Sermons on the Song of Songs

Consider now, with me, my brethren, whether a soul in such dispositions, and raised to such a height of blissful love, may not also apply to herself the words of the Psalmist, and sing with security, “In peace in the self-same, I will sleep and I will rest”; especially since she has the same reason for her peace as that assigned in the words which follow, “For Thou, O Lord, singularly hast settled me in hope.” The case is this. So long as the soul is influenced by the spirit of servitude she has but little hope and an excessive amount of fear. For her, as appears sufficiently manifest, there is no possibility of either rest or peace whilst her conscience is thus wavering between security and alarm; and the less so, inasmuch as terror predominates and tortures her above measure, for “fear hath pain.” Such a soul, consequently, cannot say sincerely, “In peace in the self-same, I will sleep and I will rest,” because she is not as yet able to make her own the acknowledgment which succeeds, “For Thou, O Lord, singularly hast settled me in hope.” But when, little by little fear begins to fail and hope to wax strong under the gradually growing influence of grace; when at length that stage is reached at which charity, rising up in its might, runs to the help of the sister virtue and “casteth out fear,” does it not seem to you, my brethren, that this soul is now “singularly settled in hope,” and may therefore sing with the Psalmist, “In peace in the self-same, I will sleep and I will rest”?

“If you sleep among the midst of lots,” says holy David, “you shall be as the wings of a dove covered with silver.” By these words, as I think, he designs to teach us that the intervening space between fear and assurance is occupied by hope, wherein the mind or the conscience most sweetly reposes, reclining at ease on the soft couch of charity. And possibly there is another reference to this intermediate place in a subsequent verse of this Canticle of Canticles, where in the description of Solomon’s litter we read, amongst other things, “The midst he covered with charity for the daughters of Jerusalem.” For the soul which feels herself to be “singularly settled in hope,” can no longer serve in fear, but thenceforward reposes in charity. So the Spouse rests and slumbers, since it is said with regard to her, “I adjure you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes and the harts of the fields, that you stir not up nor make the beloved to wake till she please.” O marvellous and unspeakable condescension! That the Word of God should make the contemplative soul rest upon His own Bosom, and, not content with this, should deign to defend her against the incursions of care, to protect her from the disquiet of her natural activities, and from the weariness of worldly distractions, and should even take precautions to prevent her being awakened until she herself pleases! But I must not now attempt a discussion of this verse. Instead of treating it in a superficial manner at the end of a sermon already long enough, I will rather hold it over to serve as the text of the morrow’s discourse, in order that words so full of sweetness may not suffer in the exposition from any want of due diligence. Not that even then we shall be “sufficient to think anything of ourselves, as of ourselves,” especially concerning a subject so noble, so excellent, so transcendently sublime, “but all our sufficiency is from God,” the Bridegroom of the Church, Jesus Christ Our Lord, Who is over all things, God blessed for ever. Amen.