There is a dangerous tenderness in the way God loves. Not the safe, sanitised love we reduce to moral obligation or distant reverence—but a love that pursues, seduces, and overwhelms. Scripture does not shy away from this audacity. In the Song of Songs, God dares to reveal Himself not as a cold monarch, but as a Lover whose voice makes the heart tremble.
“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for your love is better than wine.” (Song of Solomon 1:2)
Wine gladdens for an hour, but God’s love intoxicates eternally. It floods the inner desert. It restores lost innocence and heals without humiliation. When God gazes upon the soul, He does not see its fractures first; He sees its beauty. He wants the heart, and not at a distance.
Love That Seeks, Love That Waits
Throughout the Song, the Beloved searches the streets at night, wounded by longing, restless until union is restored. This is not the language of convenience. It is the language of covenantal passion. God reveals something astonishing here: He allows Himself to be vulnerable. He waits. He knocks. He withdraws just enough to awaken desire.
How different this is from our expectations of the Almighty.
The love of God is not coercive; it is magnetic. It draws without dragging. It invites without overpowering. And when it is finally received, it overwhelms not by force, but by beauty.
“Set me as a seal upon your heart…for love is strong as death.” (Song of Solomon 8:6-7)
Here lies the scandal of divine love: God binds Himself to the human heart and accepts the risk of rejection. He loves as though He needs to be loved in return. God stands at the threshold of the human heart, hand upon the latch. He does not force entry. He waits, desiring to be desired. The Almighty choosing vulnerability—this is the scandal of divine romance.
How Deep Is This Love?
Saint Paul strains language to its limits when he speaks of the love of Christ—its breadth, length, height, and depth—dimensions that surpass knowledge. We are not meant merely to understand this love but to be undone by it.
God’s love descends into the deepest poverty of the human condition: into loneliness, fear, shame, and even death itself. There is no depth He refuses to enter. No darkness He considers beneath Him. Divine love is not offended by human fragility; it is drawn to it.
This is why the love of God heals not by explanation, but by presence.
Heart Speaks to Heart
In the stillness of prayer, beneath the noise of ambition and anxiety, there is a conversation older than creation. Heart speaks to heart. Desire answers desire. The soul recognises the One for whom it was fashioned.
God does not shout from the heavens; He whispers within. He addresses the heart directly, personally, intimately. His love bypasses argument and settles into silence, where truth is not debated but recognised.
In prayer, in longing, in the quiet ache for something more, God speaks the language of love fluently. And when the heart finally listens, it realises it has always been known by God.
Drunk on Mercy
To be loved by God is to be unsteady on one’s feet—to discover that grace is not rationed, that mercy is excessive, and that forgiveness has no measure. The saints were not restrained by this love; they were intoxicated by it.
This is the love that calls the soul beautiful even when it feels broken. The love that delights in presence rather than performance. The love that says, again and again:
“You are mine.”
To encounter such love is to realise that faith is not first a duty but a romance—one in which God makes the first move, pours the wine generously, and waits patiently for the heart to respond.
Our painful cry before God rises like incense: a longing to be caught, to be upheld, to be carried beyond one’s limits. And this is precisely the promise of divine love. We do not climb into God’s embrace; we collapse into it.
