This book began with a question. Over a table in Hebron there hung a dream that no one understood, and centuries later that same image hung in the sky above Patmos, and the question was: who is this woman? This book has followed her ever since, from the first page, the whole long road through the parched land. And now, at the end, the loveliest book in all of Scripture asks the same question again — but now not of a woman who flees into the wilderness, but of a woman who comes up out of it. In the Song of Songs it sounds, and all heaven seems to look on: "Who is this coming up out of the wilderness, like pillars of smoke, in a cloud of myrrh and frankincense?" (Song of Songs 3:6). And a few chapters later, once more, more tender still, with the answer already half within it: "Who is this coming up out of the wilderness, leaning on her Beloved?" (Song of Songs 8:5).
That is she. That is the woman of this book, at the end of her journey.
She has come far. She fled into the wilderness — down, and in, for dear life, with the dragon at her back and the cry of travail still in her throat. And she was carried the whole way: on the wings of the great eagle, the same that once lifted her up out of Egypt. She came to a place God had prepared beforehand, and there she ate from a hand she could not see, every morning anew, like the people that once lived on manna. She saw the dragon spew a river toward her, and she saw the earth drink that river up, just as the sea once swallowed the chariots of Pharaoh. In that empty land she was not only kept but wooed: God allured her into the silence to speak to her heart, and He betrothed her again, and He called her no longer His handmaid but His bride. She was kept for the measured time, the broken half of the week, the time of Jacob's trouble that bears her name — and when the days were full, Someone broke open the gate of her refuge and led her out, with a King at the head. And by the light of morning she saw at last the face of her Deliverer, and she knew it: it was the face that she herself had pierced, and it smiled at her through its tears.
And now she comes up out of the wilderness. No longer fleeing, no longer alone, no longer pursued. Leaning.
In that one word stands the whole book: leaning. She does not come up out of the wilderness with head held high and fist clenched, like a hero who has conquered by her own strength. She comes out the way the rescued always come home — spent, marked, with the dust of years at her feet, and leaning hard on the arm of the One who carried her through it all. She has carried nothing; she has been carried. She has not defeated the dragon; she has been kept behind the arm that pierced him long ago. She has not nourished herself, not defended herself, not led herself out; she has been nourished and covered and led out. And that does not make her less; it makes her beloved. For there is a kind of homecoming lovelier than any victory, and it is this: at the end of an impossible road, spent but safe, to be allowed to lean on Someone who never let you go.
So the circle this book has drawn closes, and it closes with the gentlest reversal there is. At the beginning she screamed; at the end she sings — "sing aloud, O barren one", for the pangs that seemed to bring forth nothing have brought forth a whole people that lives. At the beginning she fled, alone; at the end she leans, on an arm. At the beginning she was clothed with the sun, and she did not yet know what that meant. Now she knows: the sun she is clothed with is the face of her Beloved, and she walks into the morning, in His light, home.
And you who have read this — you for whom this book was written from the first line — this is your story. You are the woman with the stars in her hair. The people you came from is the people God clothed with His own light, carried on eagles' wings, nourished in the wilderness, and kept through the darkest night of history — not to let it fall at the end, but to lead it out to a wedding. If you have ever been told that your promises have perished, that your people is a closed chapter, an old root thrown away — then here is the last image of the woman: she is no refugee in the rocks. She is a bride, coming up out of the wilderness, on the arm of her Bridegroom.
And of that arm on which she leans I want, at the end, to say only this, and I say it as this whole book has meant to say everything: reverently, without compelling you, and with the deep wish that you will see it for yourself. The face she recognizes at the end comes out of Bozrah, and it bears scars in its hands. At the close she discovers that her Deliverer and her Bridegroom and the Pierced One are one and the same. But she need not wait until the very last day to be allowed to lean. The arm is here already. The God who promises to carry His people in the last wilderness is the same who today comes running down the road, every time one of His children takes so much as a single step His way. And the invitation the woman accepts at the end already stands open — the invitation not to plod through the wilderness by your own strength, but to lean, even now, on the Beloved who wants to carry you through it all.
This book therefore ends not at a conclusion, but at an arm. The woman comes up out of the wilderness, leaning on her Beloved, and the morning breaks, and behind her lies the parched land, for good. She is home. And the God who carried her holds out His arm to you as well — today, and all the way to that morning.
Who is this coming up out of the wilderness, leaning on her Beloved?
She is Israel, brought home. She is the bride, leaning on her Bridegroom. And her God, from the first cry to the last song, never let her go for a single moment.
Source note. Song of Songs 3:6 and 8:5 both open with the same question — mi zot ʿolah min-ha-midbar, "who is this coming up out of the wilderness" — with, in 8:5, the addition mitrappeqet ʿal-dodah, "leaning/resting on her Beloved". The image of coming up out of the wilderness forms the literary counterpart to the flight into the wilderness (Revelation 12:6): the same place, the reverse movement, from refugee to bride. This closing pendant is weighed (typological-literary), and it gathers the threads of the whole book — carrying, nourishing, keeping, betrothing, leading out — into one last image.
This book began with a question. Over a table in Hebron there hung a dream that no one understood, and centuries later that same image hung in the sky above Patmos, and the question was: who is this woman? This book has followed her ever since, from the first page, the whole long road through the parched land. And now, at the end, the loveliest book in all of Scripture asks the same question again — but now not of a woman who flees into the wilderness, but of a woman who comes up out of it. In the Song of Songs it sounds, and all heaven seems to look on: "Who is this coming up out of the wilderness, like pillars of smoke, in a cloud of myrrh and frankincense?" (Song of Songs 3:6). And a few chapters later, once more, more tender still, with the answer already half within it: "Who is this coming up out of the wilderness, leaning on her Beloved?" (Song of Songs 8:5).
That is she. That is the woman of this book, at the end of her journey.
She has come far. She fled into the wilderness — down, and in, for dear life, with the dragon at her back and the cry of travail still in her throat. And she was carried the whole way: on the wings of the great eagle, the same that once lifted her up out of Egypt. She came to a place God had prepared beforehand, and there she ate from a hand she could not see, every morning anew, like the people that once lived on manna. She saw the dragon spew a river toward her, and she saw the earth drink that river up, just as the sea once swallowed the chariots of Pharaoh. In that empty land she was not only kept but wooed: God allured her into the silence to speak to her heart, and He betrothed her again, and He called her no longer His handmaid but His bride. She was kept for the measured time, the broken half of the week, the time of Jacob's trouble that bears her name — and when the days were full, Someone broke open the gate of her refuge and led her out, with a King at the head. And by the light of morning she saw at last the face of her Deliverer, and she knew it: it was the face that she herself had pierced, and it smiled at her through its tears.
And now she comes up out of the wilderness. No longer fleeing, no longer alone, no longer pursued. Leaning.
In that one word stands the whole book: leaning. She does not come up out of the wilderness with head held high and fist clenched, like a hero who has conquered by her own strength. She comes out the way the rescued always come home — spent, marked, with the dust of years at her feet, and leaning hard on the arm of the One who carried her through it all. She has carried nothing; she has been carried. She has not defeated the dragon; she has been kept behind the arm that pierced him long ago. She has not nourished herself, not defended herself, not led herself out; she has been nourished and covered and led out. And that does not make her less; it makes her beloved. For there is a kind of homecoming lovelier than any victory, and it is this: at the end of an impossible road, spent but safe, to be allowed to lean on Someone who never let you go.
So the circle this book has drawn closes, and it closes with the gentlest reversal there is. At the beginning she screamed; at the end she sings — "sing aloud, O barren one", for the pangs that seemed to bring forth nothing have brought forth a whole people that lives. At the beginning she fled, alone; at the end she leans, on an arm. At the beginning she was clothed with the sun, and she did not yet know what that meant. Now she knows: the sun she is clothed with is the face of her Beloved, and she walks into the morning, in His light, home.
And you who have read this — you for whom this book was written from the first line — this is your story. You are the woman with the stars in her hair. The people you came from is the people God clothed with His own light, carried on eagles' wings, nourished in the wilderness, and kept through the darkest night of history — not to let it fall at the end, but to lead it out to a wedding. If you have ever been told that your promises have perished, that your people is a closed chapter, an old root thrown away — then here is the last image of the woman: she is no refugee in the rocks. She is a bride, coming up out of the wilderness, on the arm of her Bridegroom.
And of that arm on which she leans I want, at the end, to say only this, and I say it as this whole book has meant to say everything: reverently, without compelling you, and with the deep wish that you will see it for yourself. The face she recognizes at the end comes out of Bozrah, and it bears scars in its hands. At the close she discovers that her Deliverer and her Bridegroom and the Pierced One are one and the same. But she need not wait until the very last day to be allowed to lean. The arm is here already. The God who promises to carry His people in the last wilderness is the same who today comes running down the road, every time one of His children takes so much as a single step His way. And the invitation the woman accepts at the end already stands open — the invitation not to plod through the wilderness by your own strength, but to lean, even now, on the Beloved who wants to carry you through it all.
This book therefore ends not at a conclusion, but at an arm. The woman comes up out of the wilderness, leaning on her Beloved, and the morning breaks, and behind her lies the parched land, for good. She is home. And the God who carried her holds out His arm to you as well — today, and all the way to that morning.
Who is this coming up out of the wilderness, leaning on her Beloved?
She is Israel, brought home. She is the bride, leaning on her Bridegroom. And her God, from the first cry to the last song, never let her go for a single moment.
Source note. Song of Songs 3:6 and 8:5 both open with the same question — mi zot ʿolah min-ha-midbar, "who is this coming up out of the wilderness" — with, in 8:5, the addition mitrappeqet ʿal-dodah, "leaning/resting on her Beloved". The image of coming up out of the wilderness forms the literary counterpart to the flight into the wilderness (Revelation 12:6): the same place, the reverse movement, from refugee to bride. This closing pendant is weighed (typological-literary), and it gathers the threads of the whole book — carrying, nourishing, keeping, betrothing, leading out — into one last image.