She treats of the third stage of prayer, and continues to explain things of a very lofty nature, telling what the soul that has come so far can do, and what are the effects of such great favours from the Lord. This is a subject most likely to uplift the spirit in God’s praise, and to give great comfort to those who have come so far
LET us now go on to speak of the third water that feeds this garden, which is flowing water from a stream or spring. This irrigates it with far less trouble, though some effort is required to direct it into the right channel. But now the Lord is pleased to help the gardener in such a way as to be, as it were, the gardener Himself. For it is He who does everything. The faculties of the soul are asleep, not entirely lost nor yet entirely conscious of how they are working. The pleasure, sweetness, and delight are incomparably more than in the previous state, for the water of grace has risen to the soul’s neck, and it is powerless, knowing neither how to advance nor to retreat; what it wants is to enjoy its very great glory. It is like a man with the funeral candle in his hand, on the point of dying the death he desires. It takes unutterable delight in the enjoyment of its agony, which seems to me like nothing else but an almost complete death to all the things of this world, and a fulfilment in God. I know of no other words with which to describe or explain it. The soul does not know what to do; it cannot tell whether to speak or be silent, whether to laugh or weep. It is a glorious bewilderment, a heavenly madness, in which true wisdom is acquired, and to the soul a fulfilment most full of delight.
It is, I believe, five or six years since the Lord first granted me frequent and abundant experience of this sort of prayer; and I have never understood it or been able to explain it. I decided therefore that when I came to this place in my narrative I would say little or nothing about it. I knew very well that it was not a complete union of all the faculties, and yet it was clearly higher than the previous state of prayer. But I confess that I could not decide or understand where the difference lay.
It was your Reverence’s humility, I believe, in consenting to accept help from a person as simple as I, that caused the Lord to grant me this prayer to-day, after Communion. His Majesty did not allow me to pass beyond it, but suggested these comparisons to me, teaching me how to explain this state, and what the soul must do when in it. I was indeed amazed, and understood it all in a flash. Very often I was, so to speak, bewildered and intoxicated with love, and yet could never understand how it was. I knew very well that this was God’s work, but I could never understand the way in which He worked here. In effect the faculties are in almost complete union, yet not so absorbed that they do not act. I am greatly delighted that I have understood it at last. Blessed be the Lord, who has given me this gift!
The faculties retain only the power of occupying themselves wholly with God. None of them seems to dare even to stir, nor can we make any one of them move without great and deliberate efforts to fix the attention on some external thing, though I do not think that at such times we can entirely succeed in doing this. Many words are then spoken in praise of the Lord. But they are disorderly, unless the Lord Himself imposes order on them. The intellect, at any rate, is of no value here. The soul longs to pour out words of praise. But it is in a sweet unrest, and cannot contain itself. Already the flowers are opening, and beginning to give off scent
In this state the soul would have everyone behold it and – to the glory of God – know of its bliss, and help it to praise Him. It would have them partake of its joy, which is greater than it can bear alone. This reminds me of the woman in the Gospel who wanted to call, or did call her neighbours together.1 Such must, I think, have been the feelings of that wondrous David, the royal prophet, when he played on the harp and sang the praises of God. I have a very great veneration for that glorious king, as I wish everyone else had, especially those who are sinners, like myself.
O my God, what must a soul be like when it is in this state! It longs to be all one tongue with which to praise the Lord. It utters a thousand pious follies, in a continuous endeavour to please Him who thus possesses it. I know someone2 who, although no poet, yet suddenly composed some stanzas, full of feeling, which well expressed her pain. They were not the work of her intellect. But for the deeper enjoyment of that blessing which gave her such sweet pain, she complained of it to God. She would gladly have had herself cut to pieces, body and soul, to show the joy that she felt in that pain. What torments could have been offered her then that she would not have borne with delight for her Lord? She clearly sees that when the martyrs endured their tortures, they did little or nothing of themselves. For the soul knows well that its strength arises from outside itself.
But how will it feel when it returns to the senses and has to live in the world, and when it must resume the world’s cares and formalities? I do not think that I have exaggerated in any way, but have been rather sparing in my description of this sort of joy that the Lord graciously allows the soul to enjoy in this, its exile. May You be eternally blessed, O Lord, and may all things praise You for ever!
Since as I write this I am still under the power of that heavenly madness, the effect of Your goodness and mercy, O my King, and a favour that You grant me for no merits of my own, I implore You that all those with whom I converse may also become mad through Your love, or let me have to do with none. Ordain that I may have no part in the affairs of this world, or take me from it entirely. This servant of Yours, O Lord, can no longer suffer such trials as come when it sees itself without You. If she must live, she wants no rest in this life – so give her none. This soul longs to be free. Eating is killing it, sleep brings it anguish. It sees itself wasting the hours of this life in comforts, though nothing can comfort it now but You. It seems to be living unnaturally, since now its desire is to live not in itself but in You.
O my true Lord and Glory, the Cross that You have prepared for those who reach this stage is indeed light, yet at the same time it is most heavy! It is light because it is sweet, and heavy because there are times when the soul has no patience left to endure it. Yet it would never wish to be free from that Cross, unless in order to come to You. When it remembers that it has never served You at all, and that by living it may yet do so, it longs for a much heavier burden, and never to die until the end of the world. It values its repose as nothing, compared with doing You some slight service. It does not know what to desire, but well knows that it desires nothing but You.
O my son – for the Father1 to whom this is directed and who commanded me to write it is so humble that he wishes to be so addressed – these passages in which I seem to have overrun all bounds must be for your eyes alone. For no reason is strong enough to keep me confined when my Lord takes me out of myself. Since my Communion this morning, I do not believe that it is I who have been speaking. All that passes seems a dream; I wish that everyone I meet were afflicted with this same infirmity. I beseech you, Father, let us all be mad, for the love of Him who was called so for our sake.
You say, Father, that you are fond of me. I want you to prove it by so preparing yourself that God may grant you this same mercy. For I see very few who are not too worldly-wise to do what they should, and I may be more at fault in this respect than anyone else. But your Revrence must now allow this to be. You are my confessor, to whom I have entrusted my soul. Dispel my illusions then by telling the truth; for truths of this sort are very rarely told.
I wish that we five,1 who now love each other in Christ, could make some such arrangement. Just as others2 have, in recent times, been meeting together in secret to plot wickedness and heresies against His Majesty, so we might arrange to come together now and then in order to dispel one another’s illusions, and to advise one another of ways in which we could improve ourselves and be more pleasing to God. For no one knows himself so well as those who observe him, provided they do so lovingly and with the wish to do him good. I say ‘in secret’ because this sort of language is no longer in use. Even preachers have the habit of so framing their sermons as to displease nobody. Their intentions are good and their activities splendid, but they do not persuade very many to amend their lives. Why is it that there are so few who are led by sermons to abstain from public sin? Do you know what I think? It is because preachers have too much worldly wisdom. They do not fling all restraint aside and burn with the great fire of God, as the Apostles did; and so their flames do not throw out much heat. I do not say that their fire could be as great as the Apostles’, but I wish they had more than I see they have. Do you know, Father, what our chief care ought to be? To hold our life in abhorrence and despise reputation. So long as we speak the truth and uphold it to the glory of God, we should not care whether we lose or gain everything. For he who is truly bold in God’s service bears loss and gain alike with equanimity. I do not say that I am one of these, but I should like to be.
O what a grand freedom it is, to look upon the need to live and behave according to the world’s laws as a captivity! When this comes as a gift from the Lord, there is no slave who would not risk everything to earn his ransom and return to his own country. Since this is the true road, there is no reason to linger on it. We shall never succeed in winning a treasure of this size until our life is ended. May the Lord give us His help to this end! Tear up what I have written, sir, if you think fit, and consider this as a letter to yourself. Forgive me also if I have been very bold.