Sermon XXVI. In what Sense the Blackness of the Spouse is Compared to the Tents of Cedar — the Saint's Lament Over his Brother

"As the tents of Cedar, as the curtains of Solomon."

"As the tents of Cedar, as the curtains¹ of Solomon." Here, my brethren, I have to begin to-day, where yesterday's sermon ended. And you expect me now to explain these words of the Spouse, as well as the manner of their connexion with the text of my last discourse, "I am black but beautiful," with which they express a double comparison. As for the connexion, it may be considered in either of two ways. Both comparisons may be referred to the first clause of the foregoing, viz., "I am black." Or we may take the first and second comparisons, namely, that of the tents of Cedar, and that of the curtains of Solomon, as relating, respectively, to the first and second parts of the sentence, "I am black, but beautiful." The former interpretation possesses the advantage of greater simplicity and clearness. However, I mean to try both. And I will begin with the latter, which appears to be the more difficult. As a matter of fact, the only difficulty is to see what the "pavilions of Solomon" have in common with beauty; for the connexion between Cedars and blackness will be sufficiently patent to all, when it is remembered that the word "Cedar," in the Hebrew, signifies darkness. It is also evident that "tent" or "tabernacle" can here be taken in a consonant sense. For what are these tents but the bodies in which we sojourn? "For we have not here a lasting city, but we seek for one that is to come." We also carry on war in them, as in tents, using "violence" in order "to bear away the kingdom." Hence Job tells us that "the life of man upon earth is a warfare." And "whilst we" fight "in this body, we are absent from the Lord," that is, from the Light. For "the Lord is the Light." Therefore, the more we are absent from Him, waging war in the tents of our bodies, the more are we in darkness, that is to say, in Cedar. Consequently, every such exile ought to make his own that tearful cry, "Woe is me that my sojourning is prolonged! I have dwelt with the inhabitants of Cedar; my soul hath been long a sojourner." Hence, this dwelling of our body is not to be regarded as the residence of a citizen, nor as the home of a native, but either as the tent of a soldier, or the inn of a traveller. Yes, I repeat it: this body is but a tent, which by its opaqueness, so to speak, shuts out from the soul, during her sojourn on earth, the gladdening influence of the circumambient Light, permitting it to see that Light only "through a glass" and "in a dark manner," but not yet "face to face."

Would you like to know, my brethren, the cause of the Church's blackness and the reason why a certain amount of rust still adheres even to the most beautiful souls? I will tell you. It is all due, beyond question, to these tents of Cedar, to the prosecution of a laborious war, to the prolongation of their miserable sojourning, to the bitterness of their painful exile, to the weakness and yet oppressiveness of the body; "for the corruptible body is a load upon the soul, and the earthly habitation presseth down the mind that museth upon many things." Wherefore, they even "desire to be dissolved," that, being delivered from the body, they may fly to the embraces of Christ. Hence the cry of one such afflicted soul, "Unhappy man that I am, who will deliver me from the body of this death?" Souls like this know very well that so long as they abide in the tents of Cedar, their purity cannot be altogether free from every spot and stain, from every shade of blackness. And so they long for dissolution, in order to be delivered perfectly from such defilements. This is the reason why the Spouse declared herself to be as black as the "tents of Cedar."

But in what sense is she "beautiful as the curtains of Solomon"? It seems to me, my brethren, that there is wrapt up in these curtains something I know not what, of such sublimity and sanctity that most certainly I would not presume to expose it at all, except at the bidding of Him Who hid it there and sealed it. For I have read that "he that is a searcher of majesty shall be overwhelmed by glory." I will wait, therefore, and procrastinate. Do you, mean-time, as usual, impetrate by your prayers the light and grace of the Holy Spirit, that with desires intensified in proportion to our confidence, we may return to this subject, which demands more than ordinary attention. And perhaps the devout suppliant will discover what would be missed by the rash inquirer. In any case, grief at the calamity which has befallen us will not allow me to continue.

How² long shall I dissemble? How long shall I endeavour to conceal within myself the fire which consumes my broken heart and devours my very vitals? A secret flame creeps forward more freely, and more cruelly rages. What have I to do with this Canticle of love, submerged as I am in an ocean of bitterness? The vehemence of my grief draws away my attention, and the anger of the Lord has drunk up my sul. For "my heart hath forsaken me," since he is gone who used to leave me, in some sense, free for divine contemplation. But I have done violence to my feelings. I have striven to conceal my sorrow until now, afraid lest perhaps it should seem that faith had succumbed to natural affection. Therefore, whilst all others wept, I alone, with tearless eyes, followed the cruel bier, as you can yourselves bear witness. With tearless eyes I stood at the graveside until the last sad rites were all accomplished. Vested in my priestly robes, I pronounced with my own lips the usual prayers over the remains. With my own hands I sprinkled clay, according to custom, over my beloved Gerard's body, soon to be changed itself to clay. They that watched me were weeping, and they wondered why I did not weep myself, although he was less the object of universal compassion than was I, who had been bereaved of him. For surely harder than iron must the heart have been that would not melt to see me surviving Gerard. His death was a common calamity, but this was reckoned as nothing in comparison with the personal loss to me. I tried to resist my sorrow with all the force I could gather from faith, striving to suppress even those vain involuntary emotions, occasioned by what is, after all, but our natural destiny, the debt of our mortality, the necessity of our condition, the ordinance of the Mighty One, the judgment of the Just One, the scourge of the Terrible One. Such reflections led me to restrain myself constantly, then and to the present, from overmuch weeping, whilst all the time I felt exceedingly sad and afflicted. For although I could control my tears, I had not the same power over my sorrow; but as it is written, u I was troubled and I spoke not." But pent-up grief strikes its roots the more deeply within, becoming the more bitter, as I believe, from the fact that it is refused an outlet. My brethren, I have to acknowledge myself vanquished. I must now give vent to my interior anguish. I must exhibit my distress to the eyes of my children, that, realising its magnitude, they may think more kindly thoughts of my affliction and more sweetly console me.

You know, O my children, you know how reasonable is my sorrow, how worthy of tears is the loss I have sustained. For you understand how faithful a companion has been taken from my side "in the way in which I was walking." You know what was his attentiveness to duty, his diligence at work, his sweetness and amiability of character. Who was so indispensable to me? By whom was I so much beloved? He was my brother by blood, but more my brother by religious profession. Oh, pity my lot, you to whom these things are known! I was weak in body, and he supported me. I was pusillanimous, and he encouraged me. I was slothful and negligent, and he spurred me on. I was improvident and forgetful, and he acted as my monitor. Oh, whither hast thou been taken from me? Why hast thou been torn from my arms, "a man of one mind," "a man according to my heart"? We have loved each other in life, how then is it that we are separated in death? O most cruel divorce, which only death could have power to cause! For when in life wouldst thou have so deserted me? Yes, it is unmistakably the work of death, this most woeful separation. For what but death, that enemy of all things sweet, would not have spared the sweet bond of our mutual love? With good reason is that called death and a double death, which in its rage has slain two in carrying off one. Has not that separation been death to me also? Yea, and especially to me, for whom is preserved a life more bitter than any death. For I live indeed, but only to endure a living death. And shall I call such an existence life? O unfeeling death, how much kinder it had been to deprive me of the possession of life than of its fruit! For life without fruit is worse than death, since we are told that two evils, the axe and the fire, await the tree that bears no fruit. Therefore, through envy of my labours, "thou hast removed far from me my friend and my neighbour," to whose zeal was mainly due whatever fruit those labours yielded. Hence it were far better for me to have lost my life than thy company, O my brother, who wert the earnest stimulator of my studies in the Lord, my faithful helper, and my prudent counsellor. Why, I ask, have we been so united in brotherly love? Or, so united, why so parted? O most mournful lot! But it is my fate that is pitiable, not his. For thou, sweet brother, if separated from thy dear ones, art now united to others still more dear. But what consolation remains now to wretched me, after losing thee, my only comfort? Our bodily companionship was a source of enjoyment to both of us, on account of the conformity of our wills and sentiments, but I alone have suffered from our separation. The enjoyment was common, but I am left the monopoly of the sadness and the sorrow. "Wrath hath come upon me"; "wrath is strong over me." Sweet was the presence of each to other, sweet our companionship, sweet our conversation. But whilst I have lost the happiness of us both, thou hast only exchanged it for better. For in this exchange "there is a great reward."

With what usuary of delights, with what wealth of benedictions, art thou compensated for our absence to-day, O my dearest brother! In return for my company, thou art now enjoying the presence of Christ. Nor canst thou deem it a loss to be separated from us, associated, as thou surely art, to the angelic choirs above. Thou, therefore, hast no cause to complain of thy separation from us, since the Lord of Majesty has so generously admitted thee to the society and fellowship of Himself and of His angels. But what have I obtained in place of thee? How I should like to know what sentiments thou dost now entertain towards me, that "only one" of thine, distraught and overwhelmed as I am with sufferings and solicitudes, and bereft of thee, the staff of my weakness! — if indeed it be permitted to one who has been plunged into the abyss of Light Divine, and submerged in the ocean of everlasting felicity, to concern himself still with his miserable friends on earth.³ For, although thou didst formerly know us according to the flesh, perhaps now thou dost no longer know us. Perhaps, having "entered into the powers of the Lord," thou wilt henceforth "be mindful of justice alone," and forgetful of us. "But he who is joined to the Lord is one Spirit," and is completely transformed into a sort of divine affection, so that, being filled with God, he can no longer take interest or pleasure in anything but God and in the things in which God takes interest and pleasure. Yet "God is charity," and the more closely the creature is united to Him, the more full he is of charity. Again, although God is not passible, He is yet compassionate, for to Him "it is proper to have mercy and to spare." Therefore, must thou, too, dearest brother, be merciful, since thou cleavest to One so merciful, even though misery has now no access to thee. Thou must still feel compassion, though suffer thou canst not. Hence, thy affection, far from failing, has but been transformed. In putting on God, thou has not put off thy care for us, because even "He hath care for us," as we learn from St. Peter. Thou hast laid aside only thy infirmity, not also thy piety. And as "charity never falleth away," thou wilt not "forget me unto the end."

It seems to me that I hear my brother answering and saying, "Can a mother forget her infant so as not to have pity on the son of her womb? And if she should forget, yet will not I forget thee." It surely is not expedient that I should be forgotten by thee. Thou knowest how I am situated, where I lie prostrate, in what a plight thou hast left me. And now there is none to reach me a helping hand. In every emergency I still, as was my wont, look around for Gerard, but he is nowhere to be seen. Then, alas! I groan with misery, as "a man without help." Whom shall I henceforth consult in my doubts? On whom shall I lean when misfortune overtakes me? Who will bear my burdens? Who will deliver me from dangers? Were not my steps in every undertaking directed by the eyes of Gerard? Was not my own breast, O Gerard, less intimately acquainted with my cares than was thine, less frequently invaded, less sharply tormented? With that persuasive and eloquent tongue of thine, how often hast thou saved me from the distraction of worldly discourses, and restored me to my dearly loved silence! For the Lord had given him "a learned tongue," that he might know when he ought to utter speech. So, by the prudence of his answers, and by the grace given him from above, he gave such satisfaction both to his brethren and to strangers, that I might almost say nobody had ever any need to speak to me when Gerard had first been consulted. He would go to meet visitors, opposing himself as a rampart against their incursions, to prevent them from breaking in upon my leisure. If any there were whom he himself could not satisfy, these he conducted to me, sending the others away, contented. What shall I say of his wonderful industry? Or what of his loyalty to his friends? Well he knew both how to gratify his brother, and how to fulfil the duties of charity. Whom did he ever send away empty? For the rich he had counsel, and for the poor relief. Surely he did not seek what was his own, who, in order to deliver me from care, was willing that himself should be overwhelmed with cares. For in his profound humility, he hoped to derive more abundant fruit from my leisure than from any studies of his own. Yet he sometimes begged to be removed from his office of procurator, and to be replaced by some other more worthy to fill it. But where was such a one to be found? Nor was he attached to that office (as so often happens) by any inordinate affection, since he discharged its functions from the sole motive of charity; and whereas he laboured more than any other, he received less than any other, so that often, whilst providing others with what they needed, he himself was wanting in many things necessary, such as food and clothing. Hence, when he perceived the approach of death, "O God," he protested, 'Thou knowest that, so far as depended on me, I have always desired solitude, to be at leisure to attend to Thee and to myself. But I have been forced to remain in distracting occupations by the fear of Thee, by the will of my brethren, by the duty of obedience, and especially by my sincere affection for him who is at once my abbot and my brother." Such indeed was the case. Thanks to thee, 0 my brother, for all the fruit (if there has been any) of my studies in the Lord. Whatever progress I have made myself, and whatever help I may have given to others, all is due to thee. Thou wert overburdened with temporal affairs whilst I, at thy expense, was enjoying repose, or at least occupied with the more sacred duties of the divine service, or with the more profitable employment of instructing my spiritual children. For how could I be otherwise than perfectly at ease within, when I knew that thou wert busying thyself without, as my own right hand, the light of my eyes, my heart and my tongue? And indeed thou wert to me an unwearied hand, and a "simple eye," and a heart full of prudence, and a tongue speaking judgment, as it is written, "The mouth of the just shall meditate wisdom, and his tongue shall speak judgment."

But why have I spoken of his exterior employments, as if Gerard were inexperienced in the interior life, as if he were a stranger to spiritual gifts? Those spiritual persons who knew him, knew also how redolent of the Spirit his words were. His brethren knew how his thoughts and his actions savoured not of the flesh, but were animated all with spiritual fervour. Who was more strict than he in the observance of the Rule? Who more austere in bodily mortification, more rapt and exalted in divine contemplation, or more subtle and profound in discourse than was Gerard? How often in discussion with him have I not learned truths which had hitherto escaped me! And I, who had come as the teacher, went away as the one taught. Do not be surprised that this has been my experience, since even great and wise men testify that the same thing has happened to themselves in conversation with Gerard. He did not indeed possess book-learning, but he possessed the intelligence which is its source and author, and he also possessed the light of the Holy Spirit. Both in the greatest things and in the least he showed himself equally wise and resourceful. For instance, with regard to building operations, to agriculture, to horticulture, to waterworks, indeed to all the different arts and trades which belong to country life — in all this variety of business was there anything, I ask, to which Gerard's skill and resource were not equal? His universal knowledge of practical affairs enabled him easily to superintend the quarry-men, the workers in wood and iron, the farm-labourers, the gardeners, the shoemakers, and the weavers. Wisest of all in the estimation of each of his brethren, he still looked upon himself as altogether devoid of wisdom. Would to God that many, although less wise than he, were not more deserving of the malediction, "Woe to you that are wise in your own eyes"! I am speaking to persons who are aware of all this. But I might say still more of him, and greater things than what is generally known. However, I will refrain, for he is my flesh and my brother. Yet this I confidently affirm, that to me he was useful in all things and in a degree beyond all others. He made himself useful in little things as in great, in private as in public, both at home and abroad. On him I depended wholly, not without reason, since he was my all. He left to me hardly anything more than the name and the honour of superior, for he did all the work himself. I bore the title of abbot, but he had the largest share of the solicitudes of government. Deservedly, therefore, did "my spirit rest upon him," to whom it was owing that I could "delight in the Lord," preach the word with freedom, and give myself up to prayer with an easy mind. Yes, to thee, O my brother, to thee I owe a more tranquil peace of mind than my office would permit without thee, sweeter delights in repose, richer results from my preaching, greater devotion at my prayers, more frequent opportunities for reading, a stronger affection of divine love.

Alas! thou hast been taken from me, and with thee all these graces. All my consolations and all my joys have vanished together with thee. Now cares rush in upon me. Now troubles assail me on all sides. Afflictions have surrounded me, finding me abandoned and all alone. For only such companions remained with me after thy departure, and, unassisted, I groan beneath the burden. That burden I must now either sink under or lay aside, since thou has withdrawn the support of thy shoulders. Oh, who will grant me soon to die and follow thee? To die instead of thee I should not ask, as that would be to wrong thee, by delaying thy entrance into glory. But to survive thee, what is it but "labour and sorrow "? So long as I live, I shall live in bitterness, I shall live in sadness. This shall be my sole consolation, that, without respite I shall always be a prey to sorrow and anguish. I will not spare myself. I will myself co-operate in my own chastisement with the hand of the Lord, for it is "the hand of the Lord 1 that "has touched me." Me, I say, it has touched and smitten, not him, whom it has but beckoned to rest. It has slain me in the act of cutting short his exile. say "cutting short his exile" rather than "slaying him," for surely it would not be true to call that a slaying which is rather a transplanting, an exchanging of a mortal for an immortal existence. But that which to him was the portal of life was the stroke of death to me. Indeed, I may truly say it was I who died by his death, not Gerard, who "fell asleep in the Lord." Gush forth, gush forth now, my tears, for he is gone, whose presence heretofore prevented your flowing, by excluding the cause. Open, ye fountains of my unhappy head, and pour yourselves out in rivers of water, if perchance, you may thus suffice to wash away the soil of my sins, whereby I have called down upon me the just anger of heaven. When my tears shall have appeased and consoled the Lord, then, perhaps, I may deserve that He also should grant me a little consolation. But He will do this only on condition that I cease not from weeping, for it is only those who mourn that He has promised shall be comforted. Wherefore, be indulgent towards me, all you that are holy, and let every spiritual person bear with me in my lamentation in the spirit of mildness. Let natural affection rather than custom be considered in judging my sorrow. For we daily see the dead mourning their dead, much lamentation and little fruit. We do not find fault with the grief itself, unless it be immoderate, but with the cause of it. The former is a part of our nature, and the disturbance it produces is the penalty of transgression. But the cause of this grief is often vanity and sin. For, if I mistake not, the world laments only the loss of the glory of the flesh, and of temporal advantages. And they who weep for such things, are worthy themselves to be wept for. But is this my own case? The emotion of sorrow is the same, indeed; but far different are the motives, far different the intention. For certainly I am not complaining of the loss of any worldly object. I mourn over the removal of a faithful helper over the loss of a trusty counsellor in the things that appertain to God. I lament and grieve for Gerard. The cause of my tears is Gerard, my brother according to the flesh, but more closely related according to the spirit, and the confidant and partner of all my designs.

My soul cleaved to his. We two were made one, less by the ties of flesh and blood than by sameness of sentiment. Connected by the bond of consanguinity, we were still more closely united by our spiritual relationship, by the conformity of our minds,, and the harmony of our wills. As we were thus but "one heart and one soul," the sword of death pierced this common soul of him and me,⁴ and dividing it in two, placed one part in heaven, and left the other lying prostrate in the mire of the earth. I, dearest brethren, I am that wretched part, cast prone upon the ground, despoiled of half of myself, and that the more excellent. And will you say to me "weep not"? My very vitals have been torn out, and shall it be said to me, "do not feel"? But I do feel; oh, yes, I feel, because "my strength is not the strength of stones, nor is my flesh of brass." I feel, most assuredly, and I am in pain, "and my sorrow is continually before me." Certainly, He Who uses the scourge cannot reproach me with hardness and insensibility, as He did them of whom the Prophet complained, saying, "Thou hast struck them and they have not grieved." I have confessed my sorrow and I have not denied it. You may call it carnal. I do not deny that it is human, any more than I deny that I am a man. If this does not content you, I will even allow it to be carnal, for "I am carnal, sold under sin," devoted to death, liable to sufferings and sorrows. I am not, I acknowledge, insensible to pain. The thought of death coming to me or to mine, makes me shudder with horror. And Gerard was mine, surely mine. How could he be other than mine, who was my brother in blood, my son in religion, my father in solicitude, my consort in spirit, my bosom friend in love? He has abandoned me now, and I feel as if I were wounded, aye, wounded unto death,

Forgive me, my children. Rather, because you are my children, compassionate your father's distress. "Have pity on me, have pity on me, at least you, my friends," who know how heavily the hand of the Lord has been laid upon me for my faults. With the rod of His indignation He has stricken me, justly indeed, according to my deserts, but severely, considering my weakness. Surely no one who understands what Gerard was to me, will say it is a light punishment for me to be condemned to live without him. Yet, "I will not contradict the words of the Holy One." I do not find fault with the judgment, by which each of us has received what we severally deserved, he the crown, and I the cross. Or shall it be said that I resist the judgment because I feel the pain? But to smart under the lash is not the same thing as to rebel against authority, for the former is but human, whilst the latter is an act of impiety. It is human, I say, and necessary to feel pleasure in the society of our friends, and sorrow in their absence. Familiar intercourse, especially between persons very dear to each other, has the effect of binding their hearts together. And this result, produced by mutual love in the friends whilst enjoying each other's company, is revealed by their fear of parting, and by the sorrow they experience when actually separated. I grieve for thee, my best-beloved Gerard, not as if thy lot were pitiable, but only because thou art with me no more. And perhaps for this reason, I ought to grieve not for thee, but only for myself, who am still drinking of the chalice of bitterness. And the grief should be for me alone, because I drink alone, since thou hast no part with me in this cup. I alone have to suffer all the anguish which is accustomed to be shared equally by friends who, loving each other tenderly, are compelled to part.

Would to God I were certain that thou art not lost to me for ever, but only gone on before! Would to God I had assurance that, even though late, yet at length I shall follow thee, whithersoever thou hast gone! I have no doubt at all but that thou art now with those whom, about the middle of thy last night on earth, thou didst invite to praise the Lord, when, with beaming face and exulting voice, to the astonishment of all present, thou didst suddenly cry out in the words of David, "Praise ye the Lord from the heavens; praise ye Him in the high places." For on thee, brother mine, though it was still midnight, the dawn had then already broken, and thy "night was illuminated as the day." And assuredly that "night was thy light in thy pleasures." I was summoned to witness this miracle, the miracle of a man triumphantly awaiting the approach of death and mocking at its terrors. "0 death, where is thy victory? O death, where is thy sting?" No, it had not any sting of fear or pain for him, but only an impulse to jubilant song. For he sang as he died and he died as he sang. O death, the mother of sorrows, thou art now become a source of joy! Thou, the enemy of glory, art now forced to subserve the interests of glory! The gate of hell, thou art changed to the portal of heaven! The very pit of perdition, thou art made the means of salvation! And all that accomplished by a sinful mortal! Justly indeed, since thou in thy rashness didst impiously usurp dominion over the just and innocent Man. Thou art dead, O death! Thou hast been caught in that Divine Hook Which thou didst so incautiously swallow, and Whose words we read in the Prophet, "O death, I will be thy death; O hell, I will be thy bite." Pierced, I say, with that Divine Hook, thou dost now afford to the faithful who pass through the midst of thee, a broad and pleasant passage into life. It was through thy open jaws that Gerard entered the fatherland, not alone with confidence, but even with joy and with songs of praise. When, therefore, I had reached his bedside, and had heard him completing the psalm with a clear voice, raising his eyes to heaven, he exclaimed, "Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit." Then, repeating the same words, with frequent cries of "Father, Father," he turned to me, his countenance radiant, and said, "Oh, what a condescension on the part of God to become the Father of men! And what glory to men to be the sons and heirs of God! ' For if sons, heirs also.'" So sang he, my brethren, whom we now lament. And I confess that the remembrance of this almost changes my mourning into joy, for when I think of his glory, I all but forget my own misery.

But bitter grief recalls me to myself. Anxious solicitude quickly turns away my attention from that consoling vision, as if awakening me from a light slumber. I will weep, therefore, but only for myself, since reason forbids me to weep for him. I believe, if he were now permitted to hold communication with us, that he would say, "Weep not over me, but weep for yourselves." King David had reason to mourn for his parricidal son, because he knew that for him the exit from the womb of death was for ever blocked by the obstruction of his crime. Good cause had he also to sorrow over Saul and Jonathan, who were both swallowed up together in a common destruction, without any hope of a future deliverance. They shall rise, indeed, but not to life. Or rather, they shall even rise to life, but only in order that, living in everlasting death, they may die the more miserably. Yet I feel some hesitation, and not without cause, about including Jonathan in this sentence of doom. But although I have not the same reasons for my lamentation as King David had for his, I am not in want of others. In the first place I grieve over my own loss and over the loss sustained by the community. I grieve, in the second place, on account of the necessities of the poor, to whom Gerard was as a father. I grieve, thirdly, for the sake of our whole Order and of the religious state in general, which derived no little support and edification from the influence of thy zeal, the counsels of thy wisdom, and the example of thy life, O my brother. I grieve, lastly, although not over thee, dearest Gerard, yet on account of thee. This, this is the cause of my greatest affliction, my passionate love of thee. And let no man be troublesome to me, telling me that I should not allow myself to be so overcome by natural feelings. For the kindhearted Samuel was permitted to indulge his sorrow over the reprobate King Saul, and the pious David over the treacherous Absalom, and that, without the least prejudice to their faith, or the least opposition to heaven's appointment. "Absalom, my son!" wailed holy David, "my son, Absalom!" "And behold, a greater than "Absalom "is here." The Saviour Himself, looking upon Jerusalem, and foreseeing the fate that was soon to befall it, "wept over it." And shall not I be suffered to feel my own desolation, which is not future but actually present? Must I remain insensible and irresponsive to the smarting of my fresh and grievous wound? Surely I may weep from pain since Jesus wept from compassion. For at the grave of Lazarus He certainly did not reprove the mourners, nor command them to desist; but, on the contrary, He united His own tears with theirs. "And Jesus wept," says the Evangelist. Those tears of His, most assuredly, betrayed no want of confidence, but only testified to the reality of His Human Nature. For He immediately called upon the dead man, in order to show us that faith suffers no loss from the affection of sorrow.

So neither is my weeping a sign of a weak faith, but only an indication of my condition. From the fact that I cry out with pain on being smitten, it must not be supposed that I blame Him Who smites me. I only appeal to His compassion, and endeavour as best I can to soften His severity. Hence, though my words are full of grief, they are yet free from murmuring. Have I not acknowledged the perfection of His justice Who, by one compendious sentence, assigned to Gerard the reward, and to me the chastisement due to our respective merits? And still I say, the "sweet and righteous Lord" has done well by us both. "Mercy and judgment I will sing to Thee, O Lord." Let the mercy, which Thou hast shown to Thy servant Gerard, sing to Thee. And let the judgment, under which I groan, sing to Thee also. In the one Thou shalt be praised for Thy goodness, in the other for Thy justice. Or is there praise for goodness only? Yea, and for justice as well. "Thou art just, 0 Lord, and Thy judgment right." Gerard Thou gavest, Gerard Thou hast taken away; and if we lament his removal, we do not forget that he was but a loan. So we feel thankful that we were accounted worthy to have him even for a while. And our unwillingness to lose him is proportionate to the need which we had of him.

But I remember, O Lord, my compact and Thy condescension, "that Thou mayst be justified in Thy words, and mayst overcome when Thou art judged." Last year when we were in Viterbo, in the cause of the Church, Gerard fell ill. His sickness grew more and more serious, until it seemed now that death was at hand. I could by no means reconcile myself to the thought of leaving in a foreign land the companion of my journey, and such a companion; nor would anything content me except to restore him to the community who had entrusted him to my care, for I knew how much all loved him, who in truth was exceedingly lovable. So I betook myself to prayer, with tears and sighs. And I said to Thee, "Wait, O Lord, wait until we have returned home. When he is restored to his brethren, take him then, if it pleases Thee, and I shall not complain." Thou didst grant my petition. Gerard recovered. We performed the task which Thou gavest us to do, and came back "with exultations, bearing the sheaves" of peace. Then I forgot our agreement, but Thou didst not forget. I am ashamed of these sobbings, which convict me of unfaithfulness. Why should I say more? Thou hast but claimed back what Thou didst lend us. Thou hast but taken what is Thine. But I am now compelled to put an end to my words by the flow of my tears. Do Thou, O Lord, I implore Thee, put an end and a limit to them.

Footnotes

1. "Pdles"="skins,"hence"curtains,"which is the Douay version. But these curtains must be taken to mean the covering of tents or pavilions. Thus the same word is rendered"pavilion"by the same Translators, Ps. ciii. 2. — (Translator.) 280. ↩

2. This magnificent threnody, the impetuous outpouring of an overcharged heart, must be rea I in the original to be fully appreciated. It was delivered in n 38. In the judgment of Dom Rivet (Hist. Litter., t. 10, pref.) nothing equal to it has appeared in the Latin language since the Augustan Age, if we except the two funeral orations on St. Malachy, by the same author. Pierre Beringer of Poitiers, to avenge the defeat of his master, Abelard, at the hands of St. Bernard, had the impudence to accuse the holy abbot of stealing certain passages from St. Ambrose. But the charge has been triumphantly refuted by the illustrious Mabillon. And if some expressions appear to us to be extravagant, we must bear in mind that St. Bernard, as we learn from his biographers, was gifted with an extraordinarily affectionate heart, and scarcely ever attended a funeral without shedding tears. This should aLo show us how utterly false is the notion entertained by many, viz., that sanctity tends to blunt our natural sensibilities. Grace does not destroy but rather perfects nature, and it remains always true that to be a holy man is to be wholly a man. The lessons for the feast of Blessed Gerard in the Cistercian Breviary are taken from this sermon. — (Translator.) ↩

3. Cf. Tennyson's address to his dead friend: — "And I, can clouds of nature stain The starry clearness of the free? How is it? Canst thou feel for me Some painless sympathy with pain?" ↩

4. We find the same fancy in St. Augustine's lament for his friend (Confess., lib. iv. cap. vi.): "It has been well said by some one of his friend, ' he was half of my soul.' I, too, have felt as if my friend's and mine were but one soul in two bodies. And therefore I had a horror of life because I hated to live without half of myself. And perhaps this was also the reason why I feared to die, lest I should thus lose him altogether, whom I so tenderly loved and half of whose soul still survived in me." — (Translator.) ↩