His cheeks are as a bed of spices, as sweet flowers. Lo, the flowery month is come! March winds and April showers have done their work, And the earth is all bedecked with beauty.

Come, my soul, put on thine holiday attire, And go forth to gather garlands of heavenly thoughts. Thou know'st whither to partake thyself, For to thee the beds of spices are well known. And thou hast so often smelt the perfume of the sweet flowers, That thou wilt go at once to thy well-beloved, And find all loveliness, all joy in him.

That cheek, once so rudely smitten with a rod, Oft-bedewed with tears of sympathy, and then defiled with spittle, That cheek, as it smiles with mercy, is as fragrant, aromatic to my heart. Thou didst not hide thy face from shame and spitting, O Lord Jesus, and therefore I will find my dearest delight in praising thee.

Those cheeks were furrowed by the plough of grief and crimsoned with red lines of blood from thy thorn-crowned temples. Such marks of love unbounded cannot but charm my soul far more than pillars of perfume. If I may not see the whole of his face, I would behold his cheeks, for the least glimpse of him is exceedingly refreshing to my spiritual sense and yields a variety of delights.

In Jesus I find not only fragrance, but a bed of spices, not one flower, but all manner of sweet flowers. He is to me my rose and my lily, my heart's ease and my cluster of campfire. When he is with me, it is May all the year round, and my soul goes forth to wash her happy face in the morning dew of his grace, and to solace herself with the singing of the birds of his promises.

Precious Lord Jesus, let me in every deed know the blessedness which dwells in abiding, unbroken fellowship with Thee. I am a poor, worthless one, whose cheek Thou hast deigned to kiss. Oh, let me kiss Thee in return with the kisses of my lips.