Song of Songs 1:4
Draw me, the spouse sang; draw me; we will run.
And morning enters here; a secret sun bursts from the skyline of the pronoun we:
All whom I love I bear by grace with me.
I carry them, sweet burden, as I go up through the mountain darkness,
through the slow, labored ascents. No goal is set too far if where I am,
my heart’s elected are.
No cliff cries halt between me and their good beyond.
And the propitious likelihood that I can santify myself for them
inspires each new stratagem.