They all thought I was slow-minded because I worked with flowers instead of scrolls. But in the gardens north of Jerusalem—the holy city chosen by God—I heard things other men missed. I heard the whisper of bees, the hush of lilies opening each morning, and once… I heard love speak.
No, not the kind from songs the shepherds strummed on their flutes. This was a deeper love. A sacred kind. I was just a vineyard keeper then, borrowing land from my father's cousin. My skin was always tanned from sun, my hands always covered in dust. I wasn’t anyone special.
But that spring—it must have been ten years after King Solomon took the throne—he came through the far gate of my vineyard with his men. His royal robe caught on a branch of wild fig, and instead of scolding the servant who tried to untangle it, he laughed. That laugh—it was soft, rich, like water poured over stones.
I ducked behind a trellis, clutching my basket of grapes. What was he doing in my vineyard?
Then he looked straight at me. The others kept walking, but he paused. And gently, not like a king but like a man recognizing someone he’d missed for years, he said, “Don’t be afraid. The lilies know your name.”
I didn’t answer. How could I? No man, not even my own brothers, had spoken to me like that—as though I mattered.
In the days that followed, he returned. He called me "beloved," though I was nothing more than a girl with cracked heels and sap-stained fingers. But he didn’t see that. When I asked why he came, he said, “The soul thirsts even in marble halls.”
I knew he was Solomon then—Solomon, son of David, the man gifted wisdom by God Himself. And still, he came to me.
We never spoke in the city. Too many eyes. But in the fields, between rows of pomegranate and grapevine, we poured out our words like psalms. He sang verses I thought no man could speak, and I answered without planning. The words came from somewhere deeper than memory.
Later, when we stopped meeting, I cried. I thought maybe it had been a dream. But then I heard that Solomon was composing a scroll—Shir HaShirim, which means “The Song of Songs.” And someone whispered it was about love—not just between him and a woman, but between God and Israel.
Between the Creator and us.
That’s when I understood. Our connection wasn’t just about the two of us. It was a mirror. Through that love, I saw God’s longing for His people. A love fierce, faithful, and undeserved.
So when they ask why Solomon would write love poetry of such intimacy, I say, “Because it speaks of a greater love.” Because now, every time I prune the vines or inhale the scent of the roses, I remember—I am beloved.
And so are we. All of Israel. God doesn’t just lead us. He loves us.
With a love stronger than death.
They all thought I was slow-minded because I worked with flowers instead of scrolls. But in the gardens north of Jerusalem—the holy city chosen by God—I heard things other men missed. I heard the whisper of bees, the hush of lilies opening each morning, and once… I heard love speak.
No, not the kind from songs the shepherds strummed on their flutes. This was a deeper love. A sacred kind. I was just a vineyard keeper then, borrowing land from my father's cousin. My skin was always tanned from sun, my hands always covered in dust. I wasn’t anyone special.
But that spring—it must have been ten years after King Solomon took the throne—he came through the far gate of my vineyard with his men. His royal robe caught on a branch of wild fig, and instead of scolding the servant who tried to untangle it, he laughed. That laugh—it was soft, rich, like water poured over stones.
I ducked behind a trellis, clutching my basket of grapes. What was he doing in my vineyard?
Then he looked straight at me. The others kept walking, but he paused. And gently, not like a king but like a man recognizing someone he’d missed for years, he said, “Don’t be afraid. The lilies know your name.”
I didn’t answer. How could I? No man, not even my own brothers, had spoken to me like that—as though I mattered.
In the days that followed, he returned. He called me "beloved," though I was nothing more than a girl with cracked heels and sap-stained fingers. But he didn’t see that. When I asked why he came, he said, “The soul thirsts even in marble halls.”
I knew he was Solomon then—Solomon, son of David, the man gifted wisdom by God Himself. And still, he came to me.
We never spoke in the city. Too many eyes. But in the fields, between rows of pomegranate and grapevine, we poured out our words like psalms. He sang verses I thought no man could speak, and I answered without planning. The words came from somewhere deeper than memory.
Later, when we stopped meeting, I cried. I thought maybe it had been a dream. But then I heard that Solomon was composing a scroll—Shir HaShirim, which means “The Song of Songs.” And someone whispered it was about love—not just between him and a woman, but between God and Israel.
Between the Creator and us.
That’s when I understood. Our connection wasn’t just about the two of us. It was a mirror. Through that love, I saw God’s longing for His people. A love fierce, faithful, and undeserved.
So when they ask why Solomon would write love poetry of such intimacy, I say, “Because it speaks of a greater love.” Because now, every time I prune the vines or inhale the scent of the roses, I remember—I am beloved.
And so are we. All of Israel. God doesn’t just lead us. He loves us.
With a love stronger than death.
