Need I tell you, dear Mother, about the retreat before my
profession? Far from receiving consolation, I went through it in a
state of utter dryness and as if abandoned by God. Jesus, as was
His wont, slept in my little barque. How rarely do souls suffer
Him to sleep in peace! This Good Master is so wearied with
continually making fresh advances that He eagerly avails Himself
of the repose I offer Him, and, no doubt, He will sleep on until
my great and everlasting retreat; but, instead of being grieved at
this, I am glad.
In truth I am no Saint, as this frame of mind well shows. I ought
not to rejoice in my dryness of soul, but rather attribute it to
my want of fervour and fidelity. That I fall asleep so often
during meditation, and thanksgiving after Communion, should
distress me. Well, I am not distressed. I reflect that little
children are equally dear to their parents whether they are asleep
or awake; that, in order to perform operations, doctors put their
patients to sleep; and finally that "The Lord knoweth our frame,
He remembereth that we are but dust."[1] Yet, apparently barren as
was my retreat--and those which followed have been no less so--I
unconsciously received many interior lights on the best means of
pleasing God, and practising virtue. I have often observed that
Our Lord will not give me any store of provisions, but nourishes
me each moment with food that is ever new; I find it within me
without knowing how it has come there. I simply believe that it is
Jesus Himself hidden in my poor heart, who is secretly at work,
inspiring me with what He wishes me to do as each occasion arises.
Shortly before my profession I received the Holy Father's
blessing, through the hands of Brother Simeon; and this precious
Blessing undoubtedly helped me through the most terrible storm of
my whole life.
On the eve of the great day, instead of being filled with the
customary sweetness, my vocation suddenly seemed to me as unreal
as a dream. The devil--for it was he--made me feel sure that I was
wholly unsuited for life in the Carmel, and that I was deceiving
my superiors by entering on a way to which I was not called. The
darkness was so bewildering that I understood but one thing--I had
no religious vocation, and must return to the world. I cannot
describe the agony I endured. What was I to do in such a
difficulty? I chose the right course, deciding to tell my Novice
Mistress of the temptation without delay. I sent for her to come
out of choir, and though full of confusion, I confessed the state
of my soul. Fortunately she saw more clearly than I did, and
reassured me completely by laughing frankly at my story. The devil
was put to instant flight by my humble avowal; what he wanted was
to keep me from speaking, and thus draw me into his snares. But it
was my turn now to ensnare him, for, to make my humiliation more
complete, I also told you everything, dear Mother, and your
consoling words dispelled my last fears.
On the morning of September 8, a wave of peace flooded my soul,
and, in "that peace which surpasseth all understanding,"[2] I
pronounced my holy vows.
Many were the graces I asked. I felt myself truly a queen and took
advantage of my title to obtain every favour from the King for His
ungrateful subjects. No one was forgotten. I wished that every
sinner on earth might be converted; that on that day Purgatory
should set its captives free; and I bore upon my heart this letter
containing what I desired for myself:
"O Jesus, my Divine Spouse, grant that my baptismal robe may never
be sullied. Take me from this world rather than let me stain my
soul by committing the least wilful fault. May I never seek or
find aught but Thee alone! May all creatures be nothing to me and
I nothing to them! May no earthly thing disturb my peace!
"O Jesus, I ask but Peace. . . . Peace, and above all, Love. . . .
Love--without limit. Jesus, I ask that for Thy sake I may die a
Martyr; give me martyrdom of soul or body. Or rather give me both
the one and the other.
"Grant that I may fulfill my engagements in all their perfection;
that no one may think of me; that I may be trodden under foot,
forgotten, as a little grain of sand. I offer myself to Thee, O my
Beloved, that Thou mayest ever perfectly accomplish in me Thy Holy
Will, without let or hindrance from creatures."
When at the close of this glorious day I laid my crown of roses,
according to custom, at Our Lady's feet, it was without regret. I
felt that time would never lessen my happiness.
It was the Nativity of Mary. What a beautiful feast on which to
become the Spouse of Jesus! It was the _little_ new-born Holy
Virgin who presented her _little_ Flower to the _little_ Jesus.
That day everything was little except the graces I
received--except my peace and joy in gazing upon the beautiful
star-lit sky at night, and in thinking that soon I should fly away
to Heaven and be united to my Divine Spouse amid eternal bliss.
On September 24 took place the ceremony of my receiving the veil.
This feast was indeed _veiled_ in tears. Papa was too ill to come
and bless his little Queen; at the last minute Mgr. Hugonin, who
should have presided, was unable to do so, and, for other reasons
also, the day was a painful one. And yet amid it all, my soul was
profoundly at peace. That day it pleased Our Lord that I should
not be able to restrain my tears, and those tears were not
understood. It is true I had borne far harder trials without
shedding a tear; but then I had been helped by special graces,
whilst on this day Jesus left me to myself, and I soon showed my
weakness.
Eight days after I had taken the veil my cousin, Jeanne Guérin,
was married to Dr. La Néele. When she came to see us afterwards
and I heard of all the little attentions she lavished on her
husband, my heart thrilled and I thought: "It shall never be said
that a woman in the world does more for her husband than I do for
Jesus, my Beloved." And, filled with fresh ardour, I set myself
more earnestly than ever to please my Heavenly Spouse, the King of
Kings, Who had deigned to honour me by a divine alliance.
Having seen the letter announcing the marriage, I amused myself by
composing the following invitation, which I read to the novices in
order to bring home to them what had struck me so forcibly--that
the glory of all earthly unions is as nothing compared to the
titles of a Spouse of Our Divine Lord.
"God Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, Sovereign Ruler of the
Universe, and the Glorious Virgin Mary, Queen of the Heavenly
Court, announce to you the Spiritual Espousals of their August
Son, Jesus, King of Kings and Lord of Lords, with little Thérèse
Martin, now Princess and Lady of His Kingdoms of the Holy
Childhood and the Passion, assigned to her as a dowry, by her
Divine Spouse, from which Kingdoms she holds her titles of
nobility--_of the Child Jesus and of the Holy Face._ It was not
possible to invite you to the Wedding Feast which took place on
the Mountain of Carmel, September 8, 1890--the Heavenly Court was
alone admitted--but you are requested to be present at the Wedding
Feast which will take place to-morrow, the day of Eternity, when
Jesus, the Son of God, will come in the clouds of Heaven, in the
splendour of His Majesty, to judge the living and the dead.
"The hour being still uncertain, you are asked to hold yourselves
in readiness and watch."[3]
And now, Mother, what more shall I say? It was through your hands
that I gave myself to Our Lord, and you have known me from
childhood--need I write my secrets? Forgive me if I cut short the
story of my religious life.
During the general retreat following my profession I received
great graces. As a rule I find preached retreats most trying, but
this one was quite an exception. I anticipated so much suffering
that I prepared myself by a fervent novena. It was said that the
good Priest understood better how to convert sinners than to
direct the souls of nuns. Well then, I must be a great sinner, for
God made use of this holy religious to bring me much consolation.
At that time I had all kinds of interior trials which I found it
impossible to explain to anyone; suddenly, I was able to lay open
my whole soul. The Father understood me in a marvellous way; he
seemed to divine my state, and launched me full sail upon that
ocean of confidence and love in which I had longed to advance, but
so far had not dared. He told me that my faults did not pain the
Good God, and added: "At this moment I hold His place, and I
assure you from Him that He is well pleased with your soul." How
happy these consoling words made me! I had never been told before
that it was possible for faults not to pain the Sacred Heart; this
assurance filled me with joy and helped me to bear with patience
the exile of this life. It was also the echo of my inmost
thoughts. In truth I had long known that the Lord is more tender
than a mother, and I have sounded the depths of more than one
mother's heart. I know that a mother is ever ready to forgive her
child's small thoughtless faults. How often have I not had this
sweet experience! No reproach could have touched me more than one
single kiss from my Mother. My nature is such that fear makes me
shrink, while, under love's sweet rule, I not only advance--I fly.
Two months after this happy retreat our Venerable Foundress,
Mother Genevieve of St. Teresa, quitted our little convent to
enter the Heavenly Carmel. Before speaking of my impressions at
the time of her death, I should like to tell you what a joy it was
to have lived for some years with a soul whose holiness was not
inimitable, but lay in the practice of simple and hidden virtues.
More than once she was to me a source of great consolation.
One Sunday I went to the infirmary to pay her a visit, but, as two
of the older nuns were there, I was retiring quietly, when she
called me and said, with something of inspiration in her manner:
"Wait, my child, I have just a word for you; you are always asking
me for a spiritual bouquet, well, to-day I give you this one:
Serve the Lord in peace and in joy. Remember that Our God is the
God of peace."
I thanked her quite simply and went out of the room. I was moved
almost to tears, and was convinced that God had revealed to her
the state of my soul. That day I had been sorely tried, almost to
sadness. Such was the darkness that I no longer knew if I were
beloved of God, and so, dear Mother, you can understand what light
and consolation succeeded this gloom.
The following Sunday I asked her whether she had received any
revelation about me, but she assured me that she had not, and this
only made me admire her the more, for it showed how intimately
Jesus lived in her soul and directed her words and actions. Such
holiness seems to me the most true, the most holy; it is the
holiness I desire, for it is free from all illusion.
On the day when this revered Mother ended her exile, I received a
very special grace. It was the first time I had assisted at a
death-bed, yet though the sight enchanted me by its beauty, my two
hours of watching had made me very drowsy. I was grieved at this,
but, at the moment her soul took its flight to Heaven, my feelings
were completely changed. In an instant I was filled with an
indescribable joy and fervour, as if the soul of our blessed
Foundress made me share in the happiness she already enjoyed--for
I am quite convinced she went straight to Heaven. I had said to
her some time previously: "You will not go to Purgatory, dear
Mother." "I hope not," she answered sweetly. Certainly God would
not disappoint a hope so full of humility; and the proof that He
did not, lies in the many favours we have received.
The Sisters hastened to claim something belonging to our beloved
Mother, and you know what a precious relic is mine. During her
agony I had noticed a tear glistening like a beautiful diamond.
That tear, the last she shed on this earth, did not fall, I still
saw it shining when her body was exposed in the choir. When
evening came, I made bold to approach unseen, with a little piece
of linen, and I now have the happiness of possessing the last tear
of a Saint.
I attach no importance to my dreams, and indeed, they seldom have
any special meaning, though I do often wonder how it is that, as I
think of God all the day, my mind does not dwell on Him more in my
sleep. Generally I dream of the woods and the flowers, the brooks
and the sea, and nearly always of pretty children; or I chase
birds and butterflies such as I have never seen. But, if my dreams
are sometimes poetical, they are never mystical.
However, one night after Mother Genevieve's death, I had a more
consoling one. I thought I saw her giving to each of us something
that had belonged to herself. When my turn came, her hands were
empty, and I was afraid I was not to receive anything; but she
looked at me lovingly, and said three times: "To you I leave my
heart."
About a month after that seraphic death, towards the close of the
year 1891, an epidemic of influenza raged in the Community; I only
had it slightly and was able to be about with two other Sisters.
It is impossible to imagine the heartrending state of our Carmel
throughout those days of sorrow. The worst sufferers were nursed
by those who could hardly drag themselves about; death was all
around us, and, when a Sister had breathed her last, we had to
leave her instantly.
My nineteenth birthday was saddened by the death of Mother
Sub-Prioress; I assisted with the infirmarian during her agony,
and two more deaths quickly followed. I now had to do the Sacristy
work single-handed, and I wonder sometimes how I was equal to it
all.
One morning, when it was time to rise, I had a presentiment that
Sister Magdalen was no more. The dormitory was quite in darkness,
no one was leaving her cell. I decided, however, to go in to
Sister Magdalen, and I found her dressed, but lying dead on her
bed. I was not in the least afraid, and running to the Sacristy I
quickly brought a blessed candle, and placed on her head a wreath
of roses. Amid all this desolation I felt the Hand of God and knew
that His Heart was watching over us. Our dear Sisters left this
life for a happier one without any struggle; an expression of
heavenly joy shone on their faces, and they seemed only to be
enjoying a pleasant sleep. During all these long and trying weeks
I had the unspeakable consolation of receiving Holy Communion
every day. How sweet it was! For a long time Jesus treated me as a
spoilt child, for a longer time than His more faithful Spouses. He
came to me daily for several months after the influenza had
ceased, a privilege not granted to the Community. I had not asked
this favour, but I was unspeakably happy to be united day after
day to my Beloved.
Great was my joy in being allowed to touch the Sacred Vessels and
prepare the Altar linen on which Our Lord was to be laid. I felt
that I must increase in fervour, and I often recalled those words
addressed to deacons at their ordination: "Be you holy, you who
carry the Vessels of the Lord."
What can I tell you, dear Mother, about my thanksgivings after
Communion? There is no time when I taste less consolation. But
this is what I should expect. I desire to receive Our Lord, not
for my own satisfaction, but simply to give Him pleasure.
I picture my soul as a piece of waste ground and beg Our Blessed
Lady to take away my imperfections--which are as heaps of
rubbish--and to build upon it a splendid tabernacle worthy of
Heaven, and adorn it with her own adornments. Then I invite all
the Angels and Saints to come and sing canticles of love, and it
seems to me that Jesus is well pleased to see Himself received so
grandly, and I share in His joy. But all this does not prevent
distractions and drowsiness from troubling me, and not
unfrequently I resolve to continue my thanksgiving throughout the
day, since I made it so badly in choir.
You see, dear Mother, that my way is not the way of fear; I can
always make myself happy, and profit by my imperfections, and Our
Lord Himself encourages me in this path. Once, contrary to my
usual custom, I felt troubled when I approached the Holy Table.
For several days there had not been a sufficient number of Hosts,
and I had only received a small part of one; this morning I
foolishly thought: "If the same thing happens to-day, I shall
imagine that Jesus does not care to come into my heart." I
approached the rails. What a joy awaited me! The Priest hesitated
a moment, then gave me two entire Hosts. Was this not a sweet
response?
I have much to be thankful for. I will tell you quite openly what
the Lord has done for me. He has shown unto me the same mercy as
unto King Solomon. All my desires have been satisfied; not only my
desires of perfection, but even those of which I understood the
vanity, in theory, if not in practice. I had always looked on
Sister Agnes of Jesus as my model, and I wished to be like her in
everything. She used to paint exquisite miniatures and write
beautiful poems, and this inspired me with a desire to learn to
paint,[4] and express my thoughts in verse, that I might do some
good to those around me. But I would not ask for these natural
gifts, and my desire remained hidden in my heart.
Jesus, too, had hidden Himself in this poor little heart, and He
was pleased to show me once more the vanity of all that passes. To
the great astonishment of the Community, I succeeded in painting
several pictures and in writing poems which have been a help to
certain souls. And just as Solomon, "turning to all the works
which his hand had wrought, and to the labours wherein he had
laboured in vain, saw in all things vanity and vexation of
mind,"[5] so experience showed me that the sole happiness of earth
consists in lying hidden, and remaining in total ignorance of
created things. I understood that without love even the most
brilliant deeds count for nothing. These gifts, which Our Lord
lavished upon me, far from doing me any harm, drew me towards Him;
I saw that He alone is unchangeable, He alone can fill the vast
abyss of my desires.
Talking of my desires, I must tell you about others of quite a
different kind, which the Divine Master has also been pleased to
grant: childish desires, like the wish for snow on my clothing
day. You know, dear Mother, how fond I am of flowers. When I made
myself a prisoner at the age of fifteen, I gave up for ever the
delights of rambling through meadows bright with the treasures of
spring. Well, I never possessed so many flowers as I have had
since entering the Carmel. In the world young men present their
betrothed with beautiful bouquets, and Jesus did not forget me.
For His Altar I received, in abundance, all the flowers I loved
best: cornflowers, poppies, marguerites--one little friend only
was missing, the purple vetch. I longed to see it again, and at
last it came to gladden me and show that, in the least as in the
greatest, God gives a hundred-fold, even in this life, to those
who have left all for His Love.
But one desire, the dearest of all, and for many reasons the most
difficult, remained unfulfilled. It was to see Céline enter the
Carmel of Lisieux. However, I had made a sacrifice of my longing,
and committed to God alone the future of my loved sister. I was
willing she should be sent to far distant lands if it must be so;
but I wanted above all things to see her like myself, the Spouse
of Jesus. I suffered deeply, aware that she was exposed in the
world to dangers I had never even known. My affection for her was
maternal rather than sisterly, and I was filled with solicitude
for the welfare of her soul.
She was to go one evening with my aunt and cousins to a dance. I
know not why, but I felt more anxious than usual, and I shed many
tears, imploring Our Lord to hinder her dancing. And this was just
what happened; for He did not suffer His little Spouse to dance
that evening, although as a rule she did so most gracefully. And,
to the astonishment of everyone, her partner, too, found that he
was only able to walk gravely up and down with Mademoiselle. The
poor young man slipped away in confusion, and did not dare appear
again that evening. This unique occurrence increased my confidence
in Our Lord, and showed me clearly that He had already set His
seal on my sister's brow.
On July 29, 1894, God called my saintly and much-tried Father to
Himself. For the last two years of his life he was completely
paralysed; so my uncle took him into his house and surrounded him
with the tenderest care. He became quite helpless and was only
able to visit us once during the whole course of his illness. It
was a sad interview. At the moment of parting, as we said
good-bye, he raised his eyes, and pointing upwards said in a voice
full of tears: "In Heaven!"
Now that he was with God, the last ties which kept his consoling
Angel in the world were broken. Angels do not remain on this
earth; when they have accomplished their mission, they return
instantly to Heaven. That is why they have wings. Céline tried
therefore to fly to the Carmel; but the obstacles seemed
insurmountable. One day, when matters were going from bad to
worse, I said to Our Lord after Holy Communion: "Thou knowest,
dear Jesus, how earnestly I have desired that the trials my Father
endured should serve as his purgatory. I long to know if my wish
is granted. I do not ask Thee to speak to me, I only want a sign.
Thou knowest how much opposed is Sister N. to Céline's entering;
if she withdraw her opposition, I shall regard it as an answer
from Thee, and in this way I shall know that my Father went
straight to Heaven."
God, Who holds in His Hand the hearts of His creatures, and
inclines them as He will, deigned in His infinite mercy and
ineffable condescension to change that Sister's mind. She was the
first person I met after my thanksgiving, and, with tears in her
eyes, she spoke of Céline's entrance, which she now ardently
desired. Shortly afterwards the Bishop set every obstacle aside,
and then you were able, dear Mother, without any hesitation, to
open our doors to the poor little exile.[6]
Now I have no desire left, unless it be to love Jesus even unto
folly! It is Love alone that draws me. I no longer wish either for
suffering or death, yet both are precious to me. Long did I call
upon them as the messengers of joy. I have suffered much, and I
have thought my barque near indeed to the Everlasting Shore. From
earliest childhood I have imagined that the Little Flower would be
gathered in its springtime; now, the spirit of self-abandonment
alone is my guide. I have no other compass, and know not how to
ask anything with eagerness, save the perfect accomplishment of
God's designs upon my soul. I can say these words of the Canticle
of our Father, St. John of the Cross:
"I drank deep in the cellar of my Friend, And, coming forth again,
Knew naught of all this plain, And lost the flock I erst was wont
to tend. My soul and all its wealth I gave to be His Own; No more
I tend my flock, all other work is done, And all my exercise is
Love alone."[7]
Or rather:
"Love hath so wrought in me Since I have known its sway, That all
within me, whether good or ill, It makes subservient to the end it
seeks, And soon transforms my soul into itself."[8]
Full sweet is the way of Love. It is true one may fall and be
unfaithful to grace; but Love, knowing how to profit by
everything, quickly consumes whatever is displeasing to Jesus,
leaving in the heart only a deep and humble peace. I have obtained
many spiritual lights through the works of St. John of the Cross.
When I was seventeen and eighteen they were my only food; but,
later on, and even now, all spiritual authors leave me cold and
dry. However beautiful and touching a book may be, my heart does
not respond, and I read without understanding, or, if I
understand, I cannot meditate. In my helplessness the Holy
Scriptures and the _Imitation_ are of the greatest assistance; in
them I find a hidden manna, genuine and pure. But it is from the
Gospels that I find most help in the time of prayer; from them I
draw all that I need for my poor soul. I am always discovering in
them new lights and hidden mysterious meanings. I know and I have
experienced that "the Kingdom of God is within us."[9] Our Lord
has no need of books or teachers to instruct our souls. He, the
Teacher of Teachers, instructs us without any noise of words. I
have never heard Him speak, yet I know He is within me. He is
there, always guiding and inspiring me; and just when I need them,
lights, hitherto unseen, break in. This is not as a rule during my
prayers, but in the midst of my daily duties. Sometimes, however,
as this evening, at the close of a meditation spent in utter
dryness, a word of comfort is given to me: "Here is the Master I
give thee, He will teach thee all that thou shouldst do. I wish
thee to read in the Book of Life in which is contained the science
of love. . . ."[10]
The Science of Love! How sweetly do these words echo in my soul!
That science alone do I desire. Having given all my substance for
it, like the Spouse in the Canticles, "I think that I have given
nothing."[11] After so many graces, may I not sing with the
Psalmist that "the Lord is good, that His Mercy endureth for
ever"?[12]
It seems to me that if everyone were to receive such favours God
would be feared by none, but loved to excess; that no one would
ever commit the least wilful fault--and this through love, not
fear.
Yet all souls cannot be alike. It is necessary that they should
differ from one another in order that each Divine Perfection may
receive its special honour. To me, He has given His Infinite
Mercy, and it is in this ineffable mirror that I contemplate his
other attributes. Therein all appear to me radiant with Love. His
Justice, even more perhaps than the rest, seems to me to be
clothed with Love. What joy to think that Our Lord is just, that
is to say, that He takes our weakness into account, that He knows
perfectly the frailty of our nature! Of what, then, need I be
afraid?
Will not the God of Infinite Justice, Who deigns so lovingly to
pardon the sins of the Prodigal Son, be also just to me "who am
always with Him"?[13]
In the year 1895 I received the grace to understand, more than
ever, how much Jesus desires to be loved. Thinking one day of
those who offer themselves as victims to the Justice of God, in
order to turn aside the punishment reserved for sinners by taking
it upon themselves, I felt this offering to be noble and generous,
but was very far from feeling myself drawn to make it. "O my
Divine Master," I cried from the bottom of my heart, "shall Thy
Justice alone receive victims of holocaust? Has not Thy Merciful
Love also need thereof? On all sides it is ignored, rejected . . .
the hearts on which Thou wouldst lavish it turn to creatures,
there to seek their happiness in the miserable satisfaction of a
moment, instead of casting themselves into Thine Arms, into the
unfathomable furnace of Thine Infinite Love.
"O my God! must Thy Love which is disdained lie hidden in Thy
Heart? Methinks, if Thou shouldst find souls offering themselves
as victims of holocaust to Thy Love, Thou wouldst consume them
rapidly; Thou wouldst be well pleased to suffer the flames of
infinite tenderness to escape that are imprisoned in Thy Heart.
"If Thy Justice--which is of earth--must needs be satisfied, how
much more must Thy Merciful Love desire to inflame souls, since
_"Thy mercy reacheth even to the Heavens"_?[14] O Jesus! Let me be
that happy victim--consume Thy holocaust with the Fire of Divine
Love!"
Dear Mother, you know the love, or rather the oceans of grace
which flooded my soul immediately after I made that Act of
Oblation on June 9, 1895. From that day I have been penetrated and
surrounded with love. Every moment this Merciful Love renews me
and purifies me, leaving in my soul no trace of sin. I cannot fear
Purgatory; I know I do not merit to enter, even, into that place
of expiation with the Holy Souls, but I also know that the fire of
Love is more sanctifying than the fire of Purgatory. I know that
Jesus could not wish useless suffering for us, and He would not
inspire me with the desires I feel, were He not willing to fulfill
them.
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[1] Psalm 102[103]:14.
[2] Phil. 4:7.
[3] This letter, the style of which may seem strange to English
ears, is modelled closely on the formal and quaint letters whereby
French parents of the better class announce to their friends the
marriage of their children. Such letters of _"faire-part"_ are
issued in the name of relatives to the third or fourth degree.
[Ed.]
[4] Thérèse had kept this wish hidden in her heart from the days
of her childhood, and later in life she made the following
confidence: "I was ten the day Papa told Céline that she was to
begin painting lessons. I felt quite envious. Then he turned to me
and said: 'Well, little Queen, would you like to learn painting
too?' I was going to say: 'Yes, indeed I should,' when Marie
remarked that I had not the same taste for it as Céline. She
carried her point, and I said nothing, thinking it was a splendid
opportunity to make a big sacrifice for Our Lord; I was so anxious
to learn, that even now I wonder how I was able to keep silence."
[5] Eccl. 2:11.
[6] Céline entered the Convent on September 14, 1894, and took the
name of Sister Genevieve of St. Teresa.
[7] Spiritual Canticle: Stanzas 18 and 20.
[8] Hymn to the Deity.
[9] Luke 17:21.
[10] Revelation of Our Lord to Bd. Margaret Mary.
[11] Cant. 8:7.
[12] Psalm 103[104]:1.
[13] Luke 15:31.
[14] Cf. Psalm 35[36]:6.
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