Sermons on the Song of Songs

“As the curtains of Solomon.”

You remember, I suppose, what, in my opinion, those curtains are to which the Spouse compares her beauty, and to what Solomon they belong, that is, if we wish to refer the simile drawn from them to the illustration and commendation of that beauty. But if we prefer to understand this, as well as the comparison with the tents of Cedar, of the Spouse’s blackness, I can think of no other curtains of Solomon, but those which the King used himself whenever it pleased him to dwell in tents. The exterior of such curtains, if indeed there were any, must doubtless have been discoloured and blackened from daily exposure to the sun and from the injurious effects of the frequent rains. Nor were they so exposed without reason, but in order that he who reposed within, decked with his royal ornaments, might be preserved from any stain of defilement. By this similitude, therefore, the Spouse does not deny her blackness, but excuses it. Never shall she disdain any robe which charity forms and the judgment of truth does not condemn. For “who is weak and” she “is not weak? Who is scandalised and” she “is not on fire?” She assumes the swarthiness of compassion in order to cure or to soothe the maladies of evil passion in others. She grows dark through zeal for brightness, she becomes black in the quest after beauty.

Thus, the blackness of One makes many white, not the blackness caused by sin, but that which results from solicitude. As we read, “It is expedient for you that one Man should die for the people, and that the whole nation perish not.” It is expedient that One should be discoloured for the sake of all, “in the likeness of sinful flesh,” lest the whole nation should be condemned on account of the blackness of sin; that the Splendour and the Figure of the Substance of the Divinity be shrouded in the form of a servant to save the life of a servant; that the Brightness of Eternal Life should grow dim in the flesh for the purification of the flesh; that He Who is “beautiful above the sons of men” should, in order to enlighten the sons of men, suffer the eclipse of His Passion, the disgrace of the cross, the discoloration of death; and that He should be divested completely of all beauty and comeliness, that so He might win for Himself in the Church a comely and beautiful Spouse, without spot or wrinkle. I recognise King Solomon’s curtain. Rather, I embrace Solomon Himself under His black curtain. For even Solomon has blackness, but only in His curtain, that is, in His skin. He is dark exteriorly, dark in His skin, not in His interior, because “all the glory of the King’s daughter is within.” Within is the White Light of the Divinity, the loveliness of the virtues, the splendour of glory, the purity of innocence. But all this beauty is concealed under the ignoble hue of infirmity. For “His look is, as it were, hidden and despised,” whilst He is being “tempted in all things like as we are, without sin.” I recognise the symbol and type of our sin-blackened nature. I recognise those curtains, those garments of skins wherewith our guilty first parents covered their nakedness. For He made Himself black, “taking the form of a servant, being made in the likeness of men and in habit found as a man.” I recognise under the skin of the kid, which signifies sin, the Hand of Him “Who hath done no sin,” and the Neck through which the thought of evil never passed, and therefore “neither was there deceit in His Mouth.” I know that thou art of a gentle nature, “meek and humble of heart,” of gracious aspect and amiable disposition, for Thou art “anointed with the oil of gladness above Thy fellows.” How, then, dost Thou now appear rough and hairy like Esau? What means this blackness? And these wrinkles on Thy Brow that should be white and smooth? Whence this hairy covering on Thy Hands? Ah, yes, I understand. They are mine. These hairy Hands signify that Thou hast taken upon Thee the likeness of my sinful flesh. This shagginess I recognise as my own, and as holy Job predicted, in my own skin “I see God, my Saviour.”

But it was not Rebecca, but Mary, that clothed this my Jacob, Who was the more deserving to receive a paternal blessing than His type, in proportion as He was born of a holier Mother. And rightly does He appear in my garments, since it is for me that the blessing is obtained, for me the inheritance is solicited. For He has heard His Father promising “Ask of Me and I will give Thee the Gentiles for Thy inheritance, and the utmost parts of the earth for Thy possession.” “Thy inheritance,” the Father says, and “Thy possession I will give to Thee.” But how canst Thou give Him what is His already? And why dost thou bid Him to ask? Or how is that His which it is necessary He should ask for? It is, therefore, not for Himself He is to ask, but for me. And it is for this that He has assumed my nature, in order to plead my cause. For, as the Prophet declares, “the chastisement of our peace is upon Him, and the Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all.” “Wherefore,” concludes the Apostle, “it behoved Him in all things to be made like to His brethren, that He might become merciful.” Hence, “the voice indeed is the voice of Jacob, but the hands are the hands of Esau.” What is heard from Him is His own, but that which is seen in Him is ours. What He speaks is “spirit and life,” what He exhibits to our sight is mortality and death. We see one thing and we believe another. Sense reports Him black, but faith discovers Him to be white and beautiful. Black in truth He is, but only to the eyes of the foolish. For to the minds of the faithful He appears wondrously fair and lovely. He is “black but beautiful,” black in the estimation of Herod, beautiful in the confession of the Thief and in the faith of the Centurion.

Certainly, His exceeding beauty did not escape the observation of him who exclaimed, “Indeed, this Man was the Son of God.” But wherein he discovered that beauty, we have now, my brethren, to ascertain. For if he attended to external appearances, in what respect did the Saviour show Himself beautiful, in what the Son of God? What did He exhibit to the eyes of the spectators except unsightliness and blackness, whilst, hanging between two criminals, with His arms extended on the cross, He became an Object of ridicule to the malignant, and of compassion to the faithful? He alone excited laughter, Who alone could have excited fear, and Who alone could have demanded honour. How, then, did the Centurion discover the beauty of the Crucified, and the Divine Sonship of Him Who “was reputed with the wicked”? It is neither right nor necessary for me to reply to this question, since the vigilance of the Evangelist has not allowed it to pass unanswered. For thus we read, “And the Centurion, who stood over against Him, seeing that crying out in this manner, He had given up the ghost, said: Indeed, this Man was the Son of God.” It was, therefore, at the sound of His voice that he believed. It was the voice, not the Face, that revealed to him the Son of God. For perhaps he was one of those sheep of His, whereof He said, “My sheep hear My voice.”