Song of Songs: I. The Poet’s Vision - Frauenlob

Listen! I saw a vision:

a Lady on a throne.

Great with child, that woman

wore a wondrous crown.

How she ached for the hour

of birth, the best of women!

In her crown of power

I saw twelve gemstones glisten.

Now see

how she

so meekly

bowed to Nature’s ways.

With visionary gaze

she saw the child in her womb

enthroned amid lampstands seven,

and yet again she saw him

in the form of a Lamb

high on Mount Zion,

the mount of heaven.

She did

as she should,

noble and good,

bore a flower like a scepter.

Lady, if you would be

mother of both Lamb and Dove,

could you bear the weight

of the vineyard’s grape?

I’ll not be amazed

if the fruit of that vine

makes you fruitful from above.

Fertile maid and favored lady,

your meadow wet with heaven’s dew

flowers in resplendent show.

Hear the turtledoves singing their song, loud-ringing,

a song of longing

for sweet May’s treasure.

Winter’s ordeal is over:

your vineyards blossom with fruit so wholesome.

Your beloved calls from the vineyard, from the garden

where hallowed grapes ripen:

“Come, love, come!” He is waiting

on the mountain of myrrh where lions stalk.

Your way cannot err

should he wish to talk

among roses. Listen with love

most tender, daughter, mother, maid, you must go!

Tell no lie, never try to deny:

you alone were meeting

with the king

in his cellar—

you knew his greeting,

you felt his touch. How much,

fair maid, did you dally?

We do not envy the wine of bliss

you drank there with sweet, sweet milk.

I know well his own tongue should tell you the toll—

why the watchmen took

your cloak,

asking what do you seek,

fair maid, so late

in these alleys? “Never cease,

we must seize

the beloved!” Deep in your wounds

he’s branded his threefold mark.

Are you that maid who came up through the wilderness with rich perfumes?

The honored prince has made you his bride.

This I prove as follows:

the king comes and goes

as he pleases through your portals,

yet they were and still are closed

in every place to mortals.

David says you stand at his right hand in cloth of gold.

King Solomon found you, I heard him declare

the curls of your hair

dance like gazelles,

your thighs are jewels

of golden fire. The attire

of a modest woman suits her well!

To the seven churches wrote St. John

what they must do or leave undone

if they wished to take their stand

with God, and never fear to fall:

thus he paved the path of blessings.

Seven angels carried the tidings,

if I understand the case at all.

Maiden, since your form contained

the One who fashions every form,

by the craft of spirits seven,

I compare you, giver of birth,

to seven churches over all the earth.

You are Love, and Wisdom is yours,

you are Gentleness, Knowledge’s source,

you are Counsel and your Strength is whole,

your Fear of God loosed the chains of hell.

Maiden, fulfillment of every girl,

these spirits kindled you, body and soul,

and thus my craft with words well-formed

must raise your praise to highest heaven.

If all that I have learned is true,

these seven lanterns shine from you,

in your soul their starlight brightens,

in you his spirit’s harvest ripened—

when the Ancient Youth sat in the clearing,

robed in white, with gracious bearing—

peaceful, like a king appearing—

Daughter of Zion, celebrate!

The seven lanterns brightly shimmer

because your spirit does not waver.

Your courtesy, chastity gleam with the best,

your truth and constancy held ever fast

to faith unforsaken

with kindness unshaken:

your humility soared to heaven

and freed your will of every weight.

Ah, what a living word of love!

Maiden, richest treasure trove!

The beauty of your radiant face

fills all heaven’s thrones with grace.

“Crown her, king!” cries every voice.

“It is truly just and right:

Let the queen reign at your right.

The apple that she bears grows ripe.”

On either side of the mountain,

dew-drunk, all the flowers wanton

and laugh and sway

as if to say,

“The Maid of maids brings joy today.”

As Solomon the wise king told,

your navel is a cup of gold

studded with fair

jewels so clear,

called jacinths, as I hear.

In this chalice

without malice

the Son brought his Father near us.

The tender Daughter found a move to make

when the Old One’s fall put us in check.

Loveliest of women, speak!

“I am the Mother of love all glorious,

Call me the hope of holiness.”

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Heinrich (Henry of Meissen or Heinrich von Meißen) Frauenlob (c.1250 – 1318) Germany

Translated by Barbara Newman

Source: Frauenlob’s Song of Songs, Barbara Newman, The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2006