Who is she,
her face as bright as dawn,
peeping like a raven
into the heart of the king’s chamber?
Who is she,
raising this dead man
that he may live,
that this lame man might dance,
this sad heart might sing?
Who is she,
making cool and tempered
his vexed blood,
quenching his thirst
with her waters from the well,
lining his parched throat
with the sweetest honey,
intoxicating his spirits
with the sweetest of mead?
Who is she
that sates his hunger
with a belly full of manna,
who makes of this beggar,
the richest of men?
Why, she is the daughter,
the daughter of the king.

By Uriel