ST. BERNARD LAMENTS THE DEATH OF HIS BROTHER GERARD.
/§ S the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon. We must begin from this point, since it was here that we left off in the last Sermon. I know that you are expecting to hear what these words signify, and what relation they have to those which precede them, since they are used by way of comparison; for it may be said that they are so connected, that the two parts of the comparison refer only to the first half of the sentence which precedes it: ' / am black] or, again, that the two parts of the comparison refer respectively to the two sentences which precede them, each to each. The former sense is the more simple, the latter the more obscure. But let us try each of them, and that which is the more difficult first; for it is not in the two former, but in the two latter words of each clause that there is any difficulty. For ' Kedar, ' which means 4 darkness,' seems to agree sufficiently clearly with the idea of blackness,2 but ' curtains of Solomon ' not so well with that of fairness or beauty. Then, who does not see that ' tents ' falls, nevertheless, into the same interpretation? What are these tents, in fact, but the bodies in which we perform our pilgrimage? For we have here no continuing city, but we seek one to come (Heb. xiii. 14). Furthermore, we have a warfare to carry on in them, as soldiers have in tents; for we have, as men violent, to take the kingdom of heaven by force (Matt. xi. 12). For the life of man upon earth is a warfare (Job. vii. i, Vulg. and Douay), and as long as we combat in this body, we are exiled from the presence of the Lord, that is, from the light; for the Lord is Light, and insomuch as anyone is not with Him, he is in darkness, that is, in Kedar. Let him recognise as his that lamentable exclamation: Woe is me I that I sojourn in Mesech, that I dwell in the tents of Kedar I My soul hath long dwelt with him that hateth peace (Ps. cxx. 5, 6). This, then, is the abode which we have in the body; not the home of a citizen, or the domicile of one native-born, but either the tent of a soldier, or the temporary lodging of a traveller. This body, I repeat, is a tent, the tent of Kedar, because it surrounds the soul, and deprives it now for awhile of the enjoyment of the infinite Light, nor suffers it even to behold that Light, except, as it were, in a glass and darkly, but not face to face (1 Cor. xiii. 12).
2. Do you see whence comes the blackness which is upon the Church, and how it is that some stains of rust and mould are upon even the fairest souls? It is from the tents of Kedar, from the pursuit of a laborious warfare, from the long duration of an unhappy existence, from the hardships of a suffering and calamitous exile, from the body, in fact, which is both burdensome and weak; for the corruptible body presseth down the soul, and the earthy tabernacle weigheth down the mind that museth upon many things (Wisd. ix. 15). Wherefore souls desire to be dissolved, that, being delivered from the body, they may depart (avolent) into the embrace of Christ. Therefore one of these unhappy souls, lamenting, said: O miserable man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death? (Rom. vii. 24). For such a soul is aware that in the tents of Kedar it is not possible to be entirely exempt from spot and wrinkle, or from some degree of blackness, and therefore it desires to go forth from the body that it may be free from all these defects. And this is why the Bride has said that she is black as the tents of Kedar. But how is she beautiful as the curtains of Solomon? There is somewhat sublime and sacred wrapped up in the veil of these words, but I know not what it is, and scarcely dare to approach it at all, except at the good pleasure of Him who has hidden and sealed the mystery. I have, in fact, read that * he who is a searcher of [the Divine] majesty shall be overwhelmed with its glory ' (Prov. xxv. 27, Vulg.). This, therefore, I pass over and defer to another time. Let it be your care in the meantime to obtain for me this grace by your prayers, as you are accustomed to do, so that I may return more willingly, because with a greater degree of confidence, to that subject which needs the greatest attention. And perhaps one who knocks piously at the door will attain what the rash theorist can never reach. And besides, my grief, and the pain which I am enduring, compels me to come to an end.
3. For how long shall I dissemble and hide the fire which is within me, which consumes my sad heart, which feeds upon my vitals P1
Though closely concealed, it rages the more fiercely, and does not cease to spread. What have I to do with this song of joy, who am myself in bitterness of soul? The vehement power of grief interrupts my purpose, and the indignation of the Lord drinks up my spirit; for he, by whose means my studies in the [ways of the] Lord were wont to be wholly free, has been taken away, and with him my very heart has left me. But hitherto I have put constraint upon my soul, and have concealed my feelings, lest affection should seem to overcome faith. While others are weeping, I, as you may have observed, followed with dry eyes1 the sad funeral train, and with dry eyes stood at the grave, until all the funeral services were performed. With my own lips I, clad in my priestly robes, completed the customary prayers for him, and with my own hands cast the earth, according to custom, upon the body, soon to become earth, of my beloved. Those who beheld me wept, and wondered that I did not weep also, since all commiserated, not him indeed, but me who had lost him; for whose heart, though it were of iron, would not be moved at my condition, at seeing me surviving my Gerard? The loss was common to all, but, in comparison with my individual trouble, it was not considered. But as for me, I resisted my feelings, with whatever force of faith I could command, striving not to be moved uselessly by this allotment of nature, this payment of the common debt due by all men, this customary incident of our mortal condition, brought about by the will of the Almighty, by the judgment of the Just One, by the stroke of Him who is to be feared, in a word, by the will of the Lord. In this way I then, and afterwards, constrained myself to refrain from the indulgence of much weeping, however sorrowful I was and full of trouble. I was able to command my tears, but not my sorrow, and, as it is written: I was so troubled that I could not speak (Vs. lxxvii. 4). But my grief, thus suppressed, shot deeper roots into my heart, and became, as I feel, the more bitter, because it was allowed no expression. I am overcome, I confess, and what I suffer inwardly must come forth to the light. Let it come forth, then, to the eyes of my children, who, knowing the greatness of my loss, will pardon the excess of my grief, and be the more moved kindly to console me.
4. You know, my children, how well founded is my grief, how great and how painful my wound; for you are well aware how faithful a companion was he who has now left my side, in the way wherein I was walking, how vigilant, laborious, cheerful, and agreeable. Who was so peculiarly necessary to me? By whom was I equally beloved? He was my brother by blood, but still more closely related to me in religion. Mourn for my sad lot, I entreat you, to whom these things are known. I was weak in body, and he sustained me; I was of feeble spirit, and he strengthened me; I was slothful and negligent, and he urged me on; improvident and forgetful, and he reminded me of my duty. Wherefore art thou thus torn from me?
Why art thou thus snatched from my hands, O man of one mind with me, man after my own heart? We loved each other in life; why in death are we separated? A most bitter separation indeed, which Death only could have wrought! For when did he living ever desert me? It is a terrible sundering, the work of Death alone! Who would not have spared the sweet tie of our mutual affection, except Death, the enemy of all that is sweet? Ah, that is truly called death which, by snatching away one of us, has slain two at one blow! Is not his death mine also? It is, in fact, death for me even more than for him, since that which remains to me of life is more painful to me than all the deaths in the world. I live that I may endure a living death; and shall I call that life? You would have treated me more mercifully, O cruel Death, in depriving me of the use of life, than of the only fruit to be derived from it; for life without fruit is more bitter than death. A twofold doom is preparing for the barren tree; the axe and the fire (Matt. iii. 10). Thou wert envious of my labours, and hast withdrawn from me my nearest relative and my friend, whose care was the principal cause of the fruit (if any) which followed them. It would have been far better for me to be deprived of my life, than of thy presence, my dear Gerard, who by thy zeal urged me on in my labours for the Ix>rd, who wert a faithful1 helper and a cautious adviser. Why, I ask, have we loved, or have we lost? It is a hard condition, but my lot, not his, is the one to be pitied. For thou, dear brother, if thou hast lost those who are dear to thee, hast regained those who are dearer still. But what consolation remains for me, unhappy, after the loss of thee, my only (um'cum) comfort? The society in the body which was between us was agreeable equally to each of us, because of the union of our hearts; but I alone feel the wound of our separation. That which was peaceful and sweet in our friendship belonged to us both; that which is sad and sorrowful has fallen to me alone; upon me has the wrath of God fallen, upon me is His anger weighing. To both of us equally were the welcome presence, the sweet companionship, the interesting conversation; but I alone have wholly lost these delights; you have but exchanged them for others still better, and assuredly you have gained much by the change.
5. How great, then, is the recompense of joys and blessings uncounted which thou, O dearest brother, hast received for the loss of me! You have assuredly, in exchange for me who am of so little worth, the everlasting Presence of Christ; nor do ypu feel any loss in your absence from me, since you are blended with the Choirs of Angels. You have, then, no reason to complain that my presence has been taken from you, since the Lord of Glory has deigned to give unto you abundantly of His Presence, and of that of His blessed ones. But what have I in exchange for thee? How greatly could I wish to know what feeling thou hast now for me, once the object of thy dearest affection, now wavering under cares and pains, and deprived 1 Fidclis: otherwise, fortis.
of thy support which used to sustain my weakness; if it is permitted to thee still to give any thought to us unhappy ones, now that thou hast entered into the depth of light, and art absorbed in that great ocean of everlasting felicity! For perhaps, even though thou hast known me according to the flesh, thou knowest me no more now; and because thou hast entered into the sphere of the power and majesty of the Lord, thou art conscious of His righteousness only, and art unmindful of me. But he that is joined unto the Lord is one spirit (i Cor. vi. 17) with Him, and is wholly transformed into a certain feeling of the Divine presence; he can no longer have thought or taste but for God only, and that which he thinks of, or desires, is God alone — he is, in fact, filled with God. But God is Love; and the more closely anyone is united to God, the more filled is he with love. Although God is impassible, He is not incapable of compassion; and it is His especial attribute always to have pity and to spare. Therefore it must necessarily be that you, my dear brother, should be pitiful, because you are joined unto Him who is Pity itself. Although you can no longer feel any unhappiness, although you can no longer suffer, yet you can still feel for the sufferings of others. Your affection, then, is not diminished, but changed; nor, in putting on God, have you put off all sympathy for us,1 for He, too, careth for us (1 Peter v. 7). You have put off all that was weak, but not all that was charitable, for Charity never faileth (1 Cor. xiii. 8), and you will not forget me for ever.
6. I seem to hear my brother, as it were, saying: Can a mother forget... the son of fur womb? yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee (Is. xlix. 15). I have much need that it should be so. You know in what state you left me, how I totter even to falling; I have none to give me a helping hand. In every new need which occurs, I look to Gerard, as I had been accustomed to do, and he is not here. Then, unhappy as I am, I sigh and groan, as one without help. Whom shall I consult in difficult matters? to whom have recourse in troubles? Who will bear my burdens? who put to flight dangers? Were not the eyes of my Gerard wont to direct2 my steps everywhere? Was not your breast, my brother, more familiar with my cares than even my own, you who bore them more than I, and felt them more acutely Was there not upon your lips speech so winning and persuasive that you were constantly able to relieve me from the burden of worldly conversation, and to restore me to my beloved silence? The Lord had bestowed upon him judgment and discretion, so that he knew when and how to speak. He gave such satisfaction by the prudence of his replies, through the grace given unto him from above, both to those of the house and to strangers, that if anyone had conferred with
Gerard, he had scarcely anything to ask of me. He did, indeed, go to meet new-comers, and put himself in their way, that they might not break in suddenly upon my leisure. If he was unable to satisfy any by himself, those he conducted to me, and the others he sent away. O man of marvellous industry! O faithful friend! He sought to please his friend, and he was not wanting, at the same time, in the duties of charity. Who departed from him with empty hands? If it were a rich man, he carried away advice; if a poor, substantial help. Nor could he, who burdened himself with so many cares that I might be free from them, be said to seek the things which were his own. For he, being, in truth, the most humble of men, hoped that my leisure would be of more value to the house than his would be. Yet sometimes he required that he might be released from his task, and give way to another, as if someone else would perform it better than he. But where was such an one to be found? Nor was he kept in office, as is often the case, by an impatient and restless disposition, but by the mere impulse of charity. For he used to labour more than all others, and to receive less than any; so that often while he ministered things necessary — for example, food and clothing— to others, he himself was in many respects in need of them. Lastly, when he felt that he was drawing near his departure, lifting up his voice to God, he said: ' Thou knowest, O God, that as in me lay, I always longed for quiet, for the care of my own soul, and to be occupied with Thee only. But 1 have been retained in the cares of duties by the fear of displeasing Thee, by the will of the brethren, by the desire to obey, and, above all, by the brotherly affection which I bore to him who is at once my abbot and my brother.' So it is. I render thanks, then, to thee, O my brother, for every result of my studies in Divine truth, if they have produced any. If I have made any progress in them, if I have been of service to any, it is to thee I owe it Thou didst charge thyself with the care of the affairs of the house; and I, thanks to thee, was able to sit at leisure, or, at least, to occupy myself more sacredly with the duties to which God called me, or to devote myself more usefully to my sons [in the faith] with their instruction and training. For how could I be otherwise than in peace of mind within, while I knew that thou wert busied without — thou who wert my right hand, the light of my eyes, my heart, and my tongue? And, indeed, thy hand was tireless, thine eye candid and straightforward, thine heart full of wisdom, and thy tongue gave wise counsel, as it is written: The mouth of the righteous speaketh wisdom, and his tongue talketh of judgment (Ps. xxxvii. 30).
7. But why have I said that Gerard was busied without, as if he were unacquainted with the inner life, and a stranger to spiritual gifts? Those spiritually-minded persons who knew him, knew that his words were full of the Holy Spirit. Those of his chamber knew that his mind and his affections savoured not of the flesh, but were warmed by the fire of the Spirit. Who more rigid than he in the observance of the Rule? who more strict in the mastery (castigando) of his body, more absorbed and elevated in contemplation, or more keen and penetrating in discourse? How often, in discussion with him, I have learned things which I knew not! and I, who had come to instruct others, have returned myself instructed. Nor is it wonderful that this was the case with me, since eminent and learned men have testified to me that the very same thing had taken place with them also when with him. Though he had not acquired human learning, he had sound and powerful intelligence, enabling him to divine many of its truths; and he had also the illuminating Spirit. Nor was he very accomplished in the greatest things alone, but also in the smallest. What was there which escaped his skill and knowledge — for example, in all that relates to buildings, in the culture of land and of gardens, in works for water, and in all the other arts and labours of country people? He was easily the director of masons, of smiths, of agriculturists, of gardeners, of shoemakers, and even of weavers. Whilst in the judgment of all he was wiser than any, in his own eyes alone he was not wise. Would that the malediction which we find in Scripture, Woe unto them that are wise in their own eyes (Is. v. 21), did not touch many far less wise than he more than it touched him! Those to whom I speak know that what I say of him is true, and even much more than I have said. But I pass over many things, because he is my brother and my flesh. Yet this one thing I add in entire assurance: he was useful to me in all things, and beyond all other men; he was of use in small things and great, in private affairs and public, in the monastery and out of it. It was with good reason that I was wholly attached to him, who was everything to me. He left to me the honour and name of Superior, and but little beyond, for the labours of that office he used to discharge. I was called Abbot, but he was so in effect, for he took upon him all the cares of that charge. Rightly did I rest upon him, by whose means it was that I was able to rejoice in the Lord, to preach and to pray with greater freedom and security from interruption. It was by thy means, O my brother, I repeat, that my mind was less disturbed, my rest more agreeable, my discourse more efficacious, my preaching fuller of edification, my reading more frequent, and the affections of my heart more fervent.
8. Alas! thou hast been taken from me, and all these things with thee. With thee have passed away all the joys, and all the gladness, of my life. Already cares are breaking in upon me, already anxieties, hitherto unknown, press upon me on ail sides, difficulties and annoyances from every quarter seek me, because I am alone; in going from me, these are all thou hast left me, and under this burden I groan without a companion. I must of necessity lay it down, or be crushed under it, since you have withdrawn your shoulders from its support Who will grant unto me speedily, after thee, to die? For to die instead of thee, and so to deprive thee of the glory which thou art now enjoying, this I should not wish to have done. I shall live, as long as I live, in bitterness and in sorrow; and let this be my only consolation, to mourn and to be afflicted. I will not spare myself;
I will assist the Lord's Hand; for it is the Hand of the Lord that hath touched me. It is I, 1 say, whom He hath touched, whom He hath wounded; not him whom He hath called into rest: for He hath slain me in cutting short the days of my brother. For who could say that the Lord hath slain him, whom He hath caused to enter into life? But that which has been to him the gate of life has manifestly been to me the gate of death; and by that death I should say that I am the person dead, not he who has fallen asleep in the Lord. Flow forth, flow forth, ye tears, long since brimming over; flow forth, since he who would have hindered your course has himself gone forth from this life! Let the torrents of my suffering head be opened, and the fountains of waters burst forth, if perchance they may suffice to wash away the stains of those sins by which I have deserved the wrath of God! When the Lord shall have had compassion upon me, then perhaps I, too, shall deserve to be consoled, provided that I do not spare to afflict myself; for they that mourn shall be comforted (Matt. v. 4). Therefore let every good man condescend to me, and let him who is spiritual uphold me in my sorrow, in the spirit of sympathy and gentleness. Let my grief be regarded, I entreat, with compassion, and not after the manner of men. For we see day by day that those who are dead lament for their dead; but in what manner? There is with them much weeping, but no fruit. We do not blame their distress aud grief, unless it be excessive, but the cause of it. Affection is from nature, and the distress which it causes us is a part of the penalty of sin; but the cause is vanity and sin. For in the world what is lamented, if I do not mistake, is the deadly injury inflicted [by death] upon carnal glory, and upon the advantages of the present life. And those who weep thus are themselves to be wept for. Surely that is not the case with me? My grief is similar to theirs, but the cause is different, and the intention of it quite unlike their intention. I do not complain at all of the loss of the things of this world. What I grieve for is only that I have lost faithful help and salutary counsel in those things which belong to God. It is my Gerard for whom I mourn — Gerard, my brother according to the flesh, nearer still to me in the spirit, and in the work and purpose of my life ever my companion and associate.
9. My soul clung closely to his, and it was rather unity of sentiment than unity of blood which made ' us two to be one. Our nearness of blood counted, no doubt, for something; but it was companionship of mind and will, conformity of character and inclination, which united us more closely still. Since we were of one heart and of one soul, the sword [of death] has passed through my soul equally as through his; but having severed them, it has placed one part in heaven, but left the other in the mire of earth. It is I, it is I, who am that unhappy portion which is left prostrate in the clay, mutilated by the loss of the better part of itself; and yet people say to me: ' Do not weep.' My very bowels are torn away; and it is said to me, ' Do not feel any pain.1 But I do feel pain, and that in spite of myself; I have not the insensibility of a stone, nor is my flesh of bronze; I have feeling assuredly, and sharp pain, and my trouble is ever in my sight. He who has stricken me will not be able to accuse me of hardness and want of sensibility, as those of whom He said: 1 have stricken them, but they have not grieved (Jer. v. 3, but quoted inexactly). I have confessed my great affliction, and denied it not. Someone has called this carnal; I do not deny that it is human, just as I do not deny that I am a man. If that does not suffice, then I shall not deny that it is carnal. For I also am carnal, and one sold under sin, destined to death, and justly deserving of punishments and pains. Far from being insensible to penalties, I shudder at death, I confess, for myself and for those who are dear to me. And Gerard was not only mine, but was very dear. Was he noc plainly mine, who by blood was my brother, by profession my son [in the faith], my father for the care he had of me, my companion and colleague in character and wishes, as in affection he was most intimate and dear? He has departed from my side: and I feel that his death has inflicted upon me a deep and terrible wound.
10. Forgive me, my sons; or rather, if you are my sons, lament for the trouble of your father. Pity me, pity me, you at least who are my friends, who take notice how heavy is the stroke which I have received from the hand of the Lord for my sins. He has stricken me with the rod of His indignation: justly, in regard of my deserts; but severely, in regard of my power to bear it. Who, except one who is ignorant by what bonds of affection Gerard and I were united, would suppose it a light thing to me to live without Gerard? Nevertheless, I do not desire to oppose at all the decrees (scrmonibus) of the Holy One; I do not call in question His judgment, by which each one is caused to receive that which he deserves: Gerard, the crown which he has merited; and I, the punishment which is due to me. Is it reasonable to declare that I call in question the sentence because I feel the penalty keenly? To feel is human, but to repine would be impious. It is human, I repeat, and unavoidable, that we should not be indifferent to those who are our friends; that we should enjoy their presence, and lament its being taken from us. Social intercourse, particularly among friends, will not be tedious; the reluctance to separate, and the pain which is felt by each when separated, shows plainly the effect that their mutual affection has had upon those who live together. I grieve on thy account, my dearest Gerard, not because thy condition is to be regretted, but because thou art taken away. And, therefore, perhaps it is my condition rather, I who drink the cup of bitterness, which calls for regret; and still more, because I drink it alone. For thou hast no part in it, and I endure alone what those who have a mutual affection are accustomed to endure equally when deprived of the presence of each other.
11. May God grant that thou mayst not be lost to me, but only have gone before me, and that I may one day, whether soon or late, follow thee whithersoever thou hast gone. I do not doubt at all that thou hast gone to join those whom in the midst of thy last night on earth thou didst invite to praise God, when with a serene countenance and a voice of joy thou didst burst forth on a sudden, to the great astonishment of all, into that Psalm of David: Praise ye the Lord from the heavens, praise Him in the heights (Ps. cxlviii. 1). While it was still midnight, my brother, the day was dawning1 for thee, and the night was as- clear as the day. Assuredly that night was full of delights for thee, and it brought thee into the Light. I was summoned to witness that miracle, to see a man exulting in the hour of death, and scorning its approach. O Death, where is thy victory?
0 Death, where is thy sting? (1 Cor. xv. 55). Thou hast no sting any longer, but a song of praise and victory. For a man dies while singing, and sings while dying. Thou who art the mother of sorrow art taken as a subject for joy; thou, the enemy of glory, as an occasion for glory; thou, who art the gate of hell and the gulf of perdition, as the portal of the kingdom of God and the entrance into salvation; and all this by a man who is a sinner. This, too, is justly done, since thou hast rashly and unjustly usurped dominion over One who is a Righteous Man and Blameless. O Death, thou art thyself dead, and pierced with the hook which thou hast incautiously swallowed, of which thus speaks the Prophet: O Death,
1 will be thy death; O grave, I will be thy destruction (morsus) (Hosea xiii. 14). Pierced, I say, with that hook, thou shalt open a broad and joyful passage into life for those faithful ones who pass through thee. Gerard does not fear thee, O shadowy phantom! Gerard passes through thy jaws to his heavenly fatherland, not merely with security, but with joy and thanksgiving. When, then, I had come to him, and he had finished in my hearing, with a loud voice, the last verses of the Psalm which he had begun, looking up to heaven, he said: Father, into Thy Hands I commend My spirit (Luke xxiii. 46). And repeating often the same sentence, and pronouncing again and again Father, Father, he turned unto me and said, with a joyful countenance: ' How great is the condescension of God in being the Father of men! and how great the glory of men to be the sons and the heirs of God! For if they are sons, they are also heirs.' So he whom we are lamenting sang when about to die: and I confess that he changed my grief almost into a song of joy, because, my mind being fixed upon the glory which was before his vision, I almost forgot my own unhappiness.
12. But the sharp pang of my grief recalls me to myself, and the pressure of care arouses me from the thought of that sweet and peaceful spectacle, as one rises from a light slumber. Let me mourn, then, but for myself, for reason forbids that I should mourn on his account. I believe, indeed, that, were occasion afforded him, he 1 Diescehat; not a classical word. — Ed.
would say to us now: ' Weep not for me, but for yourselves/ David was right to weep over his parricidal son (2 Sam. xix. 1), because he knew that, on account of the enormity of his crime, his issue from the power of death was for ever hindered. He was right to mourn over Saul and over Jonathan (2 Sam. i. 17), because, when they were once swallowed up by death, that they should emerge from it was not then within the bounds of hope.1 And certainly they shall rise again, but not to life; or if to life, then in order that living they should die by a death still more calamitous. It is true that, with regard to Jonathan, there may be ground for a doubt; but in my case I have still a reason for my grief, though it be not the same reason. I grieve, first, for my own trouble, and for the loss which this house has sustained; secondly, I grieve on account of the necessities of the poor, of whom Gerard was the father. I grieve on account of our whole Order, and of our profession,- which derived no small strength from thy example of zeal and wisdom, O Gerard; and lastly, I grieve, not indeed for thee, but for the loss of thee. Yes, this — this is what wounds me so deeply, because I love thee so devotedly. And let no one trouble me by saying that I am wrong thus to afflict myself, since the kind-hearted Samuel mourned without restraint over his abandoned King, and the devout David over his parricidal son, and that without wronging their faith, or calling in question the Divine judgment. ' Absalom, my son, my son Absalom P said holy David (2 Sam. xviii. 33), and is not my brother more than Absalom? The Saviour, too, when looking upon the city of Jerusalem, of which He foresaw the destruction, wept over it (Luke xix. 41). And shall I have no feeling of my own bereavement, and that so recent? Shall I not groan over a wound so fresh and so deep? He wept over the sorrows of others, and shall I not dare to weep over my own? Assuredly He did not at the sepulchre of Lazarus either rebuke t'iose who were weeping, or forbid them to weep; and even more than this, He wept with them, for it is said, Jesus wept (John xi. 35). Those tears were, it is certain, the evidences of His Humanity, not the signs.of his disapproval (diffidentice = distrust). Moreover, at His Voice the dead man came forth from the tomb; so that you must not imagine that a person cannot yield to grief without prejudice to his faith.
13. It is thus with my tears also. They are not a sign of unbelief, but an indication of our human condition; nor because, when stricken, I moan, do I therefore accuse Him who strikes; I rather call upon His goodness, and endeavour to turn aside His severity. Thus, though my words are full of grief, there is no murmuring in them. Have I not expressed a feeling full of righteousness in acknowledging that in one most equitable sentence He hath both punished one who deserved punishment, and crowned one who was worthy of reward? Yes, the Lord is kind and righteous, and He has done everything well. I will sing to Thee, O Lord of mercy and judgment. Let the mercy which Thou hast shown unto Thy servant Gerard sing to Thee and praise Thee, and let the judgment also sing, which we ourselves are bearing. In the one Thou shalt be praised because Thou art good, in the other because Thou art righteous. Is praise due to Thee for Thy goodness alone? It is due also for Thy righteousness. Righteous art Thou, O Lord, and upright are Thy judgments (Ps. cxix. 137). Thou hast given Gerard; Thou hast taken Gerard away; and though we grieve for the loss of him, we are not forgetful that he was given to us; we render thanks that we have been deemed worthy to possess him, and our reluctance to be without his presence is wholly in submission to Thy Divine will.
14. I call to mind, O Lord, my covenant with Thee, and the pity Thou hadst upon me, that Thou»mightest be the more justified in Thy saying, and clear when Thou art judged. For when I was at Viterbo1 last year on the business of the Church my brother Gerard was taken with serious illness, and the attack increased upon him until it seemed as if God were about to call him to Himself. I was unable to bear the thought of losing my travelling companion and being left alone in a strange land, nor, again, of not being able to restore him safe to those who had entrusted him to me; for he was so engaging, that he was loved by all. In this distress I betook myself to prayer with tears and sobs. ' Lord/ I cried, * wait until my return. If Thou wiliest to take him away from me, let it be when he is restored to his friends, and I will not complain.' And Thou didst hear my prayer, O Lord: he recovered; we accomplished the work that Thou hadst given us to do, and we returned with joy, bringing with us the sheaves of peace. And then I became almost entirely forgetful of the compact which I had made with Thee, but so wast not Thou. I am ashamed of these sobs of grief, which accuse me of going from my word. What can be added to this? Thou hast required again the treasure which was Thine, which Thou hadst committed to us for awhile, and hast received it. But tears again put an end to my words. Do Thou, O Lord, impose a limit to my tears, and bring them to an end.