Sermons on the Song of Songs

Alas! thou hast been taken from me, and with thee all these graces. All my consolations and all my joys have vanished together with thee. Now cares rush in upon me. Now troubles assail me on all sides. Afflictions have surrounded me, finding me abandoned and all alone. For only such companions remained with me after thy departure, and, unassisted, I groan beneath the burden. That burden I must now either sink under or lay aside, since thou has withdrawn the support of thy shoulders. Oh, who will grant me soon to die and follow thee? To die instead of thee I should not ask, as that would be to wrong thee, by delaying thy entrance into glory. But to survive thee, what is it but “labour and sorrow”? So long as I live, I shall live in bitterness, I shall live in sadness. This shall be my sole consolation, that, without respite I shall always be a prey to sorrow and anguish. I will not spare myself. I will myself co-operate in my own chastisement with the hand of the Lord, for it is “the hand of the Lord” that “has touched me.” Me, I say, it has touched and smitten, not him, whom it has but beckoned to rest. It has slain me in the act of cutting short his exile. I say “cutting short his exile,” rather than “slaying him,” for surely it would not be true to call that a slaying which is rather a transplanting, an exchanging of a mortal for an immortal existence. But that which to him was the portal of life was the stroke of death to me. Indeed, I may truly say it was I who died by his death, not Gerard, who “fell asleep in the Lord.” Gush forth, gush forth now, my tears, for he is gone, whose presence heretofore prevented your flowing, by excluding the cause. Open, ye fountains of my unhappy head, and pour yourselves out in rivers of water, if perchance, you may thus suffice to wash away the soil of my sins, whereby I have called down upon me the just anger of heaven. When my tears shall have appeased and consoled the Lord, then, perhaps, I may deserve that He also should grant me a little consolation. But He will do this only on condition that I cease not from weeping, for it is only those who mourn that He has promised shall be comforted. Wherefore, be indulgent towards me, all you that are holy, and let every spiritual person bear with me in my lamentation in the spirit of mildness. Let natural affection rather than custom be considered in judging my sorrow. For we daily see the dead mourning their dead, much lamentation and little fruit. We do not find fault with the grief itself, unless it be immoderate, but with the cause of it. The former is a part of our nature, and the disturbance it produces is the penalty of transgression. But the cause of this grief is often vanity and sin. For, if I mistake not, the world laments only the loss of the glory of the flesh, and of temporal advantages. And they who weep for such things, are worthy themselves to be wept for. But is this my own case? The emotion of sorrow is the same, indeed; but far different are the motives, far different the intention. For certainly I am not complaining of the loss of any worldly object. I mourn over the removal of a faithful helper over the loss of a trusty counsellor in the things that appertain to God. I lament and grieve for Gerard. The cause of my tears is Gerard, my brother according to the flesh, but more closely related according to the spirit, and the confidant and partner of all my designs.

My soul cleaved to his. We two were made one, less by the ties of flesh and blood than by sameness of sentiment. Connected by the bond of consanguinity, we were still more closely united by our spiritual relationship, by the conformity of our minds, and the harmony of our wills. As we were thus but “one heart and one soul,” the sword of death pierced this common soul of him and me, and dividing it in two, placed one part in heaven, and left the other lying prostrate in the mire of the earth. I, dearest brethren, I am that wretched part, cast prone upon the ground, despoiled of half of myself, and that the more excellent. And will you say to me “weep not”? My very vitals have been torn out, and shall it be said to me, “do not feel”? But I do feel; oh, yes, I feel, because “my strength is not the strength of stones, nor is my flesh of brass.” I feel, most assuredly, and I am in pain, “and my sorrow is continually before me.” Certainly, He Who uses the scourge cannot reproach me with hardness and insensibility, as He did them of whom the Prophet complained, saying, “Thou hast struck them and they have not grieved.” I have confessed my sorrow and I have not denied it. You may call it carnal. I do not deny that it is human, any more than I deny that I am a man. If this does not content you, I will even allow it to be carnal, for “I am carnal, sold under sin,” devoted to death, liable to sufferings and sorrows. I am not, I acknowledge, insensible to pain. The thought of death coming to me or to mine, makes me shudder with horror. And Gerard was mine, surely mine. How could he be other than mine, who was my brother in blood, my son in religion, my father in solicitude, my consort in spirit, my bosom friend in love? He has abandoned me now, and I feel as if I were wounded, aye, wounded unto death,

Forgive me, my children. Rather, because you are my children, compassionate your father’s distress. “Have pity on me, have pity on me, at least you, my friends,” who know how heavily the hand of the Lord has been laid upon me for my faults. With the rod of His indignation He has stricken me, justly indeed, according to my deserts, but severely, considering my weakness. Surely no one who understands what Gerard was to me, will say it is a light punishment for me to be condemned to live without him. Yet, “I will not contradict the words of the Holy One.” I do not find fault with the judgment, by which each of us has received what we severally deserved, he the crown, and I the cross. Or shall it be said that I resist the judgment because I feel the pain? But to smart under the lash is not the same thing as to rebel against authority, for the former is but human, whilst the latter is an act of impiety. It is human, I say, and necessary to feel pleasure in the society of our friends, and sorrow in their absence. Familiar intercourse, especially between persons very dear to each other, has the effect of binding their hearts together. And this result, produced by mutual love in the friends whilst enjoying each other’s company, is revealed by their fear of parting, and by the sorrow they experience when actually separated. I grieve for thee, my best-beloved Gerard, not as if thy lot were pitiable, but only because thou art with me no more. And perhaps for this reason, I ought to grieve not for thee, but only for myself, who am still drinking of the chalice of bitterness. And the grief should be for me alone, because I drink alone, since thou hast no part with me in this cup. I alone have to suffer all the anguish which is accustomed to be shared equally by friends who, loving each other tenderly, are compelled to part.