Rev. Dr. Kandi Smith's Comments

Proclamation
My lovely Roeschen,
do not cry for me any longer:
Soon all thy grief of the past
will be erased and replaced
through our holy truth at last.
Thou shallst proclaim
my return unto thee,
my betrothed and beloved
earthly bride, who has made
me a home again in thy pure heart
and whose soul has been
joined to mine in heaven by Abba,
Our loving and merciful Father.
Only few souls knew that
with thy so lovingly anointing
of my feet and my lying with my
left hand under thy head and
my right hand embracing thee
my widow-to-be thou werest.
And we whispered the words
of Solomon’s song into each
other’s so keen and
tenderly listening ears:
‘Behold, thou art fair, my love;
behold, thou art fair;
thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks:
thy hair is as a flock of goats,
that appear from mount Gilead.
Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep
that are even shorn, which came up
from the washing; whereof every one
bear twins, and none is barren among them.
Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet,
and thy speech is comely: thy temples
are like a piece of a pomegranate
within thy locks.
Thy two breasts are like two young roes
that are twins, which feed among the lilies.
Until the day break, and the shadows
flee away, I will get me to the mountain
of myrrh, and to the hill of frankincense.
Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee.
Come with me from Lebanon, my spouse, with me
from Lebanon: look from the top of Amana,
from the top of Shenir and Hermon, from the
lions' dens, from the mountains of the leopards.
Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse;
thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes,
with one chain of thy neck.
How fair is thy love, my sister, my spouse!
how much better is thy love than wine! and
the smell of thine ointments than all spices!
Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb:
honey and milk are under thy tongue; and the
smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon.
A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse;
a spring shut up, a fountain sealed.

Thy plants are an orchard of pomegranates,
with pleasant fruits; camphire, with spikenard,
Spikenard and saffron; calamus and cinnamon,
with all trees of frankincense; myrrh and aloes,
with all the chief spices:
A fountain of gardens, a well of living waters,
and streams from Lebanon.
Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south;
blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof
may flow out. Let my beloved come into
his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits.’
Only for the most precious of short whiles
could we enjoy our fruits in thy secret garden.
Then I had to leave thee to weep thy floods
of tears of thy loneliest despair
at my cross, and mourn forlorn
in our unspeakable pain amplified
even more by another thorn, our
most cruel and secret loss:
as thou hasteth been in good
hope of our first-born child,
who was, let it be known now and
rectified: Jesus' and Mary Magdala's
true love’s crown and forever
bemourned silent heir.
Holy Rose