I was far from meriting all the graces which Our Lord showered on
me. I had a constant and ardent desire to advance in virtue, but
often my actions were spoilt by imperfections. My extreme
sensitiveness made me almost unbearable. All arguments were
useless. I simply could not correct myself of this miserable
fault. How, then, could I hope soon to be admitted to the Carmel?
A miracle on a small scale was needed to give me strength of
character all at once, and God worked this long-desired miracle on
Christmas Day, 1886.
On that blessed night the sweet Infant Jesus, scarce an hour old,
filled the darkness of my soul with floods of light. By becoming
weak and little, for love of me, He made me strong and brave; He
put His own weapons into my hands, so that I went from victory to
victory, beginning, if I may say so, "to run as a giant."[1] The
fountain of my tears was dried up, and from that time they flowed
neither easily nor often.
Now I will tell you, dear Mother, how I received this inestimable
grace of complete conversion. I knew that when we reached home
after Midnight Mass I should find my shoes in the chimney-corner,
filled with presents, just as when I was a little child, which
proves that my sisters still treated me as a baby. Papa, too,
liked to watch my enjoyment and hear my cries of delight at each
fresh surprise that came from the magic shoes, and his pleasure
added to mine. But the time had come when Our Lord wished to free
me from childhood's failings, and even withdraw me from its
innocent pleasures. On this occasion, instead of indulging me as
he generally did, Papa seemed vexed, and on my way upstairs I
heard him say: "Really all this is too babyish for a big girl like
Thérèse, and I hope it is the last year it will happen." His words
cut me to the quick. Céline, knowing how sensitive I was,
whispered: "Don't go downstairs just yet--wait a little, you would
cry too much if you looked at your presents before Papa." But
Thérèse was no longer the same--Jesus had changed her heart.
Choking back my tears, I ran down to the dining-room, and, though
my heart beat fast, I picked up my shoes, and gaily pulled out all
the things, looking as happy as a queen. Papa laughed, and did not
show any trace of displeasure, and Céline thought she must be
dreaming. But happily it was a reality; little Thérèse had
regained, once for all, the strength of mind which she had lost at
the age of four and a half.
On this night of grace, the third period of my life began--the
most beautiful of all, the one most filled with heavenly favours.
In an instant Our Lord, satisfied with my good will, accomplished
the work I had not been able to do during all these years. Like
the Apostle I could say: "Master, we have laboured all night, and
have taken nothing."[2]
More merciful to me even than to His beloved disciples, Our Lord
Himself took the net, cast it, and drew it out full of fishes. He
made me a fisher of men. Love and a spirit of self-forgetfulness
took possession of me, and from that time I was perfectly happy.
One Sunday, closing my book at the end of Mass, a picture of Our
Lord on the Cross half slipped out, showing only one of His Divine
Hands, pierced and bleeding. I felt an indescribable thrill such
as I had never felt before. My heart was torn with grief to see
that Precious Blood falling to the ground, and no one caring to
treasure It as It fell, and I resolved to remain continually in
spirit at the foot of the Cross, that I might receive the Divine
Dew of Salvation and pour it forth upon souls. From that day the
cry of my dying Saviour--"I thirst!"--sounded incessantly in my
heart, and kindled therein a burning zeal hitherto unknown to me.
My one desire was to give my Beloved to drink; I felt myself
consumed with thirst for souls, and I longed at any cost to snatch
sinners from the everlasting flames of hell.
In order still further to enkindle my ardour, Our Divine Master
soon proved to me how pleasing to him was my desire. Just then I
heard much talk of a notorious criminal, Pranzini, who was
sentenced to death for several shocking murders, and, as he was
quite impenitent, everyone feared he would be eternally lost. How
I longed to avert this irreparable calamity! In order to do so I
employed all the spiritual means I could think of, and, knowing
that my own efforts were unavailing, I offered for his pardon the
infinite merits of Our Saviour and the treasures of Holy Church.
Need I say that in the depths of my heart I felt certain my
request would be granted? But, that I might gain courage to
persevere in the quest for souls, I said in all simplicity: "My
God, I am quite sure that Thou wilt pardon this unhappy Pranzini.
I should still think so if he did not confess his sins or give any
sign of sorrow, because I have such confidence in Thy unbounded
Mercy; but this is my first sinner, and therefore I beg for just
one sign of repentance to reassure me." My prayer was granted to
the letter. My Father never allowed us to read the papers, but I
did not think there was any disobedience in looking at the part
about Pranzini. The day after his execution I hastily opened the
paper, _La Croix,_ and what did I see? Tears betrayed my emotion;
I was obliged to run out of the room. Pranzini had mounted the
scaffold without confessing or receiving absolution, and the
executioners were already dragging him towards the fatal block,
when all at once, apparently in answer to a sudden inspiration, he
turned round, seized the crucifix which the Priest was offering to
him, and kissed Our Lord's Sacred Wounds three times. . . . I had
obtained the sign I asked for, and to me it was especially sweet.
Was it not when I saw the Precious Blood flowing from the Wounds
of Jesus that the thirst for souls first took possession of me? I
wished to give them to drink of the Blood of the Immaculate Lamb
that It might wash away their stains, and the lips of "my first
born" had been pressed to these Divine Wounds. What a wonderful
answer!
After receiving this grace my desire for the salvation of souls
increased day by day. I seemed to hear Our Lord whispering to me,
as He did to the Samaritan woman: "Give me to drink!"[3] It was
indeed an exchange of love: upon souls I poured forth the Precious
Blood of Jesus, and to Jesus I offered these souls refreshed with
the Dew of Calvary. In this way I thought to quench His Thirst;
but the more I gave Him to drink, so much the more did the thirst
of my own poor soul increase, and I accepted it as the most
delightful recompense.
In a short time God, in His goodness, had lifted me out of the
narrow sphere in which I lived. The great step was taken; but,
alas! I had still a long road to travel. Now that I was free from
scruples and morbid sensitiveness, my mind developed. I had always
loved what was noble and beautiful, and about this time I was
seized with a passionate desire for learning. Not content with
lessons from my teachers, I took up certain subjects by myself,
and learnt more in a few months than I had in my whole school
life. Was not this ardour--"vanity and vexation of spirit"?[4] For
me, with my impetuous nature, this was one of the most dangerous
times of my life, but Our Lord fulfilled in me those words of
Ezechiel's prophecy: "Behold thy time was the time of lovers: and
I spread my garment over thee. And I swore to thee, and I entered
into a covenant with thee, saith the Lord God, and thou becamest
Mine. And I washed thee with water, and I anointed thee with oil.
I clothed thee with fine garments, and put a chain about thy neck.
Thou didst eat fine flour and honey and oil, and wast made
exceedingly beautiful, and wast advanced to be a queen."[5]
Yes, Our Lord has done all this for me. I might take each word of
that striking passage and show how it has been completely realised
in me, but the graces of which I have already told you are
sufficient proof. So I will only speak now of the food with which
my Divine Master abundantly provided me. For a long time I had
nourished my spiritual life with the "fine flour" contained in the
_Imitation of Christ._ It was the only book which did me good, for
I had not yet found the treasures hidden in the Holy Gospels. I
always had it with me, to the amusement of my people at home. My
aunt used often to open it, and make me repeat by heart the first
chapter she chanced to light upon.
Seeing my great thirst for knowledge, God was pleased, when I was
fourteen, to add to the "fine flour," "honey" and "oil" in
abundance.
This "honey" and "oil" I found in the conferences of Father
Arminjon on _The End of this World and the Mysteries of the World
to Come._ While reading this book my soul was flooded with a
happiness quite supernatural. I experienced a foretaste of what
God has prepared for those who love Him; and, seeing that eternal
rewards are so much in excess of the petty sacrifices of this
life, I yearned to love Our Lord, to love Him passionately, and to
give Him countless proofs of affection while this was still in my
power.
Céline had become the most intimate sharer of my thoughts,
especially since Christmas. Our Lord, Who wished to make us
advance in virtue together, drew us to one another by ties
stronger than blood. He made us sisters in spirit as well as in
the flesh. The words of our Holy Father, St. John of the Cross,
were realised in us:
Treading within Thy Footsteps
Young maidens lightly run upon the way.
From the spark's contact,
And the spicèd wine,
They give forth aspirations of a balm divine.
It was lightly indeed that we followed in the footsteps of Our
Saviour. The burning sparks which He cast into our souls, the
strong wine which He gave us to drink, made us lose sight of all
earthly things, and we breathed forth sighs of love.
Very sweet is the memory of our intercourse. Every evening we went
up to our attic window together and gazed at the starry depths of
the sky, and I think very precious graces were bestowed on us
then. As the _Imitation_ says: "God communicates Himself sometimes
amid great light, at other times sweetly in signs and figures."[6]
In this way He deigned to manifest Himself to our hearts; but how
slight and transparent was the veil! Doubt was no longer possible;
already Faith and Hope had given place to Love, which made us find
Him whom we sought, even on this earth. When He found us
alone--"He gave us His kiss, and now no one may despise us."[7]
These divine impressions could not but bear fruit. The practice of
virtue gradually became sweet and natural to me. At first my looks
betrayed the effort, but, little by little, self-sacrifice seemed
to come more easily and without hesitation. Our Lord has said: "To
everyone that hath shall be given, and he shall abound."[8]
Each grace faithfully received brought many others. He gave
Himself to me in Holy Communion oftener than I should have dared
to hope. I had made it my practice to go to Communion as often as
my confessor allowed me, but never to ask for leave to go more
frequently. Now, however, I should act differently, for I am
convinced that a soul ought to disclose to her director the
longing she has to receive her God. He does not come down from
Heaven each day in order to remain in a golden ciborium, but to
find another Heaven--the Heaven of our souls in which He takes
such delight.
Our Lord, Who knew my desire, inspired my confessor to allow me to
go to Communion several times a week, and this permission, coming
as it did straight from Him, filled me with joy.
In those days I did not dare to speak of my inner feelings; the
road which I trod was so direct, so clear, that I did not feel the
need of any guide but Jesus. I compared directors to mirrors who
faithfully reflect Our Saviour to the souls under their care, and
I thought that in my case He did not use an intermediary but acted
directly.
When a gardener gives special attention to a fruit which he wishes
to ripen early, he does so, not with a view to leaving it on the
tree, but in order to place it on a well-spread table. Our Lord
lavished His favours on His Little Flower in the same way. He
wishes His Mercies to shine forth in me--He Who, while on earth,
cried out in a transport of joy: "I bless Thee, O Father, because
Thou hast hidden these things from the wise and prudent and hast
revealed them to little ones."[9]
And because I was small and frail, He bent down to me and
instructed me sweetly in the secrets of His love. As St. John of
the Cross says in his "Canticle of the Soul":
On that happy night
In secret I went forth, beheld by none,
And seeing naught;
Having no light nor guide
Excepting that which burned within my heart,
Which lit my way
More safely than the glare of noon-day sun
To where, expectant,
He waited for me Who doth know me well,
Where none appeared but He.
This place was Carmel, but before I could "sit down under His
Shadow Whom I desired,"[10] I had to pass through many trials. And
yet the Divine Call was becoming so insistent that, had it been
necessary for me to go through fire, I would have thrown myself
into it to follow my Divine Master.
Pauline[11] was the only one who encouraged me in my vocation;
Marie thought I was too young, and you, dear Mother, no doubt to
prove me, tried to restrain my ardour. From the start I
encountered nothing but difficulties. Then, too, I dared not speak
of it to Céline, and this silence pained me deeply; it was so hard
to have a secret she did not share.
However, this dear sister soon found out my intention, and, far
from wishing to keep me back, she accepted the sacrifice with
wonderful courage. As she also wished to be a nun, she ought to
have been given the first opportunity; but, imitating the martyrs
of old, who used joyfully to embrace those chosen to go before
them into the arena, she allowed me to leave her, and took my
troubles as much to heart as if it were a question of her own
vocation. From Céline, then, I had nothing to fear, but I did not
know how to set about telling Papa. How could his little Queen
talk of leaving him when he had already parted with his two eldest
daughters? Moreover, this year he had been stricken with a serious
attack of paralysis, and though he recovered quickly we were full
of anxiety for the future.
What struggles I went through before I could make up my mind to
speak! But I had to act decisively; I was now fourteen and a half,
and in six months' time the blessed feast of Christmas would be
here. I had resolved to enter the Carmel at the same hour at which
a year before I had received the grace of conversion.
I chose the feast of Pentecost on which to make my great
disclosure. All day I was praying for light from the Holy Ghost,
and begging the Apostles to pray for me, to inspire me with the
words I ought to use. Were they not the very ones to help a timid
child whom God destines to become an apostle of apostles by prayer
and sacrifice?
In the afternoon, when Vespers were over, I found the opportunity
I wanted. My Father was sitting in the garden, his hands clasped,
admiring the wonders of nature. The rays of the setting sun gilded
the tops of the tall trees, and the birds chanted their evening
prayer.
His beautiful face wore a heavenly expression--I could feel that
his soul was full of peace. Without a word, I sat down by his
side, my eyes already wet with tears. He looked at me with
indescribable tenderness, and, pressing me to his heart, said:
"What is it, little Queen? Tell me everything." Then, in order to
hide his own emotion, he rose and walked slowly up and down, still
holding me close to him.
Through my tears I spoke of the Carmel and of my great wish to
enter soon. He, too, wept, but did not say a word to turn me from
my vocation; he only told me that I was very young to make such a
grave decision, and as I insisted, and fully explained my reasons,
my noble and generous Father was soon convinced. We walked about
for a long time; my heart was lightened, and Papa no longer shed
tears. He spoke to me as Saints speak, and showed me some flowers
growing in the low stone wall. Picking one of them, he gave it to
me, and explained the loving care with which God had made it
spring up and grow till now.
I fancied myself listening to my own story, so close was the
resemblance between the little flower and little Thérèse. I
received this floweret as a relic, and noticed that in gathering
it my Father had pulled it up by the roots without breaking them;
it seemed destined to live on, but in other and more fertile soil.
Papa had just done the same for me. He allowed me to leave the
sweet valley, where I had passed the first years of my life, for
the mountain of Carmel. I fastened my little white flower to a
picture of Our Lady of Victories--the Blessed Virgin smiles on
it, and the Infant Jesus seems to hold it in His Hand. It is there
still, but the stalk is broken close to the root. God doubtless
wishes me to understand that He will soon break all the earthly
ties of His Little Flower and will not leave her to wither on this
earth.
Having obtained my Father's consent, I thought I could now fly to
the Carmel without hindrance. Far from it! When I told my uncle of
my project, he declared that to enter such a severe Order at the
age of fifteen seemed to him against all common sense, and that it
would be doing a wrong to religion to let a child embrace such a
life. He added that he should oppose it in every way possible, and
that nothing short of a miracle would make him change his mind.
I could see that all arguments were useless, so I left him, my
heart weighed down by profound sadness. My only consolation was
prayer. I entreated Our Lord to work this miracle for me because
thus only could I respond to His appeal. Some time went by, and my
uncle did not seem even to remember our conversation, though I
learnt later that it had been constantly in his thoughts.
Before allowing a ray of hope to shine on my soul, Our Lord
deigned to send me another most painful trial which lasted for
three days. Never had I understood so well the bitter grief of Our
Lady and St. Joseph when they were searching the streets of
Jerusalem for the Divine Child. I seemed to be in a frightful
desert, or rather, my soul was like a frail skiff, without a
pilot, at the mercy of the stormy waves. I knew that Jesus was
there asleep in my little boat, but how could I see Him while the
night was so dark? If the storm had really broken, a flash of
lightning would perhaps have pierced the clouds that hung over me:
even though it were but a passing ray, it would have enabled me to
catch a momentary glimpse of the Beloved of my heart--but this was
denied me. Instead, it was night, dark night, utter desolation,
death! Like my Divine Master in the Agony in the Garden, I felt
that I was alone, and found no comfort on earth or in Heaven.
Nature itself seemed to share my bitter sadness, for during these
three days there was not a ray of sunshine and the rain fell in
torrents. I have noticed again and again that in all the important
events of my life nature has reflected my feelings. When I wept,
the skies wept with me; when I rejoiced, no cloud darkened the
blue of the heavens. On the fourth day, a Saturday, I went to see
my uncle. What was my surprise when I found his attitude towards
me entirely changed! He invited me into his study, a privilege I
had not asked for; then, after gently reproaching me for being a
little constrained with him, he told me that the miracle of which
he had spoken was no longer needed. He had prayed God to guide his
heart aright, and his prayer had been heard. I felt as if I hardly
knew him, he seemed so different. He embraced me with fatherly
affection, saying with much feeling: "Go in peace, my dear child,
you are a privileged little flower which Our Lord wishes to
gather. I will put no obstacle in the way."
Joyfully I went home. . . . The clouds had quite disappeared from
the sky, and in my soul also dark night was over. Jesus had
awakened to gladden my heart. I no longer heard the roar of the
waves. Instead of the bitter wind of trial, a light breeze swelled
my sail, and I fancied myself safe in port. Alas! more than one
storm was yet to rise, sometimes even making me fear that I should
be driven, without hope of return, from the shore which I longed
to reach.
I had obtained my uncle's consent, only to be told by you, dear
Mother, that the Superior of the Carmelites would not allow me to
enter till I was twenty-one. No one had dreamt of this serious
opposition, the hardest of all to overcome. And yet, without
losing courage, I went with Papa to lay my request before him. He
received me very coldly, and could not be induced to change his
mind. We left him at last with a very decided "No." "Of course,"
he added, "I am only the Bishop's delegate; if he allows you to
enter, I shall have nothing more to say."
When we came out of the Presbytery again, it was raining in
torrents, and my soul, too, was overcast with heavy clouds. Papa
did not know how to console me, but he promised, if I wished, to
take me to Bayeux to see the Bishop, and to this I eagerly
consented.
Many things happened, however, before we were able to go. To all
appearances my life seemed to continue as formerly. I went on
studying, and, what is more important, I went on growing in the
love of God. Now and then I experienced what were indeed raptures
of love.
One evening, not knowing in what words to tell Our Lord how much I
loved him, and how much I wished that He was served and honoured
everywhere, I thought sorrowfully that from the depths of hell
there does not go up to Him one single act of love. Then, from my
inmost heart, I cried out that I would gladly be cast into that
place of torment and blasphemy so that He might be eternally loved
even there. This could not be for His Glory, since He only wishes
our happiness, but love feels the need of saying foolish things.
If I spoke in this way, it was not that I did not long to go to
Heaven, but for me Heaven was nothing else than Love, and in my
ardour I felt that nothing could separate me from the Divine Being
Who held me captive.
About this time Our Lord gave me the consolation of an intimate
knowledge of the souls of children. I gained it in this way.
During the illness of a poor woman, I interested myself in her two
little girls, the elder of whom was not yet six. It was a real
pleasure to see how simply they believed all that I told them.
Baptism does indeed plant deeply in our souls the theological
virtues, since from early childhood the hope of heavenly reward is
strong enough to make us practise self-denial. When I wanted my
two little girls to be specially kind to one another, instead of
promising them toys and sweets, I talked to them about the eternal
recompense the Holy Child Jesus would give to good children. The
elder one, who was coming to the use of reason, used to look quite
pleased and asked me charming questions about the little Jesus and
His beautiful Heaven. She promised me faithfully always to give in
to her little sister, adding that all through her life she would
never forget what I had taught her. I used to compare these
innocent souls to soft wax, ready to receive any impression--evil,
alas! as well as good, and I understood the words of Our Lord: "It
were better to be thrown into the sea than to scandalise one of
these little ones."[12]
How many souls might attain to great sanctity if only they were
directed aright from the first! I know God has not need of anyone
to help Him in His work of sanctification, but as He allows a
clever gardener to cultivate rare and delicate plants, giving him
the skill to accomplish it, while reserving to Himself the right
of making them grow, so does He wish to be helped in the
cultivation of souls. What would happen if an ignorant gardener
did not graft his trees in the right way? if he did not understand
the nature of each, and wished, for instance, to make roses grow
on peach trees?
This reminds me that I used to have among my birds a canary which
sang beautifully, and also a little linnet taken from the nest, of
which I was very fond. This poor little prisoner, deprived of the
teaching it should have received from its parents, and hearing the
joyous trills of the canary from morning to night, tried hard to
imitate them. A difficult task indeed for a linnet! It was
delightful to follow the efforts of the poor little thing; his
sweet voice found great difficulty in accommodating itself to the
vibrant notes of his master, but he succeeded in time, and, to my
great surprise, his song became exactly like the song of the
canary.
Oh, dear Mother, you know who taught me to sing from the days of
my earliest childhood! You know the voices which drew me on. And
now I trust that one day, in spite of my weakness, I may sing for
ever the Canticle of Love, the harmonious notes of which I have
often heard sweetly sounding here below.
But where am I? These thoughts have carried me too far, and I must
resume the history of my vocation.
On October 31, 1887, alone with Papa, I started for Bayeux, my
heart full of hope, but also excited at the idea of presenting
myself at the Bishop's house. For the first time in my life, I was
going to pay a visit without any of my sisters, and this to a
Bishop. I, who had never yet had to speak except to answer
questions addressed to me, would have to explain and enlarge on my
reasons for begging to enter the Carmel, and so give proofs of the
genuineness of my vocation.
It cost me a great effort to overcome my shyness sufficiently to
do this. But it is true that Love knows no such word as
"impossible," for it deems "all things possible, all things
allowed." Nothing whatsoever but the love of Jesus could have made
me face these difficulties and others which followed, for I had to
purchase my happiness by heavy trials. Now, it is true, I think I
bought it very cheaply, and I would willingly bear a thousand
times more bitter suffering to gain it, if it were not already
mine.
When we reached the Bishop's house, the floodgates of Heaven
seemed open once more. The Vicar-General, Father Révérony, who had
settled the date of our coming, received us very kindly, though he
looked a little surprised, and seeing tears in my eyes said:
"Those diamonds must not be shown to His Lordship!" We were led
through large reception-rooms which made me feel how small I was,
and I wondered what I should dare say. The Bishop was walking in a
corridor with two Priests. I saw the Vicar-General speak a few
words to him, then they came into the room where we were waiting.
There were three large armchairs in front of the fireplace, where
a bright fire blazed.
As his Lordship entered, my Father and I knelt for his blessing;
then he made us sit down. Father Révérony offered me the armchair
in the middle. I excused myself politely, but he insisted, telling
me to show if I knew how to obey. I did so without any more
hesitation, and was mortified to see him take an ordinary chair
while I was buried in an enormous seat that would comfortably have
held four children like me--more comfortably in fact, for I was
far from being at ease. I hoped that Papa was going to do all the
talking, but he told me to explain the reason of our visit. I did
so as eloquently as I could, though I knew well that one word from
the Superior would have carried more weight than all my reasons,
while his opposition told strongly against me. The Bishop asked
how long I had wanted to enter the Carmel. "A very long time, my
Lord!" "Come!" said the Vicar-General, laughing, "it cannot be as
long as fifteen years." "That is true," I answered, "but it is not
much less, for I have wished to give myself to God from the time I
was three." The Bishop, no doubt to please Papa, tried to explain
that I ought to remain some time longer with him; but, to his
great surprise and edification, my Father took my part, adding
respectfully that we were going to Rome with the diocesan
pilgrimage, and that I should not hesitate to speak to the Holy
Father if I could not obtain permission before then. However, it
was decided that, previous to giving an answer, an interview with
the Superior was absolutely necessary. This was particularly
unpleasant hearing, for I knew his declared and determined
opposition; and, in spite of the advice not to allow the Bishop to
see any diamonds, I not only showed them but let them fall. He
seemed touched, and caressed me fondly. I was afterwards told he
had never treated any child so kindly.
"All is not lost, little one," he said, "but I am very glad that
you are going to Rome with your good Father; you will thus
strengthen your vocation. Instead of weeping, you ought to
rejoice. I am going to Lisieux next week, and I will talk to the
Superior about you. You shall certainly have my answer when you
are in Italy." His Lordship then took us to the garden, and was
much interested when Papa told him that, to make myself look
older, I had put up my hair for the first time that very morning.
This was not forgotten, for I know that even now, whenever the
Bishop tells anyone about his "little daughter," he always repeats
the story about her hair. I must say I should prefer my little
secret to have been kept. As he took us to the door, the
Vicar-General remarked that such a thing had never been seen--a
father as anxious to give his child to God as the child was to
offer herself.
We had to return to Lisieux without a favourable answer. It seemed
to me as though my future were shattered for ever; the nearer I
drew to the goal, the greater my difficulties became. But all the
time I felt deep down in my heart a wondrous peace, because I knew
that I was only seeking the Will of my Lord.
______________________________
[1] Cf. Psalm 18[19]:5.
[2] Luke 5:5.
[3] John 4:7.
[4] Eccl. 1:14.
[5] Ezechiel 16:8, 9, 13.
[6] Cf. _Imit.,_ III, ch. xliii. 4.
[7] Cf. Cant. 8:1.
[8] Luke 19:26.
[9] Cf. Luke 10:21.
[10] Cant. 2:3.
[11] Sister Agnes of Jesus.
[12] Cf. Matt. 18:6.
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