What does “your love is better than wine” mean?

Elizabeth and Susan — I was JUST asking the Lord: Is Song of Songs too hard? Should I give up on this direction? And then each of your beautiful replies. I will respond to each of you when I get a chance. But thank you!

Love hearing the stories. Here’s one from me. It’s from my book, The God of All Comfort:

On what would have been our fortieth anniversary,
I sobbed a good part of the day. I was packing up the house to move from a home of sweet memories that I did not want to leave. The littlest things like finding Steve’s white surgery coat with his initials, SGB, on the pocket could cause me to crumble.
When I went to bed that night, I was fretful. Though I tried to sleep, anxieties multiplied, leaping over my pillow like bleating sheep.
I turned over on my side, looking at the vacant place where Steve used to be. Oh, my darling — how could this have happened to us?
Steve and I used to call each other “codependent insomniacs.” If one of us awoke in the night, he (or she) would whisper to the other, “Are you awake?” When it was me, I knew that even if Steve was asleep, he would rouse to keep me company. If I was worried about something, he would listen to me pour out my heart while stroking my back and empathizing with his deep masculine voice, his calming ways.
Sometimes he would help me laugh about a trouble. Other times, when he knew there was no humor in a situation, he’d simply pray over me and hold me. If sleep still eluded me, he’d start quoting our favorite nursery rhyme:
Winkin’, Blinkin’, and Nod, one night sailed
off in a wooden shoe;
sailed off on a river of crystal light into a sea
of dew . . .
Safe in Steve’s arms, our bed became a wooden shoe sailing off into a sea of dew and I was lulled to sleep.
But Steve was not there. His side of the bed was achingly empty.
All of us have times of feeling alone, misunderstood, or betrayed. So often the psalmist, David, felt that way and cried out: “How long, O LORD, how long?1 All night long I flood my bed with weeping and drench my couch with tears.”2
My cry that sleepless night was not nearly as eloquent as David’s. I simply sobbed: Help me, help me, help me, God! I knew I needed God to be my Comforter, my Counselor, and my Husband — but that understanding exploded into a question: “But how do I connect with Someone who is not flesh and blood?” When I couldn’t immediately sense God’s presence, I curled up in the middle of our king-sized bed and wept.
Without even realizing it, I had prayed a prayer of lamentation. The lament, which is modeled in the book of Psalms, is speaking the truth of your sorrowing heart to God. While I was lamenting in that fetal position, a scene from my past came to my mind: I was twenty-one, trying to calm our firstborn in the middle of the night. He would awaken, hungry and howling. Though I would run to him and lift him from his crib, unbuttoning my nightgown as we settled in the rocker, he was too fretful to latch onto my breast. He would root about, but if he didn’t find me in two seconds, he would rear back, his face red and contorted, his fists flailing. If I stroked his cheek, like the nurse in the hospital had told me to do, trying to coax him to turn toward me, he would erupt in anger, bursting into a horrific wail, one that I knew carried through our thin apartment walls. A mother’s breasts respond to her baby’s cry and my milk let down, ready for my baby — but his fretful state kept him from connecting with me. I kept thinking, I’m right here, I’m right here! A very long ten minutes later, he’d finally find me and nurse greedily. His perspiring face would relax, his eyes closing at half-mast in contentment. I would think, Oh my, Pumpkin what was all that about? I was right here
.Suddenly, I identified. I was that baby, concentrating more on my distress than on the One who was right there. I sensed the Lord saying: Dee, I am right here. I am right here.
Gradually, my soul began to calm, my body began to relax, and my eyes went to half-mast
When I woke the next morning, much more rested, I opened my Bible to pray through a psalm, as was, thank God, already my habit. My psalm that morning “happened” to be Psalm 131. When I read it I knew that God was “kissing me.” (“A kiss from the King” according to rabbinic tradition, is a living word from God.) God’s living Word was confirming to me exactly what I had experienced from His Spirit the night before.
I have stilled and quieted my soul;
like a weaned child with its mother,
like a weaned child is my soul within me.
Psalm 131:2