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                A SPIRITUAL CANTICLE OF THE SOUL
                               AND
                     THE BRIDEGROOM CHRIST

                               BY

                      ST. JOHN OF THE CROSS

                          TRANSLATED BY

                           DAVID LEWIS

             WITH CORRECTIONS AND AN INTRODUCTION BY

                   BENEDICT ZIMMERMAN, O.C.D.
                 Prior of St. Luke's, Wincanton

                              1909




                          INTRODUCTION

THE present volume of the works of St. John of the Cross contains
the explanation of the 'Spiritual Canticle of the Soul and the
Bridegroom Christ.'  The two earlier works, the 'Ascent of Mount
Carmel' and the 'Dark Night of the Soul,' dealt with the cleansing
of the soul, the unremittant war against even the smallest
imperfections standing in the way of union with God; imperfections
which must be removed, partly by strict self-discipline, partly by
the direct intervention of God, Who, searching 'the reins and
hearts' by means of heavy interior and exterior trials, purges
away whatever is displeasing to Him.  Although some stanzas refer
to this preliminary state, the chief object of the 'Spiritual
Canticle' is to picture under the Biblical simile of Espousals and
Matrimony the blessedness of a soul that has arrived at union with
God.

The Canticle was composed during the long imprisonment St. John
underwent at Toledo from the beginning of December 1577 till the
middle of August of the following year.  Being one of the principal
supporters of the Reform of St. Teresa, he was also one of the
victims of the war waged against her work by the Superiors of the
old branch of the Order.  St. John's prison was a narrow, stifling
cell, with no window, but only a small loophole through which a
ray of light entered for a short time of the day, just long enough
to enable him to say his office, but affording little facility for
reading or writing.  However, St. John stood in no need of books.
Having for many years meditated on every word of Holy Scripture,
the Word of God was deeply written in his heart, supplying
abundant food for conversation with God during the whole period of
his imprisonment.  From time to time he poured forth his soul in
poetry; afterwards he communicated his verses to friends.

One of these poetical works, the fruit of his imprisonment, was
the 'Spiritual Canticle,' which, as the reader will notice, is an
abridged paraphrase of the Canticle of Canticles, the Song of
Solomon, wherein under the image of passionate love are described
the mystical sufferings and longings of a soul enamoured with God.

From the earliest times the Fathers and Doctors of the Church had
recognised the mystical character of the Canticle, and the Church
had largely utilised it in her liturgy.  But as there is nothing so
holy but that it may be abused, the Canticle almost more than any
other portion of Holy Scripture, had been misinterpreted by a
false Mysticism, such as was rampant in the middle of the sixteenth
century.  It had come to pass, said the learned and saintly
Augustinian, Fray Luis de Leon, that that which was given as a
medicine was turned into poison, [1] so that the Ecclesiastical
authority, by the Index of 1559, forbade the circulation of the
Bible or parts of the Bible in any but the original languages,
Hebrew, Greek, and Latin; and no one knew better than Luis de Leon
himself how rigorously these rules were enforced, for he had to
expiate by nearly five years' imprisonment the audacity of having
translated into Castilian the Canticle of Canticles. [2]

Again, one of the confessors of St. Teresa, commonly thought to
have been the Dominican, Fray Diego de Yanguas, on learning that
the Saint had written a book on the Canticle, ordered her to throw
it into the fire, so that we now only possess a few fragments of
her work, which, unknown to St. Teresa, had been copied by a nun.

It will now be understood that St. John's poetical paraphrase of
the Canticle must have been welcome to many contemplative souls
who desired to kindle their devotion with the words of Solomon,
but were unable to read them in Latin.  Yet the text alone, without
explanation, would have helped them little; and as no one was
better qualified than the author to throw light on the mysteries
hidden under oriental imagery, the Venerable Ann of Jesus,
Prioress of the Carmelite convent at Granada, requested St. John
to write a commentary on his verses. [3]  He at first excused
himself, saying that he was no longer in that state of spiritual
exuberance in which he had been when composing the Canticle, and
that there only remained to him a confused recollection of the
wonderful operations of Divine grace during the period of his
imprisonment.  Ann of Jesus was not satisfied with this answer;
she not only knew that St. John had lost nothing of his fervour,
though he might no longer experience the same feelings, but she
remembered what had happened to St. Teresa under similar
circumstances, and believed the same thing might happen to St.
John.  When St. Teresa was obliged to write on some mystical
phenomena, the nature of which she did not fully understand, or
whose effect she had forgotten, God granted her unexpectedly a
repetition of her former experiences so as to enable her to fully
study the matter and report on it. [4]  Venerable Ann of Jesus felt
sure that if St. John undertook to write an explanation of the
Canticle he would soon find himself in the same mental attitude
as when he composed it.

St. John at last consented, and wrote the work now before us.  The
following letter, which has lately come to light, gives some
valuable information of its composition.  The writer, Magdalen of
the Holy Ghost, nun of Veas, where she was professed on August 6,
1577, was intimately acquainted with the Saint.

'When the holy father escaped from prison, he took with him a book
of poetry he had written while there, containing the verses
commencing "In the beginning was the Word," and those others: "I
know the fountain well which flows and runs, though it be night,"
and the canticle, "Where hast thou hidden thyself?" as far as "O
nymphs of Judea" (stanza XVIII.).  The remaining verses he composed
later on while rector of the college of Baeza (1579--81), while
some of the explanations were written at Veas at the request of
the nuns, and others at Granada.  The Saint wrote this book in
prison and afterwards left it at Veas, where it was handed to me
to make some copies of it.  Later on it was taken away from my
cell, and I never knew who took it.  I was much struck with the
vividness and the beauty and subtlety of the words.  One day I
asked the Saint whether God had given him these words which so
admirably explain those mysteries, and He answered: "Child,
sometimes God gave them to me, and at other times I sought them
myself."' [5]

The autograph of St. John's work which is preserved at Ja‚n bears
the following title:

        'Explanation of Stanzas treating of the exercise of love
        between the soul and Jesus Christ its Spouse, dealing with
        and commenting on certain points and effects of prayer;
        written at the request of Mother Ann of Jesus, prioress of
        the Discalced Carmelite nuns of St. Joseph's convent,
        Granada, 1584.'

As might be expected, the author dedicated the book to Ann of
Jesus, at whose request he had written it.  Thus, he began his
Prologue with the following words: 'Inasmuch as this canticle,
Reverend Mother (Religiosa Madre), seems to have been written,'
etc.  A little further on he said: 'The stanzas that follow, having
been written under the influence of that love which proceeds from
the overflowing mystical intelligence, cannot be fully explained.
Indeed, I do not purpose any such thing, for my sole purpose is to
throw some general light over them, since Your Reverence has asked
me to do so, and since this, in my opinion too, is the better
course.'  And again: 'I shall, however, pass over the more ordinary
(effects of prayer), and treat briefly of the more extraordinary
to which they are subject who, by the mercy of God, have advanced
beyond the state of beginners.  This I do for two reasons: the
first is that much is already written concerning beginners; and
the second is that I am addressing myself to Your Reverence at
your own bidding; for you have received from Our Lord the grace of
being led on from the elementary state and led inwards to the
bosom of His divine love.'  He continues thus: 'I therefore trust,
though I may discuss some points of scholastic theology relating
to the interior commerce of the soul with God, that I am not using
such language altogether in vain, and that it will be found
profitable for pure spirituality.  For though Your Reverence is
ignorant of scholastic theology, you are by no means ignorant of
mystical theology, the science of love, etc.'

From these passages it appears quite clearly that the Saint wrote
the book for Venerable Ann of Jesus and the nuns of her convent.
With the exception of an edition published at Brussels in 1627,
these personal allusions have disappeared from both the Spanish
text and the translations, [6] nor are they to be found in Mr.
Lewis's version.  There cannot be the least doubt that they
represent St. John's own intention, for they are to be found in
his original manuscript.  This, containing, in several parts,
besides the Explanation of the Spiritual Canticle, various poems
by the Saint, was given by him to Ann of Jesus, who in her turn
committed it to the care of one of her nuns, Isabelle of the
Incarnation, who took it with her to Baeza, where she remained
eleven years, and afterwards to Ja‚n, where she founded a convent
of which she became the first prioress.  She there caused the
precious manuscript to be bound in red velvet with silver clasps
and gilt edges.  It still was there in 1876, and, for aught we
know, remains to the present day in the keeping of the said
convent.  It is a pity that no photographic edition of the writings
of St. John (so far as the originals are preserved) has yet been
attempted, for there is need for a critical edition of his works.

The following is the division of the work: Stanzas I. to IV. are
introductory; V. to XII. refer to the contemplative life in its
earlier stages; XIII. to XXI., dealing with what the Saint calls
the Espousals, appertain to the Unitive way, where the soul is
frequently, but not habitually, admitted to a transient union with
God; and XXII. to the end describe what he calls Matrimony, the
highest perfection a soul can attain this side of the grave.  The
reader will find an epitome of the whole system of mystical
theology in the explanation of Stanza XXVI.

This work differs in many respects from the 'Ascent' and the 'Dark
Night.'  Whereas these are strictly systematic, preceeding on the
line of relentless logic, the 'Spiritual Canticle,' as a poetical
work ought to do, soars high above the divisions and distinctions
of the scholastic method.  With a boldness akin to that of his
Patron Saint, the Evangelist, St. John rises to the highest
heights, touching on a subject that should only be handled by a
Saint, and which the reader, were he a Saint himself, will do well
to treat cautiously: the partaking by the human soul of the Divine
Nature, or, as St. John calls it, the Deification of the soul
(Stanza XXVI. sqq.), These are regions where the ordinary mind
threatens to turn; but St. John, with the knowledge of what he
himself had experienced, not once but many times, what he had
observed in others, and what, above all, he had read of in Holy
Scripture, does not shrink from lifting the veil more completely
than probably any Catholic writer on mystical theology has done.
To pass in silence the last wonders of God's love for fear of
being misunderstood, would have been tantamount to ignoring the
very end for which souls are led along the way of perfection; to
reveal these mysteries in human language, and say all that can be
said with not a word too much, not an uncertain or misleading line
in the picture: this could only have been accomplished by one whom
the Church has already declared to have been taught by God Himself
(divinitus instructus), and whose books She tells us are filled
with heavenly wisdom (coelesti sapientia refertos).  It is hoped
that sooner or later She will proclaim him (what many grave
authorities think him to be) a Doctor of the Church, namely, the
Doctor of Mystical theology. [7]

As has already been noticed in the Introduction to the 'Ascent,'
the whole of the teaching of St. John is directly derived from
Holy Scripture and from the psychological principles of St. Thomas
Aquinas.  There is no trace to be found of an influence of the
Mystics of the Middle Age, with whose writings St. John does not
appear to have been acquainted.  But throughout this treatise there
are many obvious allusions to the writings of St. Teresa, nor will
the reader fail to notice the encouraging remark about the
publication of her works (stanza xiii, sect. 8). The fact is that
the same Venerable Ann of Jesus who was responsible for the
composition of St. John's treatise was at the same time making
preparations for the edition of St. Teresa's works which a few
years later appeared at Salamanca under the editorship of Fray
Luis de Leon, already mentioned.

Those of his readers who have been struck with, not to say
frightened by, the exactions of St. John in the 'Ascent' and the
'Dark Night,' where he demands complete renunciation of every kind
of satisfaction and pleasure, however legitimate in themselves,
and an entire mortification of the senses as well as the faculties
and powers of the soul, and who have been wondering at his self-
abnegation which caused him not only to accept, but even to court
contempt, will find here the clue to this almost inhuman attitude.
In his response to the question of Our Lord, 'What shall I give
thee for all thou hast done and suffered for Me?' 'Lord, to suffer
and be despised for Thee'--he was not animated by grim misanthropy
or stoic indifference, but he had learned that in proportion as
the human heart is emptied of Self, after having been emptied of
all created things, it is open to the influx of Divine grace.  This
he fully proves in the 'Spiritual Canticle.'  To be made 'partaker
of the Divine Nature,' as St. Peter says, human nature must
undergo a radical transformation.  Those who earnestly study the
teaching of St. John in his earlier treatises and endeavour to put
his recommendations into practice, will see in this and the next
volume an unexpected perspective opening before their eyes, and
they will begin to understand how it is that the sufferings of
this time--whether voluntary or involuntary--are not worthy to be
compared with the glory to come that shall be revealed in us.

Mr. Lewis's masterly translation of the works of St. John of the
Cross appeared in 1864 under the auspices of Cardinal Wiseman.  In
the second edition, of 1889, he made numerous changes, without,
however, leaving a record of the principles that guided him.
Sometimes, indeed, the revised edition is terser than the first,
but just as often the old one seems clearer.  It is more difficult
to understand the reasons that led him to alter very extensively
the text of quotations from Holy Scripture.  In the first edition
he had nearly always strictly adhered to the Douay version, which
is the one in official use in the Catholic Church in English-
speaking countries.  It may not always be as perfect as one would
wish it to be, but it must be acknowledged that the wholesale
alteration in Mr. Lewis's second edition is, to say the least,
puzzling.  Even the Stanzas have undergone many changes in the
second edition, and it will be noticed that there are some
variants in their text as set forth at the beginning of the book,
and as repeated at the heading of each chapter.

The present edition, allowing for some slight corrections, is a
reprint of that of 1889.

                BENEDICT ZIMMERMAN, PRIOR, O.C.D.

                ST. LUKES, WINCANTON, SOMERSET,
                Feast of St. Simon Stock,
                May 16, 1909.





                A SPIRITUAL CANTICLE OF THE SOUL
                AND THE BRIDEGROOM CHRIST [8]

                            PROLOGUE

INASMUCH as this canticle seems to have been written with some
fervour of love of God, whose wisdom and love are, as is said in
the book of Wisdom, [9] so vast that they reach 'from end unto
end,' and as the soul, taught and moved by Him, manifests the
same abundance and strength in the words it uses, I do not
purpose here to set forth all that greatness and fulness the
spirit of love, which is fruitful, embodies in it.  Yea, rather it
would be foolishness to think that the language of love and the
mystical intelligence--and that is what these stanzas are--can be
at all explained in words of any kind, for the Spirit of our Lord
who helps our weakness--as St. Paul saith [10]--dwelling in us
makes petitions for us with groaning unutterable for that which
we cannot well understand or grasp so as to be able to make it
known.  'The Spirit helpeth our infirmity . . . the Spirit Himself
requesteth for us with groanings unspeakable.'  For who can
describe that which He shows to loving souls in whom He dwells?
Who can set forth in words that which He makes them feel?  and,
lastly, who can explain that for which they long?

2.  Assuredly no one can do it; not even they themselves who
experience it.  That is the reason why they use figures of special
comparisons and similitudes; they hide somewhat of that which they
feel and in the abundance of the Spirit utter secret mysteries
rather than express themselves in clear words.

3.  And if these similitudes be not received in the simplicity of a
loving mind, and in the sense in which they are uttered, they will
seem to be effusions of folly rather than the language of reason;
as any one may see in the divine Canticle of Solomon, and in
others of the sacred books, wherein the Holy Ghost, because
ordinary and common speech could not convey His meaning, uttered
His mysteries in strange terms and similitudes.  It follows from
this, that after all that the holy doctors have said, and may say,
no words of theirs can explain it; nor can words do it; and so, in
general, all that is said falls far short of the meaning.

4.  The stanzas that follow having been written under influence of
that love which proceeds from the overflowing mystical
intelligence, cannot be fully explained.  Indeed I do not purpose
any such thing, for my sole object is to throw some general light
over them, which in my opinion is the better course.  It is better
to leave the outpourings of love in their own fulness, that every
one may apply them according to the measure of his spirit and
power, than to pare them down to one particular sense which is not
suited to the taste of every one.  And though I do put forth a
particular explanation, still others are not to be bound by it.
The mystical wisdom--that is, the love, of which these stanzas
speak--does not require to be distinctly understood in order to
produce the effect of love and tenderness in the soul, for it is
in this respect like faith, by which we love God without a clear
comprehension of Him.

5.  I shall therefore be very concise, though now and then unable
to avoid some prolixity where the subject requires it, and when
the opportunity is offered of discussing and explaining certain
points and effects of prayer: many of which being referred to in
these stanzas, I must discuss some of them.  I shall, however, pass
over the more ordinary ones, and treat briefly of the more
extraordinary to which they are subject who, by the mercy of God,
have advanced beyond the state of beginners.  This I do for two
reasons: the first is, that much is already written concerning
beginners; and the second is, that I am addressing those who have
received from our Lord the grace of being led on from the
elementary state and are led inwards to the bosom of His divine
love.

6.  I therefore trust, though I may discuss some points of
scholastic theology relating to the interior commerce of the soul
with God, that I am not using such language altogether in vain,
and that it will be found profitable for pure spirituality.  For
though some may be altogether ignorant of scholastic theology by
which the divine verities are explained, yet they are not ignorant
of mystical theology, the science of love, by which those verities
are not only learned, but at the same time are relished also.

7.  And in order that what I am going to say may be the better
received, I submit myself to higher judgments, and unreservedly to
that of our holy mother the Church, intending to say nothing in
reliance on my own personal experience, or on what I have observed
in other spiritual persons, nor on what I have heard them say--
though I intend to profit by all this--unless I can confirm it
with the sanction of the divine writings, at least on those
points which are most difficult of comprehension.

8.  The method I propose to follow in the matter is this: first
of all, to cite the words of the text and then to give that
explanation of them which belongs to the subject before me.  I
shall now transcribe all the stanzas and place them at the
beginning of this treatise.  In the next place, I shall take each
of them separately, and explain them line by line, each line in
its proper place before the explanation.



                SONG OF THE SOUL AND THE BRIDEGROOM

                              I

                          THE BRIDE

            Where hast Thou hidden Thyself,
            And abandoned me in my groaning, O my Beloved?
            Thou hast fled like the hart,
            Having wounded me.
            I ran after Thee, crying; but Thou wert gone.

                              II

            O shepherds, you who go
            Through the sheepcots up the hill,
            If you shall see Him
            Whom I love the most,
            Tell Him I languish, suffer, and die.

                              III

            In search of my Love
            I will go over mountains and strands;
            I will gather no flowers,
            I will fear no wild beasts;
            And pass by the mighty and the frontiers.

                              IV

            O groves and thickets
            Planted by the hand of the Beloved;
            O verdant meads
            Enamelled with flowers,
            Tell me, has He passed by you?

                              V

                   ANSWER OF THE CREATURES

            A thousand graces diffusing
            He passed through the groves in haste,
            And merely regarding them
            As He passed
            Clothed them with His beauty.

                              VI

                          THE BRIDE

            Oh!  who can heal me?
            Give me at once Thyself,
            Send me no more
            A messenger
            Who cannot tell me what I wish.

                             VII

           All they who serve are telling me
           Of Thy unnumbered graces;
           And all wound me more and more,
           And something leaves me dying,
           I know not what, of which they are darkly speaking.

                             VIII

           But how thou perseverest, O life,
           Not living where thou livest;
           The arrows bring death
           Which thou receivest
           From thy conceptions of the Beloved.

                              IX

           Why, after wounding
           This heart, hast Thou not healed it?
           And why, after stealing it,
           Hast Thou thus abandoned it,
           And not carried away the stolen prey?

                              X

           Quench Thou my troubles,
           For no one else can soothe them;
           And let mine eyes behold Thee,
           For thou art their light,
           And I will keep them for Thee alone.

                              XI

           Reveal Thy presence,
           And let the vision and Thy beauty kill me,
           Behold the malady
           Of love is incurable
           Except in Thy presence and before Thy face.

                             XII

           O crystal well!
           Oh that on Thy silvered surface
           Thou wouldest mirror forth at once
           Those eyes desired
           Which are outlined in my heart!

                             XIII

           Turn them away, O my Beloved!
           I am on the wing:


                       THE BRIDEGROOM

           Return, My Dove!
           The wounded hart
           Looms on the hill
           In the air of thy flight and is refreshed.

                             XIV

           My Beloved is the mountains,
           The solitary wooded valleys,
           The strange islands,
           The roaring torrents,
           The whisper of the amorous gales;

                              XV

           The tranquil night
           At the approaches of the dawn,
           The silent music,
           The murmuring solitude,
           The supper which revives, and enkindles love.

                             XVI

           Catch us the foxes,
           For our vineyard hath flourished;
           While of roses
           We make a nosegay,
           And let no one appear on the hill.

                             XVII

           O killing north wind, cease!
           Come, south wind, that awakenest love!
           Blow through my garden,
           And let its odours flow,
           And the Beloved shall feed among the flowers.

                            XVIII

           O nymphs of Judea!
           While amid the flowers and the rose-trees
           The amber sends forth its perfume,
           Tarry in the suburbs,
           And touch not our thresholds.

                             XIX

           Hide thyself, O my Beloved!
           Turn Thy face to the mountains,
           Do not speak,
           But regard the companions
           Of her who is travelling amidst strange islands.

                              XX

                       THE BRIDEGROOM

           Light-winged birds,
           Lions, fawns, bounding does,
           Mountains, valleys, strands,
           Waters, winds, heat,
           And the terrors that keep watch by night;

                             XXI

           By the soft lyres
           And the siren strains, I adjure you,
           Let your fury cease,
           And touch not the wall,
           That the bride may sleep in greater security.

                             XXII

           The bride has entered
           The pleasant and desirable garden,
           And there reposes to her heart's content;
           Her neck reclining
           On the sweet arms of the Beloved.

                            XXIII

           Beneath the apple-tree
           There wert thou betrothed;
           There I gave thee My hand,
           And thou wert redeemed
           Where thy mother was corrupted.

                             XXIV

                          THE BRIDE

           Our bed is of flowers
           By dens of lions encompassed,
           Hung with purple,
           Made in peace,
           And crowned with a thousand shields of gold.

                             XXV

           In Thy footsteps
           The young ones run Thy way;
           At the touch of the fire
           And by the spiced wine,
           The divine balsam flows.

                             XXVI

           In the inner cellar
           Of my Beloved have I drunk; and when I went forth
           Over all the plain
           I knew nothing,
           And lost the flock I followed before.

                            XXVII

           There He gave me His breasts,
           There He taught me the science full of sweetness.
           And there I gave to Him
           Myself without reserve;
           There I promised to be His bride.

                            XXVIII

           My soul is occupied,
           And all my substance in His service;
           Now I guard no flock,
           Nor have I any other employment:
           My sole occupation is love.

                             XXIX

           If, then, on the common land
           I am no longer seen or found,
           You will say that I am lost;
           That, being enamoured,
           I lost myself; and yet was found.

                             XXX

           Of emeralds, and of flowers
           In the early morning gathered,
           We will make the garlands,
           Flowering in Thy love,
           And bound together with one hair of my head.

                             XXXI

           By that one hair
           Thou hast observed fluttering on my neck,
           And on my neck regarded,
           Thou wert captivated;
           And wounded by one of my eyes.

                            XXXII

           When Thou didst regard me,
           Thine eyes imprinted in me Thy grace:
           For this didst Thou love me again,
           And thereby mine eyes did merit
           To adore what in Thee they saw

                           XXXIII

           Despise me not,
           For if I was swarthy once
           Thou canst regard me now;
           Since Thou hast regarded me,
           Grace and beauty hast Thou given me.

                            XXXIV

                       THE BRIDEGROOM

           The little white dove
           Has returned to the ark with the bough;
           And now the turtle-dove
           Its desired mate
           On the green banks has found.

                             XXXV

           In solitude she lived,
           And in solitude built her nest;
           And in solitude, alone
           Hath the Beloved guided her,
           In solitude also wounded with love.

                            XXXVI

                         THE BRIDE

           Let us rejoice, O my Beloved!
           Let us go forth to see ourselves in Thy beauty,
           To the mountain and the hill,
           Where the pure water flows:
           Let us enter into the heart of the thicket.

                            XXXVII

           We shall go at once
           To the deep caverns of the rock
           Which are all secret,
           There we shall enter in
           And taste of the new wine of the pomegranate.

                           XXXVIII

           There thou wilt show me
           That which my soul desired;
           And there Thou wilt give at once,
           O Thou, my life!
           That which Thou gavest me the other day.

                            XXXIX

           The breathing of the air,
           The song of the sweet nightingale,
           The grove and its beauty
           In the serene night,
           With the flame that consumes, and gives no pains.

                              XL

           None saw it;
           Neither did Aminadab appear
           The siege was intermitted,
           And the cavalry dismounted
           At the sight of the waters.



                           ARGUMENT

These stanzas describe the career of a soul from its first
entrance on the service of God till it comes to the final state of
perfection--the spiritual marriage.  They refer accordingly to the
three states or ways of the spiritual training--the purgative,
illuminative, and unitive ways, some properties and effects of
which they explain.

The first stanzas relate to beginners--to the purgative way.  The
second to the advanced--to the state of spiritual betrothal; that
is, the illuminative way.  The next to the unitive way--that of the
perfect, the spiritual Marriage.  The unitive way, that of the
perfect, follows the illuminative, which is that of the advanced.

The last stanzas treat of the beatific state, which only the
already perfect soul aims at.



                   EXPLANATION OF THE STANZAS

                             NOTE

THE soul, considering the obligations of its state, seeing that
'the days of man are short;' [11] that the way of eternal life is
strait; [12] that 'the just man shall scarcely be saved;' [13]
that the things of this world are empty and deceitful; that all
die and perish like water poured on the ground; [14] that time is
uncertain, the last account strict, perdition most easy, and
salvation most difficult; and recognising also, on the other
hand, the great debt that is owing to God, Who has created it
solely for Himself, for which the service of its whole life is
due, Who has redeemed it for Himself alone, for which it owes Him
all else, and the correspondence of its will to His love; and
remembering other innumerable blessings for which it acknowledges
itself indebted to God even before it was born: and also that a
great part of its life has been wasted, and that it will have to
render an account of it all from beginning unto the end, to the
payment of 'the last farthing,' [15] when God shall 'search
Jerusalem with lamps;' [16] that it is already late, and perhaps
the end of the day: [17] in order to remedy so great an evil,
especially when it is conscious that God is grievously offended,
and that He has hidden His face from it, because it would forget
Him for the creature,Ðthe soul, now touched with sorrow and
inward sinking of the heart at the sight of its imminent risks
and ruin, renouncing everything and casting them aside without
delaying for a day, or even an hour, with fear and groanings
uttered from the heart, and wounded with the love of God, begins
to invoke the Beloved and says:



                            STANZA I

                           THE BRIDE

           Where hast Thou hidden Thyself,
           And abandoned me to my sorrow, O my Beloved!
           Thou hast fled like the hart,
           Having wounded me.
           I ran after Thee, crying; but Thou wert gone.

IN this first stanza the soul, enamoured of the Word, the Son of
God, the Bridegroom, desiring to be united to Him in the clear and
substantial vision, sets before Him the anxieties of its love,
complaining of His absence.  And this the more so because, now
pierced and wounded with love, for which it had abandoned all
things, even itself, it has still to endure the absence of the
Beloved, Who has not released it from its mortal flesh, that it
might have the fruition of Him in the glory of eternity.  Hence it
cries out,

           'Where hast Thou hidden Thyself?'

2.  It is as if the soul said, 'Show me, O Thou the Word, my
Bridegroom, the place where Thou art hidden.'  It asks for the
revelation of the divine Essence; for the place where the Son of
God is hidden is, according to St. John, 'the bosom of the
Father,' [18] which is the divine Essence, transcending all mortal
vision, and hidden from all human understanding, as Isaias saith,
speaking to God, 'Verily Thou art a hidden God.' [19]  From this we
learn that the communication and sense of His presence, however
great they may be, and the most sublime and profound knowledge of
God which the soul may have in this life, are not God essentially,
neither have they any affinity with Him, for in very truth He is
still hidden from the soul; and it is therefore expedient for it,
amid all these grandeurs, always to consider Him as hidden, and to
seek Him in His hiding-place, saying,

           'Where hast Thou hidden Thyself?'

3.  Neither sublime communications nor sensible presence furnish
any certain proof of His gracious presence; nor is the absence
thereof, and aridity, any proof of His absence from the soul.  'If
He come to me, I shall not see Him; if He depart, I shall not
understand.' [20]  That is, if the soul have any great
communication, or impression, or spiritual knowledge, it must not
on that account persuade itself that what it then feels is to
enjoy or see God clearly and in His Essence, or that it brings it
nearer to Him, or Him to it, however deep such feelings may be.
On the other hand, when all these sensible and spiritual
communications fail it, and it is itself in dryness, darkness,
and desolation, it must not on that account suppose that God is
far from it; for in truth the former state is no sign of its
being in a state of grace, nor is the latter a sign that it is
not; for 'man knoweth not whether he be worthy of love or hatred'
[21] in the sight of God.

4.  The chief object of the soul in these words is not to ask only
for that affective and sensible devotion, wherein there is no
certainty or evidence of the possession of the Bridegroom in this
life; but principally for that clear presence and vision of His
Essence, of which it longs to be assured and satisfied in the
next.  This, too, was the object of the bride who, in the divine
song desiring to be united to the Divinity of the Bridegroom Word,
prayed to the Father, saying, 'Show me where Thou feedest, where
Thou liest in the midday.' [22]  For to ask to be shown the place
where He fed was to ask to be shown the Essence of the Divine
Word, the Son; because the Father feedeth nowhere else but in His
only begotten Son, Who is the glory of the Father.  In asking to be
shown the place where He lieth in the midday, was to ask for the
same thing, because the Son is the sole delight of the Father, Who
lieth in no other place, and is comprehended by no other thing,
but in and by His beloved Son, in Whom He reposeth wholly,
communicating to Him His whole Essence, in the 'midday,' which is
eternity, where the Father is ever begetting and the Son ever
begotten.

5.  This pasture, then, is the Bridegroom Word, where the Father
feedeth in infinite glory.  He is also the bed of flowers whereupon
He reposes with infinite delight of love, profoundly hidden from
all mortal vision and every created thing.  This is the meaning of
the bride-soul when she says,

           'Where hast Thou hidden Thyself?'

6.  That the thirsty soul may find the Bridegroom, and be one with
Him in the union of love in this life--so far as that is possible--
and quench its thirst with that drink which it is possible to
drink of at His hands in this life, it will be as well--since that
is what the Soul asks of Him--that We should answer for Him, and
point out the special spot where He is hidden, that He may be
found there in that perfection and sweetness of which this life is
capable, and that the soul may not begin to loiter uselessly in
the footsteps of its companions.

7.  We must remember that the Word, the Son of God, together with
the Father and the Holy Ghost, is hidden in essence and in
presence, in the inmost being of the soul.  That soul, therefore,
that will find Him, must go out from all things in will and
affection, and enter into the profoundest self-recollection, and
all things must be to it as if they existed not.  Hence, St.
Augustine saith: 'I found Thee not without, O Lord; I sought Thee
without in vain, for Thou art within,' [23] God is therefore
hidden within the soul, and the true contemplative will seek Him
there in love, saying,

           'Where hast Thou hidden Thyself?'

8.  O thou soul, then, most beautiful of creatures, who so longest
to know the place where thy Beloved is, that thou mayest seek Him,
and be united to Him, thou knowest now that thou art thyself that
very tabernacle where He dwells, the secret chamber of His retreat
where He is hidden.  Rejoice, therefore, and exult, because all thy
good and all thy hope is so near thee as to be within thee; or, to
speak more accurately, that thou canst not be without it, 'for lo,
the kingdom of God is within you.' [24]  So saith the Bridegroom
Himself, and His servant, St. Paul, adds: 'You are the temple of
the living God.' [25]  What joy for the soul to learn that God
never abandons it, even in mortal sin; how much less in a state
of grace! [26]

9.  What more canst thou desire, what more canst thou seek without,
seeing that within thou hast thy riches, thy delight, thy
satisfaction, thy fulness and thy kingdom; that is, thy Beloved,
Whom thou desirest and seekest?  Rejoice, then, and be glad in Him
with interior recollection, seeing that thou hast Him so near.
Then love Him, then desire Him, then adore Him, and go not to seek
Him out of thyself, for that will be but distraction and
weariness, and thou shalt not find Him; because there is no
fruition of Him more certain, more ready, or more intimate than
that which is within.

10.  One difficulty alone remains: though He is within, yet He is
hidden.  But it is a great matter to know the place of His secret
rest, that He may be sought there with certainty.  The knowledge of
this is that which thou askest for here, O soul, when with loving
affection thou criest,

           'Where hast Thou hidden Thyself?'

11.  You will still urge and say, How comes it, then, that I find
Him not, nor feel Him, if He is within my soul?  It is because He
is hidden, and because thou hidest not thyself also that thou
mayest find Him and feel Him; for he that will seek that which is
hidden must enter secretly into the secret place where it is
hidden, and when he finds it, he is himself hidden like the object
of his search.  Seeing, then, that the Bridegroom whom thou lovest
is 'the treasure hidden in the field' [27] of thy soul, for which
the wise merchant gave all that he had, so thou, if thou wilt
find Him, must forget all that is thine, withdraw from all
created things, and hide thyself in the secret retreat of the
spirit, shutting the door upon thyself--that is, denying thy will
in all things--and praying to thy Father in secret. [28]  Then
thou, being hidden with Him, wilt be conscious of His presence in
secret, and wilt love Him, possess Him in secret, and delight in
Him in secret, in a way that no tongue or language can express.

12.  Courage, then, O soul most beautiful, thou knowest now that
thy Beloved, Whom thou desirest, dwelleth hidden within thy
breast; strive, therefore, to be truly hidden with Him, and then
thou shalt embrace Him, and be conscious of His presence with
loving affection.  Consider also that He bids thee, by the mouth of
Isaias, to come to His secret hiding-place, saying, Go, . . . enter
into thy chambers, shut thy doors upon thee'; that is, all thy
faculties, so that no created thing shall enter: 'be hid a little
for a moment,' [29] that is, for the moment of this mortal life;
for
if now during this life which is short, thou wilt 'with all
watchfulness keep thy heart,' [30] as the wise man saith, God will
most assuredly give thee, as He hath promised by the prophet
Isaias, 'hidden treasures and mysteries of secrets.' [31]  The
substance of these secrets is God Himself, for He is the substance
of the faith, and the object of it, and the faith is the secret
and the mystery.  And when that which the faith conceals shall be
revealed and made manifest, that is the perfection of God, as St.
Paul saith, 'When that which is perfect is come,' [32] then shall
be revealed to the soul the substance and mysteries of these
secrets.

13.  Though in this mortal life the soul will never reach to the
interior secrets as it will in the next, however much it may hide
itself, still, if it will hide itself with Moses, 'in the hole of
the rock'--which is a real imitation of the perfect life of the
Bridegroom, the Son of God--protected by the right hand of God, it
will merit the vision of the 'back parts'; [33] that is, it will
reach to such perfection here, as to be united, and transformed by
love, in the Son of God, its Bridegroom.  So effectually will this
be wrought that the soul will feel itself so united to Him, so
learned and so instructed in His secrets, that, so far as the
knowledge of Him in this life is concerned, it will be no longer
necessary for it to say: 'Where hast Thou hidden Thyself?'

14.  Thou knowest then, O soul, how thou art to demean thyself if
thou wilt find the Bridegroom in His secret place.  But if thou
wilt hear it again, hear this one word full of substance and
unapproachable truth: Seek Him in faith and love, without seeking
to satisfy thyself in aught, or to understand more than is
expedient for thee to know; for faith and love are the two guides
of the blind; they will lead thee, by a way thou knowest not, to
the secret chamber of God.  Faith, the secret of which I am
speaking, is the foot that journeys onwards to God, and love is
the guide that directs its steps.  And while the soul meditates on
the mysterious secrets of the faith, it will merit the revelation,
on the part of love, of that which the faith involves, namely, the
Bridegroom Whom it longs for, in this life by spiritual grace, and
the divine union, as we said before, [34] and in the next in
essential glory, face to face, hidden now.

15.  But meanwhile, though the soul attains to union, the highest
state possible in this life, yet inasmuch as He is still hidden
from it in the bosom of the Father, as I have said, the soul
longing for the fruition of Him in the life to come, ever cries,
'Where hast Thou hidden Thyself?'

16.  Thou doest well, then, O soul, in seeking Him always in His
secret place; for thou greatly magnifiest God, and drawest near
unto Him, esteeming Him as far beyond and above all thou canst
reach.  Rest, therefore, neither wholly nor in part, on what thy
faculties can embrace; never seek to satisfy thyself with what
thou comprehendest of God, but rather with what thou comprehendest
not; and never rest on the love of, and delight in, that which
thou canst understand and feel, but rather on that which is beyond
thy understanding and feeling: this is, as I have said, to seek
Him by faith.

17.  God is, as I said before, [35] inaccessible and hidden, and
though it may seem that thou hast found Him, felt Him, and
comprehended Him, yet thou must ever regard Him as hidden, serve
Him as hidden, in secret.  Be not thou like many unwise, who, with
low views of God, think that when they cannot comprehend Him, or
be conscious of His presence, that He is then farther away and
more hidden, when the contrary is true, namely, that He is nearer
to them when they are least aware of it; as the prophet David
saith, 'He put darkness His covert,' [36] Thus, when thou art near
unto Him, the very infirmity of thy vision makes the darkness
palpable; thou doest well, therefore, at all times, in prosperity
as well as in adversity, spiritual or temporal, to look upon God
as hidden, and to say unto Him, 'Where hast Thou hidden Thyself?

           'And left me to my sorrow, O my Beloved?'

18.  The soul calls Him 'my Beloved,' the more to move Him to
listen to its cry, for God, when loved, most readily listens to
the prayer of him who loves Him.  Thus He speaks Himself: 'If you
abide in Me . . . you shall ask what thing soever you will, and it
shall be done to you.' [37]  The soul may then with truth call Him
Beloved, when it is wholly His, when the heart has no attachments
but Him, and when all the thoughts are continually directed to
Him.  It was the absence of this that made Delila say to Samson,
'How dost thou say thou lovest me when thy mind is not with me?'
[38] The mind comprises the thoughts and the feelings.  Some there
are who call the Bridegroom their Beloved, but He is not really
beloved, because their heart is not wholly with Him.  Their prayers
are, therefore, not so effectual before God, and they shall not
obtain their petitions until, persevering in prayer, they fix
their minds more constantly upon God and their hearts more wholly
in loving affection upon Him, for nothing can be obtained from God
but by love.

19.  The words, 'And left me to my sorrow,' tell us that the
absence of the Beloved is the cause of continual sadness in him
who loves; for as such an one loves none else, so, in the absence
of the object beloved, nothing can console or relieve him.  This
is, therefore, a test to discern the true lover of God.  Is he
satisfied with anything less than God?  Do I say satisfied?  Yea, if
a man possess all things, he cannot be satisfied; the greater his
possessions the less will be his satisfaction, for the
satisfaction of the heart is not found in possessions, but in
detachment from all things and in poverty of spirit.  This being
so, the perfection of love in which we possess God, by a grace
most intimate and special, lives in the soul in this life when it
has reached it, with a certain satisfaction, which however is not
full, for David, notwithstanding all his perfection, hoped for
that in heaven saying, 'I shall be satisfied when Thy glory shall
appear.' [39]

20.  Thus, then, the peace and tranquillity and satisfaction of
heart to which the soul may attain in this life are not sufficient
to relieve it from its groaning, peaceful and painless though it
be, while it hopes for that which is still wanting.  Groaning
belongs to hope, as the Apostle says of himself and others, though
perfect, 'Ourselves also, who have the first fruits of the Spirit,
even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting for the adoption
of the sons of God.' [40]  The soul groans when the heart is
enamoured, for where love wounds there is heard the groaning of
the wounded one, complaining feelingly of the absence of the
Beloved, especially when, after tasting of the sweet converse of
the Bridegroom, it finds itself suddenly alone, and in aridity,
because He has gone away.  That is why it cries,

           'Thou hast fled like the hart.'

21.  Here it is to be observed that in the Canticle of Canticles
the bride compares the Bridegroom to the roe and the hart on the
mountains--'My Beloved is like unto a roe and to a fawn of
harts' [41]--not only because He is shy, solitary, and avoids
companions as the hart, but also for his sudden appearance and
disappearance.  That is His way in His visits to devout souls in
order to comfort and encourage them, and in the withdrawing and
absence which He makes them feel after those visits in order to
try, humble, and teach them.  For that purpose He makes them feel
the pain of His absence most keenly, as the following words show:

           'Having wounded me.'

22.  It is as if it had said, 'It was not enough that I should feel
the pain and grief which Thy absence causes, and from which I am
continually suffering, but Thou must, after wounding me with the
arrow of Thy love, and increasing my longing and desire to see
Thee, run away from me with the swiftness of the hart, and not
permit me to lay hold of Thee, even for a moment.'

23.  For the clearer understanding of this we are to keep in mind
that, beside the many kinds of God's visits to the soul, in which
He wounds it with love, there are commonly certain secret touches
of love, which, like a fiery arrow, pierce and penetrate the soul,
and burn it with the fire of love.  These are properly called the
wounds of love, and it is of these the soul is here speaking.
These wounds so inflame the will, that the soul becomes so
enveloped with the fire of love as to appear consumed thereby.
They make it go forth out of itself, and be renewed, and enter on
another life, as the phoenix from the fire.

24.  David, speaking of this, saith, 'My heart hath been inflamed,
and my reins have been changed; and I am brought to nothing, and I
knew not.' [42]  The desires and affections, called the reins by
the prophet, are all stirred and divinely changed in this burning
of the heart, and the soul, through love, melted into nothing,
knowing nothing but love.  At this time the changing of the reins
is a great pain, and longing for the vision of God; it seems to
the soul that God treats it with intolerable severity, so much so
that the severity with which love treats it seems to the soul
unendurable, not because it is wounded--for it considers such
wounds to be its salvation--but because it is thus suffering from
its love, and because He has not wounded it more deeply so as to
cause death, that it may be united to Him in the life of perfect
love.  The soul, therefore, magnifying its sorrows, or revealing
them, says,

           'Having wounded me.'

25.  The soul says in effect, 'Thou hast abandoned me after
wounding me, and Thou hast left me dying of love; and then Thou
hast hidden Thyself as a hart swiftly running away.'  This
impression is most profound in the soul; for by the wound of love,
made in the soul by God, the affections of the will lead most
rapidly to the possession of the Beloved, whose touch it felt, and
as rapidly also, His absence, and its inability to have the
fruition of Him here as it desires.  Thereupon succeed the groaning
because of His absence; for these visitations of God are not like
those which recreate and satisfy the soul, because they are rather
for wounding than for healing--more for afflicting than for
satisfying it, seeing that they tend rather to quicken the
knowledge, and increase the longing, and consequently pain with
the longing for the vision of God.  They are called the spiritual
wounds of love, most sweet to the soul and desirable; and,
therefore, when it is thus wounded the soul would willingly die a
thousand deaths, because these wounds make it go forth out of
itself, and enter into God, which is the meaning of the words that
follow:

           'I ran after Thee, crying; but Thou wert gone.'

26.  There can be no remedy for the wounds of love but from Him who
inflicted them.  And so the wounded soul, urged by the vehemence of
that burning which the wounds of love occasion, runs after the
Beloved, crying unto Him for relief.  This spiritual running after
God has a two-fold meaning.  The first is a going forth from all
created things, which is effected by hating and despising them;
the second, a going forth out of oneself, by forgetting self,
which is brought about by the love of God.  For when the love of
God touches the soul with that vividness of which we are here
speaking, it so elevates it, that it goes forth not only out of
itself by self-forgetfulness, but it is also drawn away from its
own judgment, natural ways and inclinations, crying after God, 'O
my Bridegroom,' as if saying, 'By this touch of Thine and wound of
love hast Thou drawn me away not only from all created things, but
also from myself--for, in truth, soul and body seem now to part--
and raised me up to Thyself, crying after Thee in detachment from
all things that I might be attached to Thee:

           'Thou wert gone.'

27.  As if saying, 'When I sought Thy presence, I found Thee not;
and I was detached from all things without being able to cling to
Thee--borne painfully by the gales of love without help in Thee or
in myself.Õ  This going forth of the soul in search of the Beloved
is the rising of the bride in the Canticle: 'I will rise and go
about the city; in the streets and the high ways I will seek Him
Whom my soul loveth.  I have sought Him and have not found . . .
they wounded me.' [43]  The rising of the bride--speaking
spiritually--is from that which is mean to that which is noble;
and is the same with the going forth of the soul out of its own
ways and inferior love to the ennobling love of God.  The bride
says that she was wounded because she found him not; [44] so the
soul also says of itself that it is wounded with love and
forsaken; that is, the loving soul is ever in pain during the
absence of the Beloved, because it has given itself up wholly
unto Him hoping for the reward of its self-surrender, the
Possession of the Beloved.  Still the Beloved withholds Himself
while the soul has lost all things, and even itself, for Him; it
obtains no compensation for its loss, seeing that it is deprived
of Him whom it loveth.

28.  This pain and sense of the absence of God is wont to be so
oppressive in those who are going onwards to the state of
perfection, that they would die if God did not interpose when the
divine wounds are inflicted upon them.  As they have the palate of
the will wholesome, and the mind pure and disposed for God, and as
they taste in some degree of the sweetness of divine love, which
they supremely desire, so they also suffer supremely; for, having
but a glimpse of an infinite good which they are not permitted to
enjoy, that is to them an ineffable pain and torment.



                           STANZA II

           O shepherds, you who go
           Through the sheepcots up the hill,
           If you shall see
           Him Whom I love,
           Tell Him I languish, suffer, and die.

THE soul would now employ intercessors and mediators between
itself and the Beloved, praying them to make its sufferings and
afflictions known.  One in love, when he cannot converse personally
with the object of his love, will do so in the best way he can.
Thus the soul employs its affections, desires, and groanings as
messengers well able to manifest the secret of its heart to the
Beloved.  Accordingly, it calls upon them to do this, saying:

           'O shepherds, you who go.'

2.  The shepherds are the affections, and desires, and groanings of
the soul, for they feed it with spiritual good things.  A shepherd
is one who feeds: and by means of such God communicates Himself to
the soul and feeds it in the divine pastures; for without these
groans and desires He communicates but slightly with it.

           'You who go.'

You who go forth in pure love; for all desires and affections do
not reach God, but only those which proceed from sincere love.

           'Through the sheepcots up the hill.'

3.  The sheepcots are the heavenly hierarchies, the angelic choirs,
by whose ministry, from choir to choir, our prayers and sighs
ascend to God; that is, to the hill, 'for He is the highest
eminence, and because in Him, as on a hill, we observe and behold
all things, the higher and the lower sheepcots.Õ  To Him our prayers
ascend, offered by angels, as I have said; so the angel said to
Tobias 'When thou didst pray with tears, and didst bury the dead .
. . I offered thy prayer to the Lord.' [45]

4.  The shepherds also are the angels themselves, who not only
carry our petitions to God, but also bring down the graces of God
to our souls, feeding them like good shepherds, with the sweet
communications and inspirations of God, Who employs them in that
ministry.  They also protect us and defend us against the wolves,
which are the evil spirits.  And thus, whether we understand the
affections or the angels by the shepherds, the soul calls upon
both to be its messengers to the Beloved, and thus addresses them
all:

           'If you shall see Him,'

That is to say:

5.  If, to my great happiness you shall come into His presence, so
that He shall see you and hear your words.  God, indeed, knoweth
all things, even the very thoughts of the soul, as He said unto
Moses, [46] but it is then He beholds our necessities when He
relieves them, and hears our prayers when he grants them.  God does
not see all necessities and hear all petitions until the time
appointed shall have come; it is then that He is said to hear and
see, as we learn in the book of Exodus.  When the children of
Israel had been afflicted for four hundred years as serfs in Egypt,
God said unto Moses, 'I have seen the affliction of my people in
Egypt, and I have heard their cry, and . . . I am come down to
deliver them.' [47]  And yet He had seen it always.  So also St.
Gabriel bade Zacharias not to fear, because God had heard his
prayer, and would grant him the son, for whom he had been praying
for many years; [48] yet God had always heard him.  Every soul
ought to consider that God, though He does not at once help us
and grant our petitions, will still succour us in His own time,
for He is, as David saith, 'a helper in due time in tribulation,'
[49] if we do not become faint-hearted and cease to pray.  This is
what the soul means by saying, 'If you shall see Him'; that is to
say, if the time is come when it shall be His good pleasure to
grant my petitions.

6.  'Whom I love the most': that is, whom I love more than all
creatures.  This is true of the soul when nothing can make it
afraid to do and suffer all things in His service.  And when the
soul can also truly say that which follows, it is a sign that it
loves Him above all things:

           'Tell Him I languish, suffer, and die.'

7.  Here the soul speaks of three things that distress it: namely,
languor, suffering, and death; for the soul that truly loves God
with a love in some degree perfect, suffers in three ways in His
absence, in its three powers ordinarily--the understanding, the
will, and the memory.  In the understanding it languishes because
it does not see God, Who is the salvation of it, as the Psalmist
saith: 'I am thy salvation.' [50]  In the will it suffers, because
it possesses not God, Who is its comfort and delight, as David
also saith: 'Thou shalt make them drink of the torrent of Thy
pleasure.' [51]  In the memory it dies, because it remembers its
privation of all the blessings of the understanding, which are the
vision of God, and of the delights of the will, which are the
fruition of Him, and that it is very possible also that it may
lose Him for ever, because of the dangers and chances of this
life.  In the memory, therefore, the soul labours under a sensation
like that of death, because it sees itself without the certain and
perfect fruition of God, Who is the life of the soul, as Moses
saith: 'He is thy life.' [52]

8.  Jeremias also, in the Lamentations, speaks of these three
things, praying unto God, and saying: 'Remember my poverty . . .
the wormwood and the gall.' [53]  Poverty relates to the
understanding, to which appertain the riches of the knowledge of
the Son of God, 'in whom all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge
are hid.' [54]  The wormwood, which is a most bitter herb, relates
to the will, to which appertains the sweetness of the fruition of
God, deprived of which it abides in bitterness.  We learn in the
Apocalypse that bitterness appertains spiritually to the will, for
the angel said to St. John: 'Take the book and eat it up; and it
shall make thy belly bitter.' [55]  Here the belly signifies the
will.  The gall relates not only to the memory, but also to all
the powers and faculties of the soul, for it signifies the death
thereof, as we learn from Moses speaking of the damned: 'Their
wine is the gall of dragons, and the venom of asps, which is
incurable.' [56]  This signifies the loss of God, which is the
death of the soul.

9.  These three things which distress the soul are grounded on the
three theological virtues--faith, charity, and hope, which relate,
in the order here assigned them, to the three faculties of the
soul--understanding, will, and memory.  Observe here that the soul
does no more than represent its miseries and pain to the Beloved:
for he who loves wisely does not care to ask for that which he
wants and desires, being satisfied with hinting at his
necessities, so that the beloved one may do what shall to him seem
good.  Thus the Blessed Virgin at the marriage feast of Cana asked
not directly for wine, but only said to her Beloved Son, 'They
have no wine.' [57]  The sisters of Lazarus sent to Him, not to ask
Him to heal their brother, but only to say that he whom He loved
was sick: 'Lord, behold, he whom Thou lovest is sick.' [58]

10.  There are three reasons for this.  Our Lord knows what is
expedient for us better than we do ourselves.  Secondly, the
Beloved is more compassionate towards us when He sees our
necessities and our resignation.  Thirdly, we are more secured
against self-love and selfseeking when we represent our necessity,
than when we ask for that which we think we need.  It is in this
way that the soul represents its three necessities; as if it said:
'Tell my Beloved, that as I languish, and as He only is my
salvation, to save me; that as I am suffering, and as He only is
my joy, to give me joy; that as I am dying, and as He only is my
life, to give me life.'



                          STANZA III

           In search of my Love
           I will go over mountains and strands;
           I will gather no flowers,
           I will fear no wild beasts;
           And pass by the mighty and the frontiers.

THE soul, observing that its sighs and prayers suffice not to find
the Beloved, and that it has not been helped by the messengers it
invoked in the first and second stanzas, will not, because its
searching is real and its love great, leave undone anything itself
can do.  The soul that really loves God is not dilatory in its
efforts to find the Son of God, its Beloved; and, even when it has
done all it could it is still not satisfied, thinking it has done
nothing.  Accordingly, the soul is now, in this third stanza,
actively seeking the Beloved, and saying how He is to be found;
namely, in the practice of all virtue and in the spiritual
exercises of the active and contemplative life; for this end it
rejects all delights and all comforts; and all the power and wiles
of its three enemies, the world, the devil, and the flesh, are
unable to delay it or hinder it on the road.

           'In search of my Love.'

2.  Here the soul makes it known that to find God it is not enough
to pray with the heart and the tongue, or to have recourse to the
help of others; we must also work ourselves, according to our
power.  God values one effort of our own more than many of others
on our behalf; the soul, therefore, remembering the saying of the
Beloved, 'Seek and you shall find,' [59] is resolved on going
forth, as I said just now, to seek Him actively, and not rest
till it finds Him, as many do who will not that God should cost
them anything but words, and even those carelessly uttered, and
for His sake will do nothing that will cost them anything.  Some,
too, will not leave for His sake a place which is to their taste
and liking, expecting to receive all the sweetness of God in
their mouth and in their heart without moving a step, without
mortifying themselves by the abandonment of a single pleasure or
useless comfort.

3.  But until they go forth out of themselves to seek Him, however
loudly they may cry they will not find Him; for the bride in the
Canticle sought Him in this way, but she found Him not until she
went out to seek Him: 'In my little bed in the nights I have
sought Him Whom my soul loveth: I have sought Him and have not
found Him.  I will rise and will go about the city: by the streets
and highways I will seek Him Whom my soul loveth.' [60]  She
afterwards adds that when she had endured Certain trials she
'found Him.' [61]

4.  He, therefore, who seeks God, consulting his own ease and
comfort, seeks Him by night, and therefore finds Him not.  But he
who seeks Him in the practice of virtue and of good works, casting
aside the comforts of his own bed, seeks Him by day; such an one
shall find Him, for that which is not seen by night is visible by
day.  The Bridegroom Himself teaches us this, Saying, 'Wisdom is
clear and never fadeth away, and is easily seen of them that love
her, and is found of them that seek her.  She preventeth them that
covet her, that she first may show herself unto them.  He that
awaketh early to seek her shall not labour; for he shall find her
sitting at his doors.' [62]  The soul that will go out of the house
of its own will, and abandon the bed of its own satisfaction,
will find the divine Wisdom, the Son of God, the Bridegroom
waiting at the door without, and so the soul says:

           'I will go over mountains and strands.'

5.  Mountains, which are lofty, signify virtues, partly on account
of their height and partly on account of the toil and labour of
ascending them; the soul says it will ascend to them in the
practice of the contemplative life.  Strands, which are low,
signify mortifications, penances, and the spiritual exercises, and
the soul will add to the active life that of contemplation; for
both are necessary in seeking after God and in acquiring Virtue.
The soul says, in effect, 'In searching after my Beloved I will
practise great virtue, and abase myself by lowly mortifications
and acts of humility, for the way to seek God is to do good works
in Him, and to mortify the evil in ourselves, as it is said in the
words that follow:

           'I will gather no flowers.'

6.  He that will seek after God must have his heart detached,
resolute, and free from all evils, and from all goods which are
not simply God; that is the meaning of these words.  The words
that follow describe the liberty and courage which the soul must
possess in searching after God.  Here it declares that it will
gather no flowers by the way--the flowers are all the delights,
satisfactions, and pleasures which this life offers, and which,
if the soul sought or accepted, would hinder it on the road.

7.  These flowers are of three kinds--temporal, sensual, and
spiritual.  All of them occupy the heart, and stand in the way of
the spiritual detachment required in the way of Christ, if we
regard them or rest in them.  The soul, therefore, says, that it
will not stop to gather any of them, that it may seek after God.
It seems to say, I will not set my heart upon riches or the goods
of this world; I will not indulge in the satisfactions and ease of
the flesh, neither will I consult the taste and comforts of my
spirit, in order that nothing may detain me in my search after my
Love on the toilsome mountains of virtue.  This means that it
accepts the counsel of the prophet David to those who travel on
this road: 'If riches abound, set not your heart upon them,' [63]
This is applicable to sensual satisfactions, as well as to
temporal goods and spiritual consolations.

8.  From this we learn that not only temporal goods and bodily
pleasures hinder us on the road to God, but spiritual delight and
consolations also, if we attach ourselves to them or seek them;
for these things are hindrances on the way of the cross of Christ,
the Bridegroom.  He, therefore, that will go onwards must not only
not stop to gather flowers, but must also have the courage and
resolution to say as follows:

           'I will fear no wild beasts and I will go over
           the mighty and the frontiers.'

Here we have the three enemies of the soul which make war against
it, and make its way full of difficulties.  The wild beasts are the
world; the mighty, the devil; and the frontiers are the flesh.

9.  The world is the wild beasts, because in the beginning of the
heavenly journey the imagination pictures the world to the soul as
wild beasts, threatening and fierce, principally in three ways.
The first is, we must forfeit the world's favour, lose friends,
credit, reputation, and property; the second is not less cruel: we
must suffer the perpetual deprivation of all the comforts and
pleasures of the world; and the third is still worse: evil tongues
will rise against us, mock us, and speak of us with contempt.  This
strikes some persons so vividly that it becomes most difficult for
them, I do not say to persevere, but even to enter on this road at
all.

10.  But there are generous souls who have to encounter wild beasts
of a more interior and spiritual nature--trials, temptations,
tribulations, and afflictions of divers kinds, through which they
must pass.  This is what God sends to those whom He is raising
upwards to high perfection, proving them and trying them as gold
in the fire; as David saith: 'Many are the tribulations of the
just; and out of all these our Lord will deliver them.' [64]  But
the truly enamoured soul, preferring the Beloved above all things,
and relying on His love and favour, finds no difficulty in saying:

           'I will fear no wild beats'
           'and pass over the mighty and the frontiers.'

11.  Evil spirits, the second enemy of the soul, are called the
mighty, because they strive with all their might to seize on the
passes of the spiritual road; and because the temptations they
suggest are harder to overcome, and the craft they employ more
difficult to detect, than all the seductions of the world and the
flesh; and because, also, they strengthen their own position by
the help of the world and the flesh in order to fight vigorously
against the soul.  Hence the Psalmist calls them mighty, saying:
'The mighty have sought after my soul.' [65]  The prophet Job also
speaks of their might: 'There is no power upon the earth that may
be compared with him who was made to fear no man.' [66]

12.  There is no human power that can be compared with the power of
the devil, and therefore the divine power alone can overcome him,
and the divine light alone can penetrate his devices.  No soul
therefore can overcome his might without prayer, or detect his
illusions without humility and mortification.  Hence the
exhortation of St. Paul to the faithful: 'Put you on the armour of
God, that you may stand against the deceits of the devil: for our
wrestling is not against flesh and blood.' [67]  Blood here is the
world, and the armour of God is prayer and the cross of Christ,
wherein consist the humility and mortification of which I have
spoken.

13.  The soul says also that it will cross the frontiers: these
are the natural resistance and rebellion of the flesh against the
spirit, for, as St. Paul saith, the 'flesh lusteth against the
spirit,' [68] and sets itself as a frontier against the soul on
its spiritual road.  This frontier the soul must cross,
surmounting difficulties, and trampling underfoot all sensual
appetites and all natural affections with great courage and
resolution of spirit: for while they remain in the soul, the
spirit will be by them hindered from advancing to the true life
and spiritual delight.  This is set clearly before us by St. Paul,
saying: 'If by the spirit you mortify the deeds of the flesh, you
shall live.' [69]  This, then, is the process which the soul in
this stanza says it becomes it to observe on the way to seek the
Beloved: which briefly is a firm resolution not to stoop to
gather flowers by the way; courage not to fear the wild beasts,
and strength to pass by the mighty and the frontiers; intent
solely on going over the mountains and the strands of the
virtues, in the way just explained.



                          STANZA IV

           O groves and thickets
           Planted by the hand of the Beloved;
           O verdant meads
           Enamelled with flowers,
           Tell me, has He passed by you?

THE disposition requisite for entering on the spiritual journey,
abstinence from joys and pleasure, being now described; and the
courage also with which to overcome temptations and trials,
wherein consists the practice of self-knowledge, which is the
first step of the soul to the knowledge of God.  Now, in this
stanza the soul begins to advance through consideration and
knowledge of creatures to the knowledge of the Beloved their
Creator.  For the consideration of the creature, after the practice
of self-knowledge, is the first in order on the spiritual road to
the knowledge of God, Whose grandeur and magnificence they
declare, as the Apostle saith: 'For His invisible things from the
creation of the world are seen, being understood by these things
that are made.' [70]  It is as if he said, 'The invisible things of
God are made known to the soul by created things, visible and
invisible.'

2.  The soul, then, in this stanza addresses itself to creatures
inquiring after the Beloved.  And we observe, as St. Augustine [71]
says, that the inquiry made of creatures is a meditation on the
Creator, for which they furnish the matter.  Thus, in this stanza
the soul meditates on the elements and the rest of the lower
creation; on the heavens, and on the rest of created and material
things which God has made therein; also on the heavenly Spirits,
saying:

           'O groves and thickets.'

3.  The groves are the elements, earth, water, air, and fire.  As
the most pleasant groves are studded with plants and shrubs, so
the elements are thick with creatures, and here are called
thickets because of the number and variety of creatures in each.
The earth contains innumerable varieties of animals and plants,
the water of fish, the air of birds, and fire concurs with all in
animating and sustaining them.  Each kind of animal lives in its
proper element, placed and planted there, as in its own grove and
soil where it is born and nourished; and, in truth, God so ordered
it when He made them; He commanded the earth to bring forth herbs
and animals; the waters and the sea, fish; and the air He gave as
an habitation to birds.  The soul, therefore, considering that
this is the effect of His commandment, cries out,

           'Planted by the hand of the Beloved.'

4.  That which the soul considers now is this: the hand of God the
Beloved only could have created and nurtured all these varieties
and wonderful things.  The soul says deliberately, 'by the hand of
the Beloved,' because God doeth many things by the hands of
others, as of angels and men; but the work of creation has never
been, and never is, the work of any other hand than His own.  Thus
the soul, considering the creation, is profoundly stirred up to
love God the Beloved for it beholds all things to be the work of
His hands, and goes on to say:

           'O verdant meads.'

5.  These are the heavens; for the things which He hath created in
the heavens are of incorruptible freshness, which neither perish
nor wither with time, where the just are refreshed as in the green
pastures.  The present consideration includes all the varieties of
the stars in their beauty, and the other works in the heavens.

6.  The Church also applies the term 'verdure' to heavenly things;
for while praying to God for the departing soul, it addresses it
as follows: 'May Christ, the Son of the living God, give thee a
place in the everpleasant verdure of His paradise.' [72]  The soul
also says that this verdant mead is

           'Enamelled with flowers.'

7.  The flowers are the angels and the holy souls who adorn and
beautify that place, as costly and fine enamel on a vase of pure
gold.

           'Tell me, has He passed by you?'

8.  This inquiry is the consideration of the creature just spoken
of, and is in effect: Tell me, what perfections has He created in
you?



                          STANZA V

                  ANSWER OF THE CREATURES

           A thousand graces diffusing
           He passed through the groves in haste,
           And merely regarding them
           As He passed,
           Clothed them with His beauty.

THIS is the answer of the creatures to the soul which, according
to St. Augustine, in the same place, is the testimony which they
furnish to the majesty and perfections of God, for which it asked
in its meditation on created things.  The meaning of this stanza
is, in substance, as follows: God created all things with great
ease and rapidity, and left in them some tokens of Himself, not
only by creating them out of nothing, but also by endowing them
with innumerable graces and qualities, making them beautiful in
admirable order and unceasing mutual dependence.  All this He
wrought in wisdom, by which He created them, which is the Word,
His only begotten Son.  Then the soul says;

           'A thousand graces diffusing.'

2.  These graces are the innumerable multitude of His creatures.
The term 'thousand,' which the soul makes use of, denotes not
their number, but the impossibility of numbering them.  They are
called grace because of the qualities with which He has endowed
them.  He is said to diffuse them because He fills the whole world
with them.

           'He passed through the groves in haste.'

3.  To pass through the groves is to create the elements; here
called groves, through which He is said to pass, diffusing a
thousand graces, because He adorned them with creatures which are
all beautiful.  Moreover, He diffused among them a thousand graces,
giving the power of generation and self-conservation.  He is said
to pass through, because the creatures are, as it were, traces of
the passage of God, revealing His majesty, power, and wisdom, and
His other divine attributes.  He is said to pass in haste, because
the creatures are the least of the works of God: He made them, as
it were, in passing.  His greatest works, wherein He is most
visible and at rest, are the incarnation of the Word and the
mysteries of the Christian faith, in comparison with which all His
other works were works wrought in passing and in haste.

           'And thereby regarding them As He passed,
           Clothed them with His beauty.'

4.  The son of God is, in the words of St. Paul, the brightness of
His glory and the figure of His substance.' [73]  God saw all
things only in the face of His Son.  This was to give them their
natural being, bestowing upon them many graces and natural gifts,
making them perfect, as it is written in the book of Genesis:
'God saw all the things that He had made: and they were very
good.' [74]  To see all things very good was to make them very
good in the Word, His Son.  He not only gave them their being and
their natural graces when He beheld them, but He also clothed
them with beauty in the face of His Son, communicating to them a
supernatural being when He made man, and exalted him to the
beauty of God, and, by consequence, all creatures in him, because
He united Himself to the nature of them all in man.  For this
cause the Son of God Himself said, 'And I, if I be lifted up from
the earth will draw all things to Myself.' [75]  And thus in this
exaltation of the incarnation of His Son, and the glory of His
resurrection according to the flesh, the Father not only made all
things beautiful in part, but also, we may well say, clothed them
wholly with beauty and dignity.

                             NOTE

BUT beyond all this--speaking now of contemplation as it affects
the soul and makes an impression on it--in the vivid contemplation
and knowledge of created things the soul beholds such a
multiplicity of graces, powers, and beauty wherewith God has
endowed them, that they seem to it to be clothed with admirable
beauty and supernatural virtue derived from the infinite
supernatural beauty of the face of God, whose beholding of them
clothed the heavens and the earth with beauty and joy; as it is
written: 'Thou openest Thy hand and fillest with blessing every
living creature.' [76]  Hence the soul wounded with love of that
beauty of the Beloved which it traces in created things, and
anxious to behold that beauty which is the source of this visible
beauty, sings as in the following stanza:



                          STANZA VI

                          THE BRIDE

           Oh!  who can heal me?
           Give me perfectly Thyself,
           Send me no more
           A messenger
           Who cannot tell me what I wish.

AS created things furnish to the soul traces of the Beloved, and
exhibit the impress of His beauty and magnificence, the love of
the soul increases, and consequently the pain of His absence: for
the greater the soul's knowledge of God the greater its desire to
see Him, and its pain when it cannot; and as it sees there is no
remedy for this pain except in the presence and vision of the
Beloved, distrustful of every other remedy, it prays in this
stanza for the fruition of His presence, saying: 'Entertain me no
more with any knowledge or communications or impressions of Thy
grandeur, for these do but increase my longing and the pain of Thy
absence; Thy presence alone can satisfy my will and desire.'  The
will cannot be satisfied with anything less than the vision of
God, and therefore the soul prays that He may be pleased to give
Himself to it in truth, in perfect love.

           'O!  who can heal me?'

2.  That is, there is nothing in all the delights of the world,
nothing in the satisfaction of the senses, nothing in the sweet
taste of the spirit that can heal or content me, and therefore it
adds:

           'Give me at once Thyself.'

3.  No soul that really loves can be satisfied or content short of
the fruition of God.  For everything else, as I have just said, not
only does not satisfy the soul, but rather increases the hunger
and thirst of seeing Him as He us.  Thus every glimpse of the
Beloved, every knowledge and impression or communication from Him--
these are the messengers suggestive of Him--increase and quicken
the soul's desire after Him, as crumbs of food in hunger stimulate
the appetite.  The soul, therefore, mourning over the misery of
being entertained by matters of so little moment, cries out:

           'Give me perfectly Thyself.'

4.  Now all our knowledge of God in this life, how great soever it
may be, is not a perfectly true knowledge of Him, because it is
partial and incomplete; but to know Him essentially is true
knowledge, and that is it which the soul prays for here, not
satisfied with any other kind.  Hence it says:

           'Send me no more a messenger.'

5.  That is, grant that I may no longer know Thee in this imperfect
way by the messengers of knowledge and impressions, which are so
distant from that which my soul desires; for these messengers, as
Thou well knowest, O my Bridegroom, do but increase the pain of
Thy absence.  They renew the wound which Thou hast inflicted by the
knowledge of Thee which they convey, and they seem to delay Thy
coming.  Henceforth do Thou send me no more of these inadequate
communications, for if I have been hitherto satisfied with them,
it was owing to the slightness of my knowledge and of my love: now
that my love has become great, I cannot satisfy myself with them;
do Thou, therefore, give me at once Thyself.

6.  This, more clearly expressed, is as follows: 'O Lord my
Bridegroom, Who didst give me Thyself partially before, give me
Thyself wholly now.  Thou who didst show glimpses of Thyself
before, show Thyself clearly now.  Thou who didst communicate
Thyself hitherto by the instrumentality of messengers--it was as
if Thou didst mock me--give Thyself by Thyself now.  Sometimes
when Thou didst visit me Thou didst give me the pearl of Thy
possession, and, when I began to examine it, lo, it was gone, for
Thou hadst hidden it Thyself: it was like a mockery.  Give me then
Thyself in truth, Thy whole self, that I may have Thee wholly to
myself wholly, and send me no messengers again.'

           'Who cannot tell me what I wish.'

7.  'I wish for Thee wholly, and Thy messengers neither know Thee
wholly, nor can they speak of Thee wholly, for there is nothing in
earth or heaven that can furnish that knowledge to the soul which
it longs for.  They cannot tell me, therefore, what I wish.
Instead, then, of these messengers, be Thou the messenger and the
message.'



                         STANZA VII

           All they who serve are telling me
           Of Thy unnumbered graces;
           And all wound me more and more,
           And something leaves me dying,
           I know not what, of which they are darkly speaking.

THE soul describes itself in the foregoing stanza as wounded, or
sick with love of the Bridegroom, because of the knowledge of Him
which the irrational creation supplies, and in the present, as
wounded with love because of the other and higher knowledge which
it derives from the rational creation, nobler than the former;
that is, angels and men.  This is not all, for the soul says also
that it is dying of love, because of that marvellous immensity not
wholly but partially revealed to it through the rational creation.
This it calls 'I know not what,' because it cannot be described,
and because it is such that the soul dies of it.

2.  It seems, from this, that there are three kinds of pain in the
soul's love of the Beloved, corresponding to the three kinds of
knowledge that can be had of Him.  The first is called a wound; not
deep, but slight, like a wound which heals quickly, because it
comes from its knowledge of the creatures, which are the lowest
works of God.  This wounding of the soul, called also sickness, is
thus spoken of by the bride in the Canticle: 'I adjure you, O
daughters of Jerusalem, if you find my Beloved, that you tell Him
that I languish with love.' [77]  The daughters of Jerusalem are
the creatures.

3.  The second is called a sore which enters deeper than a wound
into the soul, and is, therefore, of longer continuance, because
it is as a wound festering, on account of which the soul feels
that it is really dying of love.  This sore is the effect of the
knowledge of the works of God, the incarnation of the Word, and
the mysteries of the faith.  These being the greatest works of God,
and involving a greater love than those of creation, produce a
greater effect of love in the soul.  If the first kind of pain be
as a wound, this must be like a festering, continuous sore.  Of
this speaks the Bridegroom, addressing Himself to the bride,
saying: 'Thou hast wounded My heart, My sister, My bride; thou
hast wounded My heart with one of thy eyes, and with one hair of
thy neck.' [78]  The eye signifies faith in the incarnation of the
Bridegroom, and the one hair is the love of the same.

4.  The third kind of pain is like dying; it is as if the whole
soul were festering because of its wound.  It is dying a living
death until love, having slain it, shall make it live the life of
love, transforming it in love.  This dying of love is affected by a
single touch of the knowledge of the Divinity; it is the 'I know
not what,' of which the creatures, as in the stanza is said, are
speaking indistinctly.  This touch is not continuous nor great,--
for then soul and body would part--but soon over, and thus the
soul is dying of love, and dying the more when it sees that it
cannot die of love. [79]  This is called impatient love, which is
spoken of in the book of Genesis, where the Scripture saith that
Rachel's love of children was so great that she said to Jacob her
husband, 'Give me children, otherwise I shall die.' [80]  And the
prophet Job said, 'Who will grant that . . . He that hath begun
the same would cut me off.' [81]

5.  These two-fold pains of love--that is, the wound and the dying--
are in the stanza said to be merely the rational creation.  The
wound, when it speaks of the unnumbered graces of the Beloved in
the mysteries and wisdom of God taught by the faith.  The dying,
when it is said that the rational creation speaks indistinctly.
This is a sense and knowledge of the Divinity sometimes revealed
when the soul hears God spoken of.  Therefore it says:

           'All they who serve.'

6.  That is, the rational creation, angels and men; for these alone
are they who serve God, understanding by that word intelligent
service; that is to say, all they who serve God.  Some serve Him by
contemplation and fruition in heaven--these are the angels; others
by loving and longing for Him on earth--these are men.  And because
the soul learns to know God more distinctly through the rational
creation, whether by considering its superiority over the rest of
creation, or by what it teaches us of God--the angels interiorly
by secret inspirations, and men exteriorly by the truths of
Scripture--it says:

           'Telling me of Thy unnumbered graces.'

7.  That is, they speak of the wonders of Thy grace and mercy in
the Incarnation, and in the truths of the faith which they show
forth and are ever telling more distinctly; for the more they say,
the more do they reveal Thy graces.

           'And all wound me more and more.'

8.  The more the angels inspire me, the more men teach me, the more
do I love Thee; and thus all wound me more and more with love.

           'And something leaves me dying,
           I know not what, of which they are darkly speaking.'

9.  It is as if it said: 'But beside the wound which the creatures
inflict when they tell me of Thy unnumbered graces, there is yet
something which remains to be told, one thing unknown to be
uttered, a most clear trace of the footsteps of God revealed to
the soul, which it should follow, a most profound knowledge of
God, which is ineffable, and therefore spoken of as 'I know not
what.'  If that which I comprehend inflicts the wound and festering
sore of love, that which I cannot comprehend but yet feel
profoundly, kills me.

10.  This happens occasionally to souls advanced, whom God favours
in what they hear, or see, or understand--and sometimes without
these or other means--with a certain profound knowledge, in which
they feel or apprehend the greatness and majesty of God.  In this
state they think so highly of God as to see clearly that they know
Him not, and in their perception of His greatness they recognise
that not to comprehend Him is the highest comprehension.  And thus,
one of the greatest favours of God, bestowed transiently on the
soul in this life, is to enable it to see so distinctly, and to
feel so profoundly, that it clearly understands it cannot
comprehend Him at all.  These souls are herein, in some degree,
like the saints in heaven, where they who know Him most perfectly
perceive most clearly that He is infinitely incomprehensible,
for those who have the less clear vision, do not perceive so
distinctly as the others, how greatly He transends their vision.
This is clear to none who have not had experience of it.  But the
experienced soul, comprehending that there is something further of
which it is profoundly sensible, calls it, 'I know not what.'  As
that cannot be understood, so neither can it be described, though
it be felt, as I have said.  Hence the soul says that the creatures
speak indistinctly, because they cannot distinctly utter that
which they would say: it is the speech of infants, who cannot
explain distinctly or speak intelligibly that which they would
convey to others.

11.  The other creatures, also, are in some measure a revelation to
the soul in this way, but not of an order so high, whenever it is
the good pleasure of God to manifest to it their spiritual sense
and significance; they are seemingly on the point of making us
understand the perfections of God, and cannot compass it; it is as
if one were about to explain a matter and the explanation is not
given; and thus they stammer 'I know not what.'  The soul continues
to complain, and addresses its own life, saying, in the stanza
that follows:



                         STANZA VIII

           But how thou perseverest, O life!
           Not living where thou livest;
           The arrows bring death
           Which thou receivest
           From thy conceptions of the Beloved.

THE soul, perceiving itself to be dying of love, as it has just
said, and yet not dying so as to have the free enjoyment of its
love, complains of the continuance of its bodily life, by which
the spiritual life is delayed.  Here the soul addresses itself to
the life it is living upon earth, magnifying the sorrows of it.
The meaning of the stanza therefore is as follows: 'O life of my
soul, how canst thou persevere in this life of the flesh, seeing
that it is thy death and the privation of the true spiritual life
in God, in Whom thou livest in substance, love, and desire, more
truly than in the body?  And if this were not reason enough to
depart, and free thyself from the body of this death, so as to
live and enjoy the life of God, how canst thou still remain in a
body so frail?  Besides, these wounds of love made by the Beloved
in the revelation of His majesty are by themselves alone
sufficient to put an end to thy life, for they are very deep; and
thus all thy feelings towards Him, and all thou knowest of Him,
are so many touches and wounds of love that kill,

           'But how thou perseverest, O life!
           Not living where thou livest.'

2.  We must keep in mind, for the better understanding of this,
that the soul lives there where it loves, rather than in the body
which it animates.  The soul does not live by the body, but, on the
contrary, gives it life, and lives by love in that which it loves.
For beside this life of love which it lives in God Who loves it,
the soul has its radical and natural life in God, like all created
things, according to the saying of St. Paul: 'In Him we live, and
move, and are;' [82]  that is, our life, motion, and being is in
God.  St. John also says that all that was made was life in God:
'That which was made, in Him was life.' [83]

3.  When the soul sees that its natural life is in God through the
being He has given it, and its spiritual life also because of the
love it bears Him, it breaks forth into lamentations, complaining
that so frail a life in a mortal body should have the power to
hinder it from the fruition of the true, real, and delicious life,
which it lives in God by nature and by love.  Earnestly, therefore,
does the soul insist upon this: it tells us that it suffers
between two contradictions--its natural life in the body, and its
spiritual life in God; contrary the one to the other, because of
their mutual repugnance.  The soul living this double life is of
necessity in great pain; for the painful life hinders the
delicious, so that the natural life is as death, seeing that it
deprives the soul of its spiritual life, wherein is its whole
being and life by nature, and all its operations and feelings by
love.  The soul, therefore, to depict more vividly the hardships
of this fragile life, says:

           'The arrows bring death
           which thou receivest.'

4.  That is to say: 'Besides, how canst thou continue in the
body, seeing that the touches of love--these are the arrows--with
which the Beloved pierces thy heart, are alone sufficient to
deprive thee of life?' These touches of love make the soul and
heart so fruitful of the knowledge and love of God, that they may
well be called conceptions of God, as in the words that follow:

           'From thy conceptions of the Beloved.'

5.  That is, of the majesty, beauty, wisdom, grace, and power,
which thou knowest to be His.

                             NOTE

AS the hart wounded with a poisoned arrow cannot be easy and at
rest, but seeks relief on all sides, plunging into the waters here
and again there, whilst the poison spreads notwithstanding all
attempts at relief, till it reaches the heart, and occasions
death; so the soul, pierced by the arrow of love, never ceases
from seeking to alleviate its pains.  Not only does it not
succeed, but its pains increase, let it think, and say, and do
what it may; and knowing this, and that there is no other remedy
but the resignation of itself into the hands of Him Who wounded
it, that He may relieve it, and effectually slay it through the
violence of its love; it turns towards the Bridegroom, Who is the
cause of all, and says:



                          STANZA IX

           Why, after wounding
           This heart, hast Thou not healed it?
           And why, after stealing it,
           Hast Thou thus abandoned it,
           And not carried away the stolen prey?

HERE the soul returns to the Beloved, still complaining of its
pain; for that impatient love which the soul now exhibits admits
of no rest or cessation from pain; so it sets forth its griefs in
all manner of ways until it finds relief.  The soul seeing itself
wounded and lonely, and as no one can heal it but the Beloved Who
has wounded it, asks why He, having wounded its heart with that
love which the knowledge of Him brings, does not heal it in the
vision of His presence; and why He thus abandons the heart which
He has stolen through the love Which inflames it, after having
deprived the soul of all power over it.  The soul has now no power
over its heart--for he who loves has none--because it is
surrendered to the Beloved, and yet He has not taken it to
Himself in the pure and perfect transformation of love in glory.

           'Why, after wounding this heart,
           hast Thou not healed it?'

2.  The enamoured soul is complaining not because it is wounded,
for the deeper the wound the greater the joy, but because, being
wounded, it is not healed by being wounded unto death.  The wounds
of love are so deliciously sweet, that if they do not kill, they
cannot satisfy the soul.  They are so sweet that it desires to die
of them, and hence it is that it says, 'Why, after wounding this
heart, hast Thou not healed it?' That is, 'Why hast Thou struck it
so sharply as to wound it so deeply, and yet not healed it by
killing it utterly with love?  As Thou art the cause of its pain in
the affliction of love, be Thou also the cause of its health by a
death from love; so the heart, wounded by the pain of Thy absence,
shall be healed in the delight and glory of Thy Sweet presence.'
Therefore it goes on:

           'And why, after stealing it,
           hast Thou thus abandoned it?'

3.  Stealing is nothing else but the act of a robber in
dispossessing the owner of his goods, and possessing them himself.
Here the soul complains to the Beloved that He has robbed it of
its heart lovingly, and taken it out of its power and possession,
and then abandoned it, without taking it into His own power and
possession as the thief does with the goods he steals, carrying
them away with him.  He who is in love is said to have lost his
heart, or to have it stolen by the object of his love; because it
is no longer in his own possession, but in the power of the object
of his love, and so his heart is not his own, but the property of
the person he loves.

4.  This consideration will enable the soul to determine whether it
loves God simply or not.  If it loves Him it will have no heart for
itself, nor for its own pleasure or profit, but for the honour,
glory, and pleasure of God; because the more the heart is occupied
with self, the less is it occupied with God.  Whether God has
really stolen the heart, the soul may ascertain by either of these
two signs: Is it anxiously seeking after God?  and has it no
pleasure in anything but in Him, as the soul here says?  The reason
of this is that the heart cannot rest in peace without the
possession of something; and when its affections are once placed,
it has neither the possession of itself nor of anything else;
neither does it perfectly possess what it loves.  In this state its
weariness is in proportion to its loss, until it shall enter into
possession and be satisfied; for until then the soul is as an
empty vessel waiting to be filled, as a hungry man eager for food,
as a sick man sighing for health, and as a man suspended in the
air.

           'And not carried away the stolen prey?'

5.  'Why dost Thou not carry away the heart which Thy love has
stolen, to fill it, to heal it, and to satiate it giving it
perfect rest in Thyself?'

6.  The loving soul, for the sake of greater conformity with the
Beloved, cannot cease to desire the recompense and reward of its
love for the sake of which it serves the Beloved, otherwise it
could not be true love, for the recompense of love is nothing
else, and the soul seeks nothing else, but greater love, until it
reaches the perfection of love; for the sole reward of love is
love, as we learn from the prophet Job, who, speaking of his own
distress, which is that of the soul now referred to, says: 'As a
servant longeth for the shade, as the hireling looketh for the end
of his work; so I also have had empty months, and have numbered to
myself wearisome nights.  If I sleep, I say, When shall I arise?
and again, I shall look for the evening, and shall be filled with
sorrows even till darkness.' [84]

7.  Thus, then, the soul on fire with the love of God longs for the
perfection and consummation of its love, that it may be completely
refreshed.  As the servant wearied by the heat of the day longs for
the cooling shade, and as the hireling looks for the end of his
work, so the soul for the end of its own.  Observe, Job does not
say that the hireling looks for the end of his labour, but only
for the end of his work.  He teaches us that the soul which loves
looks not for the end of its labour, but for the end of its work;
because its work is to love, and it is the end of this work, which
is love, that it hopes for, namely, the perfect love of God.  Until
it attains to this, the words of Job will be always true of it--
its months will be empty, and its nights wearisome and tedious.
It is clear, then, that the soul which loves God seeks and looks
for no other reward of its services than to love God perfectly.

                             NOTE

THE soul, having reached this degree of love, resembles a sick man
exceedingly wearied, whose appetite is gone, and to whom his food
is loathsome, and all things annoyance and trouble.  Amidst all
things that present themselves to his thoughts, or feelings, or
sight, his only wish and desire is health; and everything that
does not contribute thereto is weariness and oppressive.  The soul,
therefore, in pain because of its love of God, has three
peculiarities.  Under all circumstances, and in all affairs, the
thought of its health--that is, the Beloved--is ever present to
it; and though it is obliged to attend to them because it cannot
help it, its heart is ever with Him.  The second peculiarity,
namely, a loss of pleasure in everything, arises from the first.
The third also, a consequence of the second, is that all things
become wearisome, and all affairs full of vexation and annoyance.

2.  The reason is that the palate of the will having touched and
tasted of the food of the love of God, the will instantly, under
all circumstances, regardless of every other consideration, seeks
the fruition of the Beloved.  It is with the soul now as it was
with Mary Magdalene, when in her burning love she sought Him in
the garden.  She, thinking Him to be the gardener, spoke to Him
without further reflection, saying: 'If thou hast taken Him hence,
tell me where thou hast laid Him, and I will take Him away.' [85]
The soul is under the influence of a like anxiety to find Him in
all things, and not finding Him immediately, as it desires--but
rather the very reverse--not only has no pleasure in them, but is
even tormented by them, and sometimes exceedingly so: for such
souls suffer greatly in their intercourse with men and in the
transactions of the world, because these things hinder rather than
help them in their search.

3.  The bride in the Canticle shows us that she had these three
peculiarities when seeking the Bridegroom.  'I sought Him and found
Him not; the keepers that go about the city found me, they struck
me and wounded me: the keepers of the walls took away my cloak.'
[86]  The keepers that go about the city are the affairs of this
world, which, when they 'find' a soul seeking after God, inflict
upon it much pain, and grief, and loathing; for the soul not only
does not find in them what it seeks, but rather a hindrance.  They
who keep the wall of contemplation, that the soul may not enter--
that is, evil spirits and worldly affairs--take away the cloak of
peace and the quiet of loving contemplation.  All this inflicts
infinite vexation on the soul enamoured of God; and while it
remains on earth without the vision of God, there is no relief,
great or small, from these afflictions, and the soul therefore
continues to complain to the Beloved, saying:



                          STANZA X

           Quench Thou my troubles,
           For no one else can soothe them;
           And let mine eyes behold Thee,
           For thou art their light,
           And I will keep them for Thee alone.

HERE the soul continues to beseech the Beloved to put an end to
its anxieties and distress--none other than He can do so--and that
in such a way that its eyes may behold Him; for He alone is the
light by which they see, and there is none other but He on whom it
will look.

           'Quench Thou my troubles.'

2.  The desire of love has this property, that everything said or
done which does not become that which the will loves, wearies and
annoys it, and makes it peevish when it sees itself disappointed
in its desires.  This and its weary longing after the vision of God
is here called 'troubles.'  These troubles nothing can remove
except the possession of the Beloved; hence the soul prays Him to
quench them with His presence, to cool their feverishness, as the
cooling water him who is wearied by the heat.  The soul makes use
of the expression 'quench,' to denote its sufferings from the fire
of love.

           'For no one else can soothe them.'

3.  The soul, in order to move and persuade the Beloved to grant
its petition, says, 'As none other but Thou can satisfy my needs,
do Thou quench my troubles.'  Remember here that God is then close
at hand, to comfort the soul and to satisfy its wants, when it has
and seeks no satisfaction or comfort out of Him.  The soul that
finds no pleasure out of God cannot be long unvisited by the
Beloved.

           'And let mine eyes behold Thee.'

4.  Let me see Thee face to face with the eyes of the soul,

           'For thou art their light.'

5.  God is the supernatural light of the soul, without which it
abides in darkness.  And now, in the excess of its affection, it
calls Him the light of its eyes, as an earthly lover, to express
his affection, calls the object of his love the light of his eyes.
The soul says in effect in the foregoing terms, 'Since my eyes
have no other light, either of nature or of love, but Thee, let
them behold Thee, Who in every way art their light.'  David was
regretting this light when he said in his trouble, 'The light of
mine eyes, and the same is not with me;' [87] and Tobias, when he
said, 'What manner of joy shall be to me who sit in darkness, and
see not the light of heaven?' [88]  He was longing for the clear
vision of God; for the light of heaven is the Son of God; as St.
John saith in the Apocalypse: 'And the city needeth not sun, nor
moon to shine in it; for the glory of God hath illuminated it, and
the Lamb is the lamp thereof.' [89]

           'And I will keep them for Thee alone.'

6.  The soul seeks to constrain the Bridegroom to let it see the
light of its eyes, not only because it would be in darkness
without it, but also because it will not look upon anything but on
Him.  For as that soul is justly deprived of this divine light if
it fixes the eyes of the will on any other light, proceeding from
anything that is not God, for then its vision is confined to that
object; so also the soul, by a certain fitness, deserves the
divine light, if it shuts its eyes against all objects whatever,
to open them only for the vision of God.

                             NOTE

BUT the loving Bridegroom of souls cannot bear to see them suffer
long in the isolation of which I am speaking, for, as He saith by
the mouth of Zacharias, 'He that shall touch you, toucheth the
apple of Mine eye;' [90] especially when their sufferings, as
those of this soul, proceed from their love for Him.  Therefore
doth He speak through Isaias, 'It shall be before they call, I
will hear; as they are yet speaking, I will hear.' [91]  And the
wise man saith that the soul that seeketh Him as treasure shall
find Him. [92]  God grants a certain spiritual presence of Himself
to the fervent prayers of the loving soul which seeks Him more
earnestly than treasure, seeing that it has abandoned all things,
and even itself, for His sake.

2.  In that presence He shows certain profound glimpses of His
divinity and beauty, whereby He still increases the soul's anxious
desire to behold Him.  For as men throw water on the coals of the
forge to cause intenser heat, so our Lord in His dealings with
certain souls, in the intermission of their love, makes some
revelations of His majesty, to quicken their fervour, and to
prepare them more and more for those graces which He will give
them afterwards.  Thus the soul, in that obscure presence of God,
beholding and feeling the supreme good and beauty hidden there, is
dying in desire of the vision, saying in the stanza that follows:



                          STANZA XI

           Reveal Thy presence,
           And let the vision and Thy beauty kill me,
           Behold the malady
           Of love is incurable
           Except in Thy presence and before Thy face.

THE soul, anxious to be possessed by God, Who is so great, Whose
love has wounded and stolen its heart, and unable to suffer more,
beseeches Him directly, in this stanza, to reveal His beauty--that
is, the divine Essence--and to slay it in that vision, separating
it from the body, in which it can neither see nor possess Him as
it desires.  And further, setting before Him the distress and
sorrow of heart, in which it continues, suffering it because of
its love, and unable to find any other remedy than the glorious
vision of the divine essence, cries out: 'Reveal Thy presence.'

2.  To understand this clearly we must remember that there are
three ways in which God is present in the soul.  The first is His
presence in essence, not in holy souls only, but in wretched and
sinful souls as well, and also in all created things; for it is by
this presence that He gives life and being, and were it once
withdrawn all things would return to nothing. [93]  This presence
never fails in the soul.

3.  The second is His presence by grace, whereby He dwells in the
soul, pleased and satisfied with it.  This presence is not in all
souls; for those who fall into mortal sin lose it, and no soul can
know in a natural way whether it has it or not.  The third is His
presence by spiritual affection.  God is wont to show His presence
in many devout souls in divers ways, in refreshment, joy, and
gladness; yet this, like the others, is all secret, for He does
not show Himself as He is, because the condition of our mortal
life does not admit of it.  Thus this prayer of the soul may be
understood of any one of them.

           'Reveal Thy presence.'

4.  Inasmuch as it is certain that God is ever present in the soul,
at least in the first way, the soul does not say, 'Be Thou
present'; but, 'Reveal and manifest Thy hidden presence, whether
natural, spiritual, or affective, in such a way that I may behold
Thee in Thy divine essence and beauty.'  The soul prays Him that as
He by His essential presence gives it its natural being, and
perfects it by His presence of grace, so also He would glorify it
by the manifestation of His glory.  But as the soul is now loving
God with fervent affections, the presence, for the revelation of
which it prays the Beloved to manifest, is to be understood
chiefly of the affective presence of the Beloved.  Such is the
nature of this presence that the soul felt there was an infinite
being hidden there, out of which God communicated to it certain
obscure visions of His own divine beauty.  Such was the effect of
these visions that the soul longed and fainted away with the
desire of that which is hidden in that presence.

5.  This is in harmony with the experience of David, when he said:
'My soul longeth and fainteth for the courts of our Lord.' [94]
The soul now faints with desire of being absorbed in the
Sovereign Good which it feels to be present and hidden; for
though it be hidden, the soul is most profoundly conscious of the
good and delight which are there.  The soul is therefore attracted
to this good with more violence than matter is to its centre, and
is unable to contain itself, by reason of the force of this
attraction, from saying:

           'Reveal Thy presence.'

6.  Moses, on Mount Sinai in the presence of God, saw such glimpses
of the majesty and beauty of His hidden Divinity, that, unable to
endure it, he prayed twice for the vision of His glory saying:
'Whereas Thou hast said: I know thee by name, and thou hast found
grace in my sight.  If, therefore, I have found grace in Thy sight,
shew me Thy face, that I may know Thee and may find grace before
Thine eyes;' [95]  that is, the grace which he longed for--to
attain to the perfect love of the glory of God.  The answer of our
Lord was: 'Thou canst not see My face, for man shall not see Me
and live.' [96]  It is as if God had said: 'Moses, thy prayer is
difficult to grant; the beauty of My face, and the joy in seeing
Me is so great, as to be more than thy soul can bear in a mortal
body that is so weak.'  The soul accordingly, conscious of this
truth, either because of the answer made to Moses or also because
of that which I spoke of before, [97] namely, the feeling that
there is something still in the presence of God here which it
could not see in its beauty in the life it is now living,
because, as I said before, [98] it faints when it sees but a
glimpse of it.  Hence it comes that it anticipates the answer
that may be given to it, as it was to Moses, and says:

           'Let the vision and Thy beauty kill me.'

7.  That is, 'Since the vision of Thee and Thy beauty is so full of
delight that I cannot endure, but must die in the act of beholding
them, let the vision and Thy beauty kill me.'

8.  Two visions are said to be fatal to man, because he cannot bear
them and live.  One, that of the basilisk, at the sight of which
men are said to die at once.  The other is the vision of God; but
there is a great difference between them.  The former kills by
poison, the other with infinite health and bliss.  It is,
therefore, nothing strange for the soul to desire to die by
beholding the beauty of God in order to enjoy Him for ever.  If the
soul had but one single glimpse of the majesty and beauty of God,
not only would it desire to die once in order to see Him for ever,
as it desires now, but would most joyfully undergo a thousand most
bitter deaths to see Him even for a moment, and having seen Him
would suffer as many deaths again to see Him for another moment.

9.  It is necessary to observe for the better explanation of this
line, that the soul is now speaking conditionally, when it prays
that the vision and beauty may slay it; it assumes that the vision
must be preceded by death, for if it were possible before death,
the soul would not pray for death, because the desire of death is
a natural imperfection.  The soul, therefore, takes it for granted
that this corruptible life cannot coexist with the incorruptible
life of God, and says:

           'Let the vision and Thy beauty kill me.'

10.  St. Paul teaches this doctrine to the Corinthians when he
says: 'We would not be spoiled, but overclothed, that that which
is mortal may be swallowed up of life,' [99] That is, 'we would
not be divested of the flesh, but invested with glory.'  But
reflecting that he could not live in glory and in a mortal body
at the same time, he says to the Philippians: 'having a desire to
be dissolved and to be with Christ.' [100]

11.  Here arises this question, Why did the people of Israel of old
dread and avoid the vision of God, that they might not die, as it
appears they did from the words of Manue to his wife, 'We shall
die because we have seen God,' [101] when the soul desires to die
of that vision?  To this question two answers may be given.

12.  In those days men could not see God, though dying in the state
of grace, because Christ had not come, It was therefore more
profitable for them to live in the flesh, increasing in merit, and
enjoying their natural life, than to be in Limbus, incapable of
meriting, suffering in the darkness and in the spiritual absence
of God.  They therefore considered it a great grace and blessing to
live long upon earth.

13.  The second answer is founded on considerations drawn from the
love of God.  They in those days, not being so confirmed in love,
nor so near to God by love, were afraid of the vision: but, now,
under the law of grace, when, on the death of the body, the soul
may behold God, it is more profitable to live but a short time,
and then to die in order to see Him.  And even if the vision were
withheld, the soul that really loves God will not be afraid to die
at the sight of Him; for true love accepts with perfect 
resignation, and in the same spirit, and even with joy, whatever
comes to it from the hands of the Beloved, whether prosperity or
adversity--yea, and even chastisements such as He shall be pleased
to send, for, as St. John saith, 'perfect charity casteth out
fear.' [102]

14.  Thus, then, there is no bitterness in death to the soul that
loves, when it brings with it all the sweetness and delights of
love; there is no sadness in the remembrance of it when it opens
the door to all joy; nor can it be painful and oppressive, when it
is the end of all unhappiness and sorrow, and the beginning of all
good.  Yea, the soul looks upon it as a friend and its bride, and
exults in the recollection of it as the day of espousals; it
yearns for the day and hour of death more than the kings of the
earth for principalities and kingdoms.

15.  It was of this kind of death that the wise man said, 'O death,
thy judgment is good to the needy man.' [103]  If it be good to the
needy man, though it does not supply his wants, but on the
contrary deprives him even of what he hath, how much more good
will it be to the soul in need of love and which is crying for
more, when it will not only not rob it of the love it hath
already, but will be the occasion of that fulness of love which it
yearns for, and is the supply of all its necessities.  It is not
without reason, then, that the soul ventures to say:

           'Let the vision and Thy beauty kill me.'

16.  The soul knows well that in the instant of that vision it will
be itself absorbed and transformed into that beauty, and be made
beautiful like it, enriched, and abounding in beauty as that
beauty itself.  This is why David said, 'Precious in the sight of
the Lord is the death of His saints,' [104] but that could not be
if they did not become partakers of His glory, for there is
nothing precious in the eyes of God except that which He is
Himself, and therefore, the soul, when it loves, fears not death,
but rather desires it.  But the sinner is always afraid to die,
because he suspects that death will deprive him of all good, and
inflict upon him all evil; for in the words of David, 'the death
of the wicked is very evil,' [105] and therefore, as the wise man
saith, the very thought of it is bitter: 'O death, how bitter is
thy memory to a man that hath peace in his riches!' [106]  The
wicked love this life greatly, and the next but little, and are
therefore afraid of death; but the soul that loves God lives more
in the next life than in this, because it lives rather where it
loves than where it dwells, and therefore esteeming but lightly
its present bodily life, cries out: 'Let the vision and Thy beauty
kill me.'

           'Behold, the malady of love is incurable,
           except in Thy presence and before Thy face.'

17.  The reason why the malady of love admits of no other remedy
than the presence and countenance of the Beloved is, that the
malady of love differs from every other sickness, and therefore
requires a different remedy.  In other diseases, according to sound
philosophy, contraries are cured by contraries; but love is not
cured but by that which is in harmony with itself.  The reason is
that the health of the soul consists in the love of God; and so
when that love is not perfect, its health is not perfect, and the
soul is therefore sick, for sickness is nothing else but a failure
of health.  Thus, that soul which loves not at all is dead; but
when it loves a little, how little soever that may be, it is then
alive, though exceedingly weak and sick because it loves God so
little.  But the more its love increases, the greater will be its
health, and when its love is perfect, then, too, its health also
is perfect.  Love is not perfect until the lovers become so on an
equality as to be mutually transformed into one another; then love
is wholly perfect.

18.  And because the soul is now conscious of a certain adumbration
of love, which is the malady of which it here speaks, yearning to
be made like to Him of whom it is a shadow, that is the
Bridegroom, the Word, the Son of God, Who, as St. Paul saith, is
the 'splendour of His glory, and the figure of His substance;'
[107] and because it is into this figure it desires to be
transformed by love, cries out, 'Behold, the malady of love is
incurable except in Thy presence, and in the light of Thy
Countenance.'  The love that is imperfect is rightly called a
malady, because as a sick man is enfeebled and cannot work, so the
soul that is weak in love is also enfeebled and cannot practise
heroic virtue.

19.  Another explanation of these words is this: he who feels this
malady of love--that is, a failure of it--has an evidence in
himself that he has some love, because he ascertains what is
deficient in him by that which he possesses.  But he who is not
conscious of this malady has evidence therein that he has no love
at all, or that he has already attained to perfect love.

                             NOTE

THE soul now conscious of a vehement longing after God, like a
stone rushing to its centre, and like wax which has begun to
receive the impression of the seal which it cannot perfectly
represent, and knowing, moreover, that it is like a picture
lightly sketched, crying for the artist to finish his work, and
having its faith so clear as to trace most distinctly certain
divine glimpses of the majesty of God, knows not what else to do
but to turn inward to that faith--as involving and veiling the
face and beauty of the Beloved--from which it hath received those
impressions and pledges of love, and which it thus addresses:



        	                STANZA XII

           O crystal well!
           O that on Thy silvered surface
           Thou wouldest mirror forth at once
           Those desired eyes
           Which are outlined in my heart.

THE soul vehemently desiring to be united to the Bridegroom, and
seeing that there is no help or succour in created things, turns
towards the faith, as to that which gives it the most vivid vision
of the Beloved, and adopts it as the means to that end.  And,
indeed, there is no other way of attaining to true union, to the
spiritual betrothal of God, according to the words of Osee: 'I
will betrothe thee to Me in faith.' [108]  In this fervent desire
it cries out in the words of this stanza, which are in effect
this: 'O faith of Christ, my Bridegroom!  Oh that thou wouldest
manifest clearly those truths concerning the Beloved, secretly and
obscurely infused--for faith is, as theologians say, an obscure
habit--so that thy informal and obscure communications may be in a
moment clear; Oh that thou wouldest withdraw thyself formally and
completely from these truths--for faith is a veil over the truths
of God--and reveal them perfectly in glory.'  Accordingly it says:

           'O crystal well!'

2.  Faith is called crystal for two reasons: because it is of
Christ the Bridegroom; because it has the property of crystal,
pure in its truths, a limpid well clear of error, and of natural
forms.  It is a well because the waters of all spiritual goodness
flow from it into the soul.  Christ our Lord, speaking to the woman
of Samaria, calls faith a well, saying, 'The water that I will
give him shall become in him a well of water springing up into
life everlasting.' [109]  This water is the Spirit which they who
believe shall receive by faith in Him.  ÔNow this He said of the
Spirit which they who believed in Him should receive.' [110]

           'Oh that on thy silvered surface.'

3.  The articles and definitions of the faith are called silvered
surfaces.  In order to understand these words and those that
follow, we must know that faith is compared to silver because of
the propositions it teaches us, the truth and substance it
involves being compared to gold.  This very substance which we now
believe, hidden behind the silver veil of faith, we shall clearly
behold and enjoy hereafter; the gold of faith shall be made
manifest.  Hence the Psalmist, speaking of this, saith: ÔIf ye sleep
amidst the lots, the wings of the dove are laid over with silver,
and the hinder parts of the back in the paleness of gold.' [111]
That means if we shall keep the eyes of the understanding from
regarding the things of heaven and of earth--this the Psalmist
calls sleeping in the midst--we shall be firm in the faith, here
called dove, the wings of which are the truths laid over with
silver, because in this life the faith puts these truths before us
obscurely beneath a veil.  This is the reason why the soul calls
them silvered surface.  But when faith shall have been consummated
in the clear vision of God, then the substance of faith, the
silver veil removed, will shine as gold.

4.  As the faith gives and communicates to us God Himself, but
hidden beneath the silver of faith, yet it reveals Him none the
less.  So if a man gives us a vessel made of gold, but covered with
silver, he gives us in reality a vessel of gold, though the gold
be covered over.  Thus, when the bride in the Canticle was longing
for the fruition of God, He promised it to her so far as the state
of this life admitted of it, saying: 'We will make thee chains of
gold inlaid with silver.' [112]  He thus promised to give Himself
to her under the veil of faith.  Hence the soul addresses the
faith, saying: 'Oh that on thy silvered surface'--the definitions
of faith--'in which thou hidest' the gold of the divine rays--
which are the desired eyes,--instantly adding:

           'Thou wouldest mirror forth at once those desired eyes!'

5.  By the eyes are understood, as I have said, the rays and truths
of God, which are set before us hidden and informal in the
definitions of the faith.  Thus the words say in substance: 'Oh
that thou wouldest formally and explicitly reveal to me those
hidden truths which Thou teachest implicitly and obscurely in the
definitions of the faith; according to my earnest desire.'  Those
truths are called eyes, because of the special presence of the
Beloved, of which the soul is conscious, believing Him to be
perpetually regarding it; and so it says:

           'Which are outlined in my heart.'

6.  The soul here says that these truths are outlined in the heart--
that is, in the understanding and the will.  It is through the
understanding that these truths are infused into the soul by
faith.  They are said to be outlined because the knowledge of th