The man, having extolled the beauty of his lover as that of a royal city decked out with heavenly splendor and creating awe — like encountering God — now extols her beauty:
He begins at the top and moves down. Her hair:
5b Your hair is like a flock of goats,
moving down the slopes of Gilead.
6 Your teeth are like a flock of ewes,
that have come up from the washing;
all of them bear twins,
and not one among them is bereaved.
7 Your cheeks are like halves of a pomegranate
behind your veil.
And now he pauses simply to compare her to the maidens without number: his love is incomparable.
8 There are sixty queens and eighty concubines,
and maidens without number.
She’s perfect, flawless.
9 My dove, my perfect one, is the only one,
the darling of her mother,
flawless to her that bore her.
Other women, those with whom she might be compared, think the same of her:
The maidens saw her and called her happy;
the queens and concubines also, and they praised her.
He now asks a question that elevates his praise for his love:
10 “Who is this that looks forth like the dawn,
fair as the moon, bright as the sun,
terrible as an army with banners?”