Sermons on the Song of Songs

The aurora, so to speak, of this spiritual day began with the announcement of the Sun of Justice by the Archangel Gabriel, when by the operation of the Holy Ghost a virgin conceived God in her womb, and, still a virgin, brought Him forth; and it continued as long as He was seen on earth and conversed amongst men. For during all that time the light appeared so weak and as if in truth the light of the aurora, that scarcely anyone realised that the day had dawned upon men. And indeed “if they had known they would never have crucified the Lord of glory.” Hence, to the little company of disciples it was said, “So far there is little light in you,” because, namely, it was yet only the aurora or beginning, or rather but the first evidence of dawn, whilst the Sun still hid His beams instead of radiating them around the world. In the same sense St. Paul exclaimed, “the night is passed and the day is at hand,” thus indicating that there was as yet so little light that he considered it more correct to say “the day is at hand” than “the day has dawned.” Now, my brethren, when did he speak thus? It was certainly after the Divine Sun had returned from beneath the earth and had already mounted to the height of heaven. With how much greater truth might the same words have been spoken whilst the aurora was overcast, as it were, by the dense cloud, of the “likeness of sinful flesh,” that is, by a Body resembling our own in Its liability to all manner of suffering and infirmity, so that neither the bitterness of death nor the shame of the cross was wanting to It? With how much greater truth, I say, could the light have been then described as excessively faint and feeble, and proceeding apparently rather from the aurora than from the actual presence of the Sun?

Therefore, the whole life of Christ upon earth was an aurora of twilight and obscurity, that is, until the brighter effulgence of the Sun’s presence in the sky, after His setting and glorious rising, caused the dimness of dawn to disappear before the clearness of morning, and night was “swallowed up in victory.” So we read in St. Mark, “And very early in the morning, the first day of the week, they came to the sepulchre, the sun being now risen.” Surely it was morning since the Sun of Justice had risen. But He derived a new loveliness from His Resurrection, and a more placid radiance than He had manifested before, for “if we have known Christ according to the flesh; but now we know Him so no longer.” It is written in the psalms, “He is clothed with beauty: the Lord is clothed with strength and hath girded Himself,” because He has stripped Himself of the clouds, so to speak, of our mortal infirmities and put on the garments of His glory. Having ascended above the horizon, the Sun began to diffuse His influence gradually over the earth, and little by little to make His light and His heat everywhere more sensibly felt. But however much He increases His warmth and strength, however much He multiplies and scatters His rays over the whole course of this our mortal existence—for He shall abide with us unto “the consummation of the world”—yet He shall never attain here to His meridian splendour, nor be seen in that fulness and perfection of His glory, in which He is to be contemplated hereafter, by those, that is to say, whom He shall deem worthy of this vision. O true meridian, plenitude of light and heat, when the Sun stands still at His zenith, banishing the shadows, drying up the marshes, extinguishing all noxious odours! O solstice everlasting, when the day no more declines! O light of the noontide! O happy season, representing at once the genial softness of spring, the loveliness of summer, the richness of autumn, and lest I should seem to omit anything, the peace and rest of winter! Or certainly, if you are better pleased with this, winter alone is then “over and gone.” “Show me,” says the Spouse, “this place of such brightness, peace, and plenitude, in order that, just as Jacob still abiding in the flesh beheld the Lord ‘face to face and his soul was saved alive’; or as Moses saw Him, not like the other prophets, in symbols, signs and dreams, but in a far more excellent way, unknown to all save God and himself; or as Isaias, when the eyes of his heart had been opened, contemplated Him on His ‘high and elevated throne’; or even as St. Paul gazed with mortal eyes upon the Lord Jesus Christ, what time he was rapt up to the third heaven and heard things unutterable—that so I, too, in spiritual rapture may deserve to see Thee in Thy light and in Thy beauty, and contemplate Thee where Thou feedest Thy flock on richer pastures than here on earth, and reposest with greater security.

“Here on earth also Thou dost feed Thy sheep, yet not unto fulness. Neither mayst Thou lie down here, but must rather stand and watch because of the ‘terrors of the night.’ Alas! we have in our present pasture neither clear light, nor full feeding, nor a safe dwelling. And hence I pray, ‘Show me where Thou feedest, where Thou liest in the mid-day.’ Thou sayest I am blessed when I hunger and thirst after justice. But what is such blessedness to the happiness of those who are ‘filled with the good things of Thy house,’ who ‘feast and rejoice before the Lord and are delighted with gladness’? Nevertheless, Thou dost pronounce me blessed if I suffer anything for justice sake. And certainly there is pleasure, though not security, in being fed where one has to fear suffering. But is it not a painful pleasure to be fed and afflicted at one and the same time? Everything here below falls short of perfection; many things are contrary to my will; and nothing is safe. When wilt Thou ‘fill me with joy with Thy Countenance’? ‘Thy Face, O Lord, will I seek.’ For Thy Face is the noontide. O ‘Show me where Thou feedest, where Thou liest in the mid-day’! I know well enough where Thou feedest standing. But show me where Thou feedest and reclinest. Neither am I ignorant where Thou are wont to feed Thy flock at other times. But I desire to know ‘where Thou feedest, where Thou liest in the mid-day.’ For during the whole period of my mortal career, I have been accustomed, under Thy care, to feed myself and others upon Thee as Thou art to be found in the law and in the prophets and in the psalms. I have likewise found refreshment in the evangelical pastures and in the writings of the apostles. Often, too, have I, like a beggar, borrowed what nourishment I could for myself and my children from the examples, the speeches, and the writings of Thy saints. But more frequently—this kind of food being more within reach—I have eaten the bread of affliction and drunk the wine of compunction; and ‘my tears have been my bread day and night, whilst it is said to me daily: where is thy God?’ Yet sometimes from Thy table—for ‘Thou hast prepared a table before me, against them that afflict me’—sometimes, I say, from Thy table, as a gift of Thy compassion, I receive the meat that restores my vigour, when my soul is sad and troubling me. These pastures are known to me, and thither I have often followed Thee as my Shepherd. But show me, I beseech Thee, those I have not yet enjoyed.