Sermons on the Song of Songs

“Stay me up with flowers, compass me about with apples, because I languish with love. His Left Hand is under my head, and His Right shall embrace me.”

“Stay me up with flowers, compass me about with apples, because I languish with love.” The charity of the Spouse, my brethren, has grown stronger than ever, having gathered new energies from the extraordinary succession of favours just now bestowed. For you have seen how generously she was allowed to enjoy not alone the presence, but even the familiar conversation of her Beloved. Moreover, He appeared to her in this visitation with a more serene countenance than usual, His language was pleasanter, and He gave her more of His company than on former occasions; and not content to delight her with His loving communications, He crowned her happiness by adding words of praise. Nor was this all. She obtained besides the privilege of resting under the shadow of Him Whom she desired, of eating of His fruit, and drinking of His chalice. For it is not to be supposed that she came forth thirsty from the “cellar of wine,” into which she was boasting just now of having been introduced. But perhaps it would be better to say that she did come forth thirsty, since we read in Ecclesiastes, “They that drink me shall yet thirst.” After granting her all these favours, the Beloved retired, according to His custom. Immediately she proclaims herself languishing with love, that is to say, reduced to a state of weakness by the violence of love. And the bitterness which she suffers at the departure of her Bridegroom is proportionate to the delight which she experienced in His presence. For the deprivation of what one loves, increases one’s desire of it, and the pain of separation varies in intensity with the ardour of desire. The Spouse, therefore, begs to be consoled with the pleasant odours of flowers and fruits, until the hour when He shall again come back to her Whose absence she can scarcely endure. So much for the order of discourse.

Let us now endeavour, under the guidance of the Spirit of truth, to extract the mystical meaning which lies underneath the rind of the letter. If we suppose the speaker in this place to be the universal Church of the saints, the flowers and the fruits must be understood as representing ourselves, and not us only, but all others, equally, throughout the whole earth, who have been converted from a worldly life. By the flowers are designated the young and tender virtues of those who are still in their spiritual beginnings, whilst the fruit is meant to symbolise the strength and maturity of the perfect. Stayed up, therefore, with such flowers and compassed about with such apples, holy mother Church, fruitful even in her exile, to whom “to live is Christ and to die gain,” supports doubtless with equanimity the bitterness of her banishment; because according to Holy Scripture, there is given to her “o the fruit of her hands,” as of the first-fruits of the Spirit, and “her works praise her in the gates.” But if we wish, according to the moral sense, to assign both the fruit and the flowers to the same soul, then the flowers must be taken to signify faith, and the fruit good works. Nor, as I think, will you judge this to be fanciful, when you remember that good works must always follow faith, just as the fruit is preceded by the blossom. For we have it on the authority of St. Paul that “without faith it is impossible to please God.” Nay, the same Apostle teaches that “all that is not of faith is sin.” And so it is quite as impossible to have good works without faith, as it is to have fruit without flowers. Furthermore, just as the flower has no value if the fruit does not follow it, so, “faith without works is dead.” “Stay me up with flowers, compass me about with apples, because I languish with love.” By these words we are given to understand that the soul accustomed to the tranquil repose of prayer, must find her consolation in the good works which spring from the root of a sincere faith, whenever, as frequently happens, the light and grace of contemplation is temporarily withdrawn. For it is a great thing and a rare thing to be favoured even occasionally with such a grace, not to speak of enjoying it uninterruptedly, whilst we are still abiding in the flesh. But, as I have said, whenever the divine light is eclipsed in the soul, she should immediately apply herself to the practice of the virtues, so that she may the more easily return to the happier state, as being still in its neighbourhood, so to speak. For the contemplative and the active life are closely related to each other and live under the same roof. Remember that Martha is Mary’s sister. Therefore, when the soul loses the light of holy contemplation for a time, she does not fall into the darkness of sin, or into the lethargy of sloth, but keeps herself bright and active by the performance of good works. And lest you should find it hard to believe that good works are light, listen to the words of the Lord: “Let your light shine before men,” where by “light” He evidently means virtuous actions, visible to human eyes.

“Stay me up with flowers, compass me about with apples, because I languish with love.” The flame of love burns brightly, my brethren, in the presence of the person beloved, but languishes in his absence. This languishing is nothing else than the weariness begotten of impatient desire, which must inevitably come upon the soul when her love is strong and the loved one absent, whilst in the eagerness of her longing the swiftest haste is reputed tardy. Therefore, the Spouse is here expressing the wish to be surrounded with the fruits of good works, and the sweet odours of faith, wherein she may find consolation whilst “the Bridegroom tarries.” Let me now tell you something of my own experience in this matter. Whenever I discover that any of you is making better progress towards perfection in consequence of my exhortations and admonitions, I confess I feel no regret for having given up my own leisure and repose to the labour of preparing my discourses. For example, if after the sermon the hot-tempered monk is found to be gentle, the proud monk humble, and the pusillanimous trustful; further, if those who were already conspicuously gentle, humble, or trustful are seen to have advanced each in his special virtue, and are now more gentle, more humble, or more trustful; if again, they who perhaps had grown tepid and languid in the service of God, going through every spiritual exercise in a sluggish and drowsy manner, appear to have been aroused and renewed in fervour by the “burning word” of the Lord; and, finally, if they who, forsaking the well of wisdom, had “digged to themselves broken cisterns” of self-will, “that can hold no water,” who consequently with hearts heavy and dry, as containing no moisture of devotion, were wont to murmur against every order of authority: when these, I say, prove themselves to have “flourished again” unto the perfect practice of obedience, and appear now docile and devout in all things, because of the “free rain,” the dew of the word, which God has “set aside for His inheritance”—I assure you, my brethren, that it is impossible for my soul to admit any sadness, or to grieve over the loss of the delights of contemplation, when thus encompassed with these flowers and fruits of piety. Patiently shall I suffer myself to be withdrawn from the embraces of the barren Rachel, provided I can obtain from the fertile Lia an abundant fruit in your advancement. I certainly shall never begrudge the time consumed in the preparation of these discourses, which otherwise I should have spent in the repose of contemplation, so long as I behold the seed of my words germinating in your hearts, and springing up into a plentiful harvest of the fruits of justice. For charity, which “seeketh not her own,” easily persuaded me long ago that my own private satisfaction should never be preferred to the common good. Prayer, reading, writing, meditation, and if there be any other spiritual exercise “that was gain to me, the same I have counted loss for” your sakes.