II

COME HITHER ALL YE THAT LABOR AND ARE HEAVY LADEN,

AND I WILL GIVE YOU REST.

What enormous multiplicity, what an almost boundless diversity,

of people invited; for a man, a lowly man, may, indeed, try to

enumerate only a few of these diversities--but he who invites

must invite all men, even if every one specially and individually.

The invitation goes forth, then--along the highways and the

byways, and along the loneliest paths; aye, goes forth where

there is a path so lonely that one man only, and no one else,

knows of it, and goes forth where there is but one track, the

track of the wretched one who fled along that path with his

misery, that and no other track; goes forth even where there is

no path to show how one may return: even there the invitation

penetrates and by itself easily and surely finds its way back--most

easily, indeed, when it brings the fugitive along to him that

issued the invitation. Come hither, come hither all ye, also

thou, and thou, and thou, too, thou loneliest of all fugitives!

Thus the invitation goes forth and remains standing, wheresoever

there is a parting of the ways, in order to call out. Ah, just

as the trumpet call of the soldiers is directed to the four

quarters of the globe, likewise does this invitation sound wherever

there is a meeting of roads; with no uncertain sound--for who

would then come?--but with the certitude of eternity.

It stands by the parting of the ways where worldly and earthly

sufferings have set down their crosses, and calls out: Come

hither, all ye poor and wretched ones, ye who in poverty must

slave in order to assure yourselves, not of a care-free, but of

a toilsome, future; ah, bitter contradiction, to have to slave

for--assuring one's self of that under which one groans, of that

which one flees! Ye despised and overlooked ones, about whose

existence no one, aye, no one is concerned, not so much even as

about some domestic animal which is of greater value! Ye sick,

and halt, and blind, and deaf, and crippled, come hither!--Ye

bed-ridden, aye, come hither, ye too; for the invitation makes

bold to invite even the bed-ridden--to come! Ye lepers; for the

invitation breaks down all differences in order to unite all,

it wishes to make good the hardship caused by the difference

in men, the difference which seats one as a ruler over millions,

in possession of all gifts of fortune, and drives another one

out into the wilderness--and why? (ah, the cruelty of it!) because

(ah, the cruel human inference!) because he is wretched, indescribably

wretched. Why then? Because he stands in need of help, or at

any rate, of compassion. And why, then? Because human compassion

is a wretched thing which is cruel when there is the greatest

need of being compassionate, and compassionate only when, at

bottom, it is not true compassion! Ye sick of heart, ye who only

through your anguish learned to know that a man's heart and an

animal's heart are two different things, and what it means to be

sick at heart--what it means when the physician may be right in

declaring one sound of heart and yet heart-sick; ye whom faithlessness

deceived and whom human sympathy--for the sympathy of man is

rarely late in coming--whom human sympathy made a target for

mockery; all ye wronged and aggrieved and ill-used; all ye noble

ones who, as any and everybody will be able to tell you, deservedly

reap the reward of ingratitude (for why were ye simple enough

to be noble, why foolish enough to be kindly, and disinterested,

and faithful)--all ye victims of cunning, of deceit, of backbiting,

of envy, whom baseness chose as its victim and cowardice left

in the lurch, whether now ye be sacrificed in remote and lonely

places, after having crept away in order to die, or whether ye

be trampled underfoot in the thronging crowds where no one asks

what rights ye have, and no one, what wrongs ye suffer, and no

one, where ye smart or how ye smart, whilst the crowd with brute

force tramples you into the dust--come ye hither!

The invitation stands at the parting of the ways, where death

parts death and life. Come hither all ye that sorrow and ye that

vainly labor! For indeed there is rest in the grave; but to sit

by a grave, or to stand by a grave, or to visit a grave, all that

is far from lying in the grave; and to read to one's self again

and again one's own words which one knows by heart, the epitaph

which one devised one's self and understands best, namely, who

it is that lies buried here, all that is not the same as to lie

buried one's self. In the grave there Is rest, but by the grave

there is no rest; for it is said: so far and no farther, and so

you may as well go home again. But however often, whether in your

thoughts or in fact, you return to that grave--you will never get

any farther, you will not get away from the spot, and this is

very trying and is by no means rest. Come ye hither, therefore:

here is the way by which one may go farther, here is rest by

the grave, rest from the sorrow over loss, or rest in the sorrow

of loss--through him who everlastingly re-unites those that are

parted, and more firmly than nature unites parents with their

children, and children with their parents--for, alas! they were

parted; and more closely than the minister unites husband and

wife--for, alas! their separation did come to pass; and more

indissolubly than the bond of friendship unites friend with

friend--for, alas! it was broken. Separation penetrated everywhere

and brought with it sorrow and unrest; but here is rest!--Come

hither also ye who had your abodes assigned to you among the

graves, ye who are considered dead to human society, but neither

missed nor mourned--not buried and yet dead; that is, belonging

neither to life nor to death; ye, alas! to whom human society

cruelly closed its doors and for whom no grave has as yet opened

itself in pity--come hither, ye also, here is rest, and here is

life!

The invitation stands at the parting of the ways, where the road

of sin turns away from the inclosure of innocence--ah, come hither,

ye are so close to him; but a single step in the opposite direction,

and ye are infinitely far from him. Very possibly ye do not yet

stand in need of rest, nor grasp fully what that means; but still

follow the invitation, so that he who invites may save you from

a predicament out of which it is so difficult and dangerous to

be saved; and so that, being saved, ye may stay with him who is

the Savior of all, likewise of innocence. For even if it were

possible that innocence be found somewhere, and altogether pure:

why should not innocence also need a savior to keep it safe from

evil?--The invitation stands at the parting of the ways, where

the road of sin turns away to enter more deeply into sin. Come

hither all ye who have strayed and have been lost, whatever may

have been your error and sin: whether one more pardonable in the

sight of man and nevertheless perhaps more frightful, or one

more terrible in the sight of man and yet, perchance, more pardonable;

whether it be one which became known here on earth or one which,

though hidden, yet is known in heaven--and even if ye found

pardon here on earth without finding rest in your souls, or

found no pardon because ye did not seek it, or because ye sought

it in vain: ah, return and come hither, here is rest!

The invitation stands at the parting of the ways, where the

road of sin turns away for the last time and to the eye is lost

in perdition. Ah, return, return, and come hither! Do not shrink

from the difficulties of the retreat, however great; do not fear

the irksome way of conversion, however laboriously it may lead

to salvation; whereas sin with winged speed and growing pace

leads forward or--downward, so easily, so indescribably easy--as

easily, in fact, as when a horse, altogether freed from having

to pull, cannot even with all his might stop the vehicle which

pushes him into the abyss. Do not despair over each relapse which

the God of patience has patience enough to pardon, and which a

sinner should surely have patience enough to humble himself under.

Nay, fear nothing and despair not: he that sayeth "come hither,"

he is with you on the way, from him come help and pardon on that

way of conversion which leads to him; and with him is rest.

Come hither all, all ye--with him is rest; and he will raise no

difficulties, he does but one thing: he opens his arms. He will

not first ask you, you sufferer--as righteous men, alas, are

accustomed to, even when willing to help--"Are you not perhaps

yourself the cause of your misfortune, have you nothing with

which to reproach yourself?" It is so easy to fall into this

very human error, and from appearances to judge a man's success

or failure: for instance, if a man is a cripple, or deformed,

or has an unprepossessing appearance, to infer that therefore

he is a bad man; or, when a man is unfortunate enough to suffer

reverses so as to be ruined or so as to go down in the world,

to infer that therefore he is a vicious man. Ah, and this is

such an exquisitely cruel pleasure, this being conscious of

one's own righteousness as against the sufferer--explaining his

afflictions as God's punishment, so that one does not even--dare

to help him; or asking him that question which condemns him

and flatters our own righteousness, before helping him. But

he will not ask you thus, will not in such cruel fashion be

your benefactor. And if you are yourself conscious of your sin

he will not ask about it, will not break still further the bent

reed, but raise you up, if you will but join him. He will not

point you out by way of contrast, and place you outside of himself,

so that your sin will stand out as still more terrible, but he

will grant you a hiding place within him; and hidden within him

your sins will be hidden. For he is the friend of sinners. Let

him but behold a sinner, and he not only stands still, opening

his arms and saying "come hither," nay, but he stands--and waits,

as did the father of the prodigal son; or he does not merely

remain standing and waiting, but goes out to search, as the

shepherd went forth to search for the strayed sheep, or as the

woman went to search for the lost piece of silver. He goes--nay,

he has gone, but an infinitely longer way than any shepherd or

any woman, for did he not go the infinitely long way from being

God to becoming man, which he did to seek sinners?