"His father and mother said to him, “Is there no one among the daughters of your own kinsmen and among all our people, that you must go and take a wife from the uncircumcised Philistines?” But Samson answered his father, “Get me that one, for she is the one that pleases me.” (Judges 14:3)
She was but a daughter of Zorah,
A simple, black-haird maiden,
Without tricks and dances,
As those of Ashdod,
Performed for
Dagon in Gazah.
She was a modest maid,
A maid of meal-offering
Burnt on the rock
In honor of the God
Who requires
No image.
Her beauty was that
Of soft Dawn or
Quite dusk
Of candlelight
And a lone
Moonbeam singing
A nuptial for
Israel and his Sabbath.
A comb she made,
Of a sacrificial
Lamb's bone,
To softly tend
His God-ordained head.
But he went down
The vineyard road
To Timnah,
Among his foes.
And mighty deeds
He did among them
But he hadn't
Come back yet.
Dead is he and what
Strange women he
Met, what strange
Men he fought,
Strange gods
Whose houses
He pulled down
But she is alive
In her tomb
Still holding his comb,
Waiting for her Samson.