The long rains had lingered that year, veiling the hills in mist and delaying the awakening of the earth. The Shulammite walked the vineyards with heavier steps, her heart echoing the gray skies. The tokens hidden in the cedar had comforted her for a time—the scent of myrrh like a promise kept in secret—but weeks had passed without sight of him. Her brothers' talk of sending her away grew louder, and fear gnawed at her like the little foxes at the vines.
Then, almost without warning, the change came.
One morning she awoke to birdsong unlike any she had heard since autumn. The turtledove, that gentle herald of warmer days, cooed from the fig tree. She threw open the door of the low stone house and stepped into air washed clean by night rain. The hills were alive with color: crimson anemones carpeting the lower slopes, white lilies pushing through the damp earth, the first pale blossoms on the almond trees.
"For, lo, the winter is past," she whispered, the words rising unbidden as prophecy. "The rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land."
Joy flooded her like the sudden sunlight breaking through cloud. She ran to the nut garden beyond the upper terrace, where the pomegranate trees were just beginning to bud and wild lilies nodded in the breeze. There she gathered armfuls of flowers, laughing aloud as their fragrance filled her lungs. And there, amid the lilies, she saw him.
No longer disguised in shepherd's wool, but clothed in the quiet splendor of one who had laid aside pretense. Behind him, at a respectful distance, waited a small company of men—valiant, silent, their spears catching the light. Yet his eyes sought only her. "Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away," he said, his voice carrying the authority she had always sensed beneath the shepherd's guise.
She stood frozen, lilies trembling in her arms. "Who—who art thou truly?"
He stepped closer, taking her hands, heedless of the watching men. "I am Solomon, king in Jerusalem. Yet before thee I am only the one whose soul thou hast ravished."
Tears welled in her eyes—not of sorrow now, but of wonder too great for words. She looked down at her sun-darkened skin, at the simple linen stained from labor. "I am black, but comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon. Look not upon me, because the sun hath looked upon me." He lifted her chin gently, his gaze unwavering. "Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee."
In that moment, beneath the blossoming trees where grace had renewed the earth, she felt herself truly seen—beloved not in spite of her lowliness, but in its very midst. The winter of waiting was past; the time of singing had come.
"Come with me," he said softly. "Come away."
And she, the Shulammite of Shunem, placed her hand in the hand of the king.