” or “stolen my heart.” Whatever English wording we choose, the idea is clearly one of powerful emotional capture. Something about this woman has overwhelmed him.
And apparently it did not take much.
“You have ravished my heart with one of your eyes, with one chain of your neck.”
Whether “one of your eyes” refers to a single glance or should be understood more literally is debated, but the poetic picture is not difficult to understand. She looks at him, and he is finished. One glance is enough.
This is an important counterpart to the physical description we just read. The man is unquestionably attracted to her body, but the Song does not portray him as standing at a detached distance conducting an evaluation. He is affected by her. Her gaze does something to him. Her presence overwhelms him. The observer has become vulnerable to the person he observes.
Then he says something that deliberately echoes the woman’s opening words:
“How beautiful is your love, my sister, my bride! How much better is your love than wine!”
Back in 1:2, she said:
“For your love is better than wine.”
Now he says the same about hers.
That reciprocity has been building throughout the Song. She wanted his kisses; he desires her. She praised his fragrance; he praises hers. She called him beautiful; he called her beautiful. She said his love was better than wine; now he says her love is better than wine. Their language continually answers one another.
The phrase “my sister, my bride” can sound alarming to modern English ears for reasons that would derail the study rather quickly if misunderstood. He is not identifying the woman as his biological sister. Kinship language could function as a term of intimacy and affection in ancient love poetry, and the immediate addition “my bride” identifies the relationship being celebrated. The expression communicates closeness and belonging rather than genealogy.
The sensory imagery then returns. Her love is better than wine. Her perfumes surpass spices. Her lips drip honey, and honey and milk are beneath her tongue. Even her clothing carries a fragrance he associates with Lebanon.
Honey and milk both carry strong associations with richness and abundance throughout the Old Testament. Israel is repeatedly described as a land “flowing with milk and honey.” Here those familiar substances are brought into romantic poetry and placed beneath the bride’s tongue.
The language is intimate enough that we should not work terribly hard to make it less intimate.
At minimum, he is describing the sweetness of her mouth and kisses. The Song has returned to the place where it began. The woman opened the book wanting the kisses of his mouth; now the bridegroom describes honey and milk beneath hers. Their attraction is reciprocal even at the level of the poem’s imagery.
Yet the language remains metaphorical. The Song does not become explicit by describing sexual technique. It communicates erotic experience through taste, fragrance, landscape, animals, fruit, flowers, spices, and precious objects. That is one reason its sexuality feels simultaneously unmistakable and restrained. The reader knows perfectly well that these people desire one another without the poet needing to narrate every physical action.
Then the imagery shifts again, and this next shift is crucial for understanding the remainder of the chapter.
The Locked Garden
Song of Songs 4:12–15 (WEB)
A locked up garden is my sister, my bride;
a locked up spring,
a sealed fountain.
Your shoots are an orchard of pomegranates, with precious fruits,
henna with spikenard plants,
spikenard and saffron,
calamus and cinnamon, with every kind of incense tree;
myrrh and aloes, with all the best spices,
a fountain of gardens,
a well of living waters,
flowing streams from Lebanon.
The bride becomes a garden.
Gardens have been hovering around the Song from the beginning through vineyards, flowers, fruit, trees, spices, and springtime landscapes. Here the imagery becomes concentrated and personal. This is her garden, and the man describes it first with three closely related expressions: locked, locked, sealed.
That language establishes exclusivity before abundance.
A locked garden is not barren.
A sealed fountain is not dry. Quite the opposite. The next several lines describe almost ridiculous fertility and richness: pomegranates, henna, spikenard, saffron, calamus, cinnamon, incense trees, myrrh, aloes, spices, springs, wells, and flowing water. The garden is overflowing with life.
But it is not open to everyone.
Within the Song’s larger presentation of exclusive love, the enclosure naturally communicates reserved access. The woman’s desirability is not diminished by being guarded. The garden is valuable enough that access to it matters. The poem can celebrate extraordinary sensual abundance while simultaneously describing that abundance as enclosed and sealed.
This gives us a much richer biblical picture of sexual boundaries than the idea that holiness means suppressing desire until marriage and then suddenly discovering that desire is acceptable. The garden was beautiful while it was enclosed. Its fruit existed. Its fragrance existed. Its water existed. The boundary did not make the garden good.
That matters because Christian teaching about chastity can sometimes accidentally communicate that sexuality itself is the dangerous thing. Scripture’s categories are better. Sexuality belongs to God’s creation. Sexual immorality is its distortion. Desire can be good while still requiring a proper object, context, and time. The refrain we have encountered twice—“do not stir up, nor awaken love, until it so desires”—has already taught us to respect the power and timing of desire. The locked garden adds exclusivity to that picture.
The Song is approaching the moment when that garden will no longer remain closed to the beloved.
And when it happens, the woman herself will speak.
Let My Beloved Come Into His Garden
Song of Songs 4:16–5:1 (WEB)
Awake, north wind, and come, you south!
Blow on my garden, that its spices may flow out.
Let my beloved come into his garden,
and taste his precious fruits.
I have come into my garden, my sister, my bride.
I have gathered my myrrh with my spice;
I have eaten my honeycomb with my honey;
I have drunk my wine with my milk.
Friends:
Eat, friends!
Drink, yes, drink abundantly, beloved.
The woman answers the description of the locked garden by inviting her beloved into it.
That movement is important enough that we should follow the poetry slowly. In verse 12, the man called her “a locked up garden,” “a locked up spring,” and “a sealed fountain.” He then spent several verses describing the abundance contained within that garden. Now the woman takes the same image upon her own lips: “Blow on my garden, that its spices may flow out. Let my beloved come into his garden, and taste his precious fruits.”
The garden that was closed is opened specifically to the beloved.
The north and south winds contribute to the sensory world of the metaphor. She calls upon the winds to move through the garden so that its fragrances spread. We do not need to assign a precise symbolic meaning to each wind. Together they create movement through a garden already overflowing with spices and aromatic plants. What had been enclosed and fragrant becomes active, and the fragrance moves outward as she invites the man in.
There is also a subtle change in possession. She begins by calling it “my garden.” Then she says, “Let my beloved come into his garden.” The garden remains hers, yet she willingly gives the beloved access to it. The shift fits the language of mutual belonging we encountered earlier: “My beloved is mine, and I am his.” Her body and sexuality are not portrayed as something taken from her by force or claimed without invitation.
She invites the man she loves.
That is why the next verse matters so much.
“I have come into my garden, my sister, my bride.”
He responds to invitation with entrance.
The imagery that follows becomes difficult to misunderstand once we have allowed the garden metaphor to develop across the passage. He gathers myrrh and spice, eats honeycomb and honey, and drinks wine and milk. Everything the man previously admired from outside the garden is now experienced from within it. The repeated first-person verbs emphasize participation: I have come. I have gathered. I have eaten. I have drunk.
We do not need to assign a specific sexual act to each item in that list. Doing so would probably misunderstand how the poetry works. Myrrh does not need to correspond anatomically to one thing, honey to another, and wine to something else. The garden functions as a sustained erotic metaphor. The abundance of tastes, fragrances, fruit, and spices communicates the delight of sexual intimacy without converting the poem into an anatomical diagram.
But neither should we retreat from what the metaphor is communicating.
This is sexual consummation.
That conclusion does not depend upon finding a secret code in every plant. It comes from the movement of the entire passage. The bride was described as a locked garden and sealed fountain. The bride then invited her beloved to enter his garden and enjoy its fruit. He answers that invitation by announcing that he has entered, gathered, eaten, and drunk. Coming immediately after the wedding imagery of 3:6–11 and the sustained erotic praise of 4:1–15, the literary progression is difficult to miss.
This is also one of the places where the Song’s structure says something important about biblical sexuality without turning itself into an instruction manual. Desire was present long before this moment. The woman wanted his kisses in the opening verse. The lovers admired one another, sought one another, longed for one another, and experienced powerful attraction. The Song did not require them to become sexually indifferent in order to remain honorable. Yet the garden remained locked until the poem placed its opening in the setting of bride, bridegroom, and wedding.
That gives us a better category than either repression or indulgence. Biblical chastity does not require pretending desire does not exist.
It requires governing desire according to God’s purposes. The Song has allowed desire to develop openly while repeatedly reminding us not to awaken love carelessly. Here exclusivity gives way to shared enjoyment.
Just as importantly, the woman’s agency remains unmistakable. She is not passive at the decisive moment. The man has described his desire at considerable length, but he does not simply announce that the garden belongs to him and enter. She speaks the invitation: “Let my beloved come into his garden.”
He answers her invitation.
Song of Songs is not giving us a modern treatise on consent, and we do not need to force contemporary terminology upon an ancient poem to notice what the text actually shows. Both lovers express desire. Both praise the other. Both seek the other. She invites; he responds. The intimacy portrayed here is mutual.
That fits naturally with the mutual belonging we have already encountered: “My beloved is mine, and I am his.” Paul will later make the reciprocity of marital bodily belonging explicit:
1 Corinthians 7:3–5 (WEB)
Let the husband render to his wife the affection owed her, and likewise also
the wife to her husband. The wife doesn’t have authority over her own body, but the husband does. Likewise also the husband doesn’t have authority over his own body, but the wife does. Don’t deprive one another, unless it is by consent for a season, that you may give yourselves to fasting and prayer, and may be together again, that Satan doesn’t tempt you because of your lack of self-control.
Paul’s construction is deliberately reciprocal. The wife belongs bodily to her husband, and the husband belongs bodily to his wife. Neither receives unilateral ownership of the other. Even temporary abstinence is described as something undertaken “by consent.” What Paul expresses as reciprocal marital obligation, Song of Songs depicts poetically as reciprocal desire: she wants him, he wants her, and each gives to the other.
Then another voice enters at the end of 5:1:
“Eat, friends! Drink, yes, drink abundantly, beloved.”
The identity of the speaker is debated. Many translations label the voice as friends or a chorus, while some interpreters have understood it as a divine affirmation or another poetic voice. The Hebrew itself does not supply the modern editorial heading “Friends,” so we should not build theology upon an identification the text does not explicitly make.
What we can say confidently is that the scene does not end with condemnation.
It ends with celebration.
That matters because Scripture is perfectly capable of condemning sexual sin in unmistakable language. Adultery, incest, exploitation, and sexual immorality are condemned elsewhere without ambiguity. Yet when the Song reaches this moment between bride and bridegroom, the poetry does not suddenly become embarrassed about the pleasure it has spent an entire chapter describing.
The response is essentially: enjoy.
Within the relationship the Song has developed, sexual pleasure is not something shameful that must be excused because at least these people are married. It belongs among the good gifts of embodied human life. The same Bible that places boundaries around sexuality can celebrate what happens within those boundaries precisely because the boundaries and the gift come from the same God.
The garden is beautiful.
The garden is guarded.
The garden is opened to the beloved.
And the Song celebrates what follows.
Conclusion
Song of Songs 3:6–5:1 has carried us from public wedding imagery into the intimate delight of bride and bridegroom. The section begins where everyone can see: Solomon’s procession approaches with armed guards, perfume, silver, gold, purple, a crown, and the daughters of Zion watching. Then the poem narrows its attention. The bridegroom looks at the woman, praises her beauty, describes what her presence does to him, and finally calls her a locked garden overflowing with fruit, fragrance, and water.
Then she opens the garden to him.
That progression gives us an important biblical framework for sexuality. The Song does not begin sexual desire at the wedding. These lovers have desired one another throughout the poetry. She opened the entire book wanting his kisses, and neither of them has been particularly mysterious about finding the other attractive. What changes here is not the existence of desire but its expression. The garden described as locked and sealed is willingly opened to the beloved in the literary setting of bride, bridegroom, and wedding.
The boundary therefore does not tell us the garden is dirty. It tells us access matters.
The woman’s invitation is equally important. She has never been a passive object in this Song. She initiated its first expression of desire, sought the man when he was absent, praised him, declared that he belonged to her and she to him, and now invites him into the garden. His desire is equally unmistakable, but the intimacy of 4:16–5:1 emerges from desire meeting desire. The Song’s picture is not one spouse obtaining something from the other. It is two people who belong to one another delighting in that belonging.
There is also something worth learning from the bridegroom’s extravagant praise. Most of us are never going to describe our spouse’s hair as goats descending Mount Gilead, and considering the cultural distance involved, that is probably wise. The point is not that married couples should reproduce ancient metaphors. The point is that familiarity has not made this man stop looking at the woman he loves.
He notices her.
He tells her what he finds beautiful.
Ordinary life has a remarkable ability to make extraordinary gifts familiar. The person who once occupied your thoughts can eventually become the person reminding you that the trash needs to go out. Work schedules, bills, children, laundry, exhaustion, illness, responsibilities, and the thousand repetitive tasks required to maintain a household can gradually turn lovers into logistical partners. Song of Songs reminds married people that the person helping manage the household is still the person they married.
That does not mean manufacturing constant romantic intensity. No marriage remains perpetually in the emotional state of Hebrew love poetry, and Scripture does not require it to. The better application is attentiveness: continue to see, hear, pursue, praise, and enjoy the person to whom you have given yourself.
Song of Songs also gives us permission to say plainly that sexual pleasure within marriage is good.
We do not need to rescue that statement by immediately making sex useful for something else. In this passage, the lovers enjoy one another because enjoying one another is itself good. The garden contains fruit worth tasting, fragrance worth smelling, water worth drinking, and beauty worth experiencing.
That goodness comes from the same Creator who established its boundaries. We therefore do Scripture no favors when we speak so loudly about sexual immorality that Christians learn everything God forbids but almost nothing about what he created sexuality to be. The Bible certainly warns us about the destruction caused by sexual sin.
But Song of Songs exists in the same Bible.
God apparently considered it worthwhile to preserve poetry in which a bridegroom admires his bride’s breasts and a bride invites her beloved into her garden. Our theology of sexuality needs enough room for Scripture’s warnings and Scripture’s celebration.
The wedding has been placed before us. The garden has opened. Bride and bridegroom have delighted in one another, and the poem responds with celebration rather than shame.
There is no embarrassed clearing of the throat.
There does not need to be.
What God created as good can be received as good, and within the faithful union for which sexual intimacy was given, husband and wife are permitted to enjoy one another without apology.
Just perhaps leave the goats in ancient Israel.
Prayer
Father, thank you for creating marriage and for giving husbands and wives the gift of belonging to one another. Thank you that your design for sexuality is not rooted in shame but in goodness, faithfulness, exclusivity, and love. Help us receive what you have made without corrupting it through selfishness and without despising it because sin has so often distorted it.
For those who are married, teach us to continue seeing the person we married rather than allowing familiarity to make us inattentive. Help us speak affection rather than merely assuming it is understood, listen to one another, pursue one another, and protect intimacy from the pressures and distractions of ordinary life. Teach husbands and wives to give rather than merely demand, remembering that biblical belonging is mutual and that love seeks the good and delight of the other person.
Guard marriages from sexual selfishness, coercion, infidelity, comparison, pornography, resentment, and everything else that teaches us to consume another person rather than love them. Where intimacy has become difficult, give patience, tenderness, honest communication, and wisdom. Where affection has become neglected, help couples rediscover one another without pretending that every season of marriage must look the same.
For those who are unmarried, help them see sexual desire neither as something shameful nor as something that must be obeyed. Give them wisdom to honor the boundaries you have established while recognizing the goodness of the gift those boundaries protect.
Most of all, shape our understanding through your Word rather than through the distortions of either our culture or our own traditions. Teach us to call good what you call good, sin what you call sin, and to receive every good gift with gratitude to you.
In Jesus’ name, amen.