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When Love Comes Running.

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Song of Solomon 2 — Flowers, foxes, and an invitation that changes everything

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Key Takeaways

He came running over mountains to reach her — then stood at the window and waited. True love is both urgent and patient.

It's not the big betrayals that destroy something beautiful — it's the little foxes, the small neglects you don't notice until the damage is done.
"The winter is past" — one of the most beautiful invitations in all of literature, spoken by someone who showed up to say the waiting was over.
The woman most overwhelmed by love is the same one who warns others not to rush it — because love this powerful has its own timing.
"My beloved is mine, and I am his" — six words of mutual belonging that still echo because real commitment is that simple and that rare.

📢 Chapter 2 — When Love Comes Running 🌸

Song of is a love poem — raw, beautiful, and unapologetically intimate. Chapter 2 is where the poetry catches . The woman does most of the talking, describing what love feels like from the inside — the ache, the delight, the way everything comes alive when he's near.

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Not Just Another Flower 🌷

The woman opened with something almost modest — comparing herself to a common wildflower:

"I'm a rose of Sharon, a lily of the valleys."

But her beloved wouldn't let that stand:

"A lily among thorns — that's what my love is compared to every other woman."

And she answered right back:

"An apple tree among all the trees of the forest — that's my beloved among every other man. I sat in his shade with pure delight, and everything about him was sweet."

She called herself ordinary. He said no. And her response wasn't "thank you" — it was "you're the only one I want to be near." That's two people who actually see each other.

Overwhelmed in the Best Way 💫

The imagery got more intense. She wasn't just attracted to him. She was undone:

"He brought me to the banqueting hall, and his banner over me was love.

Sustain me with raisins. Refresh me with apples. I am sick with love.

His left hand is under my head, and his right hand holds me close."

Then she turned to the daughters of with something that sounds almost like a warning:

"I'm asking you — promise me — don't stir up love or awaken it before its time."

Right in the middle of this overwhelming, intoxicating experience, she paused to say: don't rush this. Don't force something to bloom before it's ready. this real has a pace — and the woman drowning in it was the one saying: respect the timing.

Listen — He's Coming 🏔️

The scene changed. She heard something in the distance, and her voice was electric:

"The voice of my beloved!

Look — he's coming, leaping over the mountains, bounding over the hills.

My beloved is like a gazelle, like a young deer. There he is — standing behind our wall, gazing through the windows, peering through the lattice."

He wasn't strolling. He was running. Leaping. Nothing between them could slow him down.

But when he arrived, he didn't burst through the door. He stood at the window, looking for her. Eager, but not demanding. That tension between urgency and patience says something profound about the kind of love this poem describes.

Winter Is Over 🌿

Then he spoke — and these might be the most beautiful lines of invitation ever written:

"Get up, my love, my beautiful one — come away with me.

Look — the winter is past. The rain is over and gone.

Flowers are appearing everywhere. The season of singing has arrived. The call of the turtledove echoes across the land.

The fig tree is heavy with early fruit. The vines are blooming and their fragrance fills the air.

Get up, my love, my beautiful one — come away with me."

He said it twice. Come away with me. And between those two invitations, he filled the space with every sign that the waiting was over. Winter — done. Rain — gone. Flowers, singing, fruit, fragrance — everything alive again.

If you've ever been through a long, hard season — the kind of winter that makes you forget what warmth feels like — read those words again. Something is always coming after the winter.

The Little Foxes 🦊

The beloved shifted to something tender and specific:

"My dove, hidden in the rock, tucked away in the shelter of the cliff — let me see your face. Let me hear your voice. Your voice is sweet, and your face is lovely."

Then, almost abruptly:

"Catch the foxes for us — the little foxes that ruin the vineyards — because our vineyards are in bloom."

Don't skim past that. The vineyard is blooming — everything is beautiful and full of — and the threat isn't some massive disaster. It's little foxes. The stuff you barely notice until the damage is done. Not the big betrayal — the small neglect, the half-attention, the slow drift you can't explain. Guard the small stuff. Especially when things are blooming.

Mine, and I Am His 🤍

The woman got the last word:

"My beloved is mine, and I am his. He grazes among the lilies.

Until the day breathes and the shadows slip away — come back, my beloved. Be like a gazelle, like a young deer on the mountain ridges."

Six words. My beloved is mine, and his. No conditions. No qualifiers. Just mutual, total belonging. There's a reason that line has echoed through thousands of years of wedding and whispered . In a world that treats commitment like a subscription you can cancel anytime, that kind of certainty is something almost no one knows how to offer anymore. But here it is. Quiet. Confident. Unshakable.