Poetry

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She has decked herself with beauty,
She has washed her face with myrth,
The oil of joy beams from her eyes,
Her groom sees only her.

She has kept herself for marriage,
She has not betrayed her vows,
Her gown is spotless, white as snow,
She awaits her husband now.

She feeds the hungry and the poor,
She's visited those in chains,
She has tended others children,
She has eased the wounded's pain.

She does well with her money,
draws not her purse strings tight,
Her door is open to castaways,
both morning, noon, and night.

Her husband is praised because of her,
She a rare a lovely queen,
She always tells of her husband's mercy,
She's married to the King of Kings.

Over and over she reads His letters,
Her heart for Him yet burns,
She knows that it shall not be long,
Until her King returns.

At night in dreams He calls to her,
"My love I'm preparing a feast,
I'm building a home not made with hands,
Where joy shall never cease."

"My love, my love I long for you,
I shall cross the swelling tide,
So cherish each moment until you hear,
Behold her comes my bride."

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