Augustine's Confessions Comparisons

Ei mihi! et audeo dicere tacuisse te, deus meus, cum irem abs te longius? itane tu tacebas tunc mihi? et cuius erant nisi tua verba illa per matrem meam, fidelem tuam, quae cantasti in aures meas? nec inde quicquam descendit in cor, ut facerem illud. volebat enim illa, et secreto memini, ut monuerit cum sollicitudine ingenti, ne fornicarer, maximeque ne adulterarem cuiusquam uxorem. qui mihi monitus muliebres videbantur, quibus obtemperare erubescerem. illi autem tui erant, et nesciebam, et te tacere putabam atque illam loqui, per quam mihi tu non tacebas, et in illa contemnebaris a me, a me, filio eius, filio ancillae tuae, servo tuo. sed nesciebam et praeceps ibam tanta caecitate, ut inter coaetaneos meos puderet me minoris dedecoris, quoniam audiebam eos iactantes flagitia sua et tanto gloriantes magis, quanto magis turpes essent, et libebat facere non solum libidine facti verum etiam laudis. Quid dignum est vituperatione nisi vitium? ego, ne vituperarer, vitiosior fiebam, et ubi non suberat, quo admisso aequarer perditis, fingebam me fecisse quod non feceram, ne viderer abiectior, quo eram innocentior, et ne vilior haberer, quo eram castior.

Woe is me! and dare I say that Thou heldest Thy peace, O my God, while I wandered further from Thee? Didst Thou then indeed hold Thy peace to me? And whose but Thine were these words which by my mother, Thy faithful one, Thou sangest in my ears? Nothing whereof sunk into my heart, so as to do it. For she wished, and I remember in private with great anxiety warned me, “not to commit fornication; but especially never to defile another man's wife.” These seemed to me womanish advices, which I should blush to obey. But they were Thine, and I knew it not: and I thought Thou wert silent and that it was she who spake; by whom Thou wert not silent unto me; and in her wast despised by me, her son, the son of Thy handmaid, Thy servant. But I knew it not; and ran headlong with such blindness, that amongst my equals I was ashamed of a less shamelessness, when I heard them boast of their flagitiousness, yea, and the more boasting, the more they were degraded: and I took pleasure, not only in the pleasure of the deed, but in the praise. What is worthy of dispraise but vice? But I made myself worse than I was, that I might not be dispraised; and when in any thing I had not sinned as the abandoned ones, I would say that I had done what I had not done, that I might not seem contemptible in proportion as I was innocent; or of less account, the more chaste.

I have dared to say that You were silent, my God, when I went afar from You. But was it truly so? Whose but Yours were the words You dinned into my ears through the voice of my mother, Your faithful servant? Not that at that time any of it sank into my heart to make me do it. I still remember her anxiety and how earnestly she urged upon me not to sin with women, above all not with any man's wife. All this sounded to me womanish and I should have blushed to obey. Yet it was from You, though I did not know it and thought that You were silent and she speaking: whereas You were speaking to me through her, and in ignoring her I was ignoring You: I, her son, the son of Your handmaid, Your servant. But I realised none of this and went headlong on my course, so blinded that I was ashamed among the other youths that my viciousness was less than theirs; I heard them boast of their exploits, and the viler the exploits the louder the boasting; and I set about the same exploits not only for the pleasure of the act but for the pleasure of the boasting. Nothing is utterly condemnable save vice: yet I grew in vice through desire of praise; and when I lacked opportunity to equal others in vice, I invented things I had not done, lest I might be held cowardly for being innocent, or contemptible for being chaste.

Ah, woe to me! Do I dare to say that you, my God, re­mained silent when I departed still farther from you? Did you in truth remain silent to me at that time? Whose words but yours were those that you sang in my ears by means of my mother, your faithful servant? Yet none of them sank deep into my heart, so that I would fulfill them. It was her wish, and privately she reminded me and warned me with great solicitude, that I should keep from fornication, and most of all from adultery with any man's wife. Such words seemed to be only a woman's warnings, which I should be ashamed to bother with. But they were your warnings, and 1 knew it not. I thought that you kept silent and that only she was speaking, whereas through her you did not remain silent to me. In her person you were despised8 by me, by me, her son, "the son of your handmaid," and your servant.

But I did not know this, and I ran headlong with such great blindness that I was ashamed to be remiss in vice in the midst of my comrades. For I heard them boast of their disgraceful acts, and glory in them all the more, the more debased they were. There was pleasure in doing this, not only for the pleasure of the act, but also for the praise it brought. What is worthy of censure if not vice? But lest I be put to scorn, I made myself made more depraved than I was. Where there was no actual deed, by which I would be on equal footing with the most abandoned, I pretended that I had done what I had not done, lest I be considered more contemptible because I was actually more innocent and lest I be held a baser thing because more chaste the others.

How presumptuous it was of me to say that you were silent, my God, when I drifted farther and farther away from you! Can it be true that you said nothing to me at that time? Surely the words which rang in my ears, spoken by your faithful servant, my mother, could have come from none but you? Yet none of them sank into my heart to make me do as you said. I well remember what her wishes were and how she most earnestly warned me not to commit fornication and above all not to seduce any man's wife. It all seemed womanish advice to me and I should have blushed to accept it. Yet the words were yours, though I did not know it. I thought that you were silent and that she was speaking, but all the while you were speaking to me through her, and when I disregarded her, your handmaid, I was disregarding you, though I was both her son and your servant. But I did this unawares and continued headlong on my way. I was so blind to the truth that among my companions I was ashamed to be less dissolute than they were. For I heard them bragging of their depravity, and the greater the sin the more they gloried in it, so that I took pleasure in the same vices not only for the enjoyment of what I did, but also for the applause I won.

Nothing deserves to be despised more than vice; yet I gave in more and more to vice simply in order not to be despised. If I had not sinned enough to rival other sinners, I used to pretend that I had done things I had not done at all, because I was afraid that innocence would be taken for cowardice and chastity for weakness.

Wretch that I am, do I dare to say that you, my God, were silent when in reality I was travelling farther from you? Was it in this sense that you kept silence to me? Then whose words were they but yours which you were chanting in my ears through my mother, your faithful servant? But nothing of that went down into my heart to issue in action. Her concern (and in the secret of my conscience I recall the memory of her admonition delivered with vehement anxiety) was that I should not fall into fornication, and above all that I should not commit adultery with someone else's wife. These warnings seemed to me womanish advice which I would have blushed to take the least notice of. But they were your warnings and I did not realize it. I believed you were silent, and that it was only she who was speaking, when you were speaking to me through her. In her you were scorned by me, by me her son, the son of your handmaid, your servant (Ps. 115: 16). But I did not realize this and went on my way headlong with such blindness that among my peer group I was ashamed not to be equally guilty of shameful behaviour when 1 heard them boasting of their sexual exploits. Their pride was the more aggressive, the more debauched their acts were; they derived pleasure not merely from the lust of the act but also from the admiration it evoked. What is more worthy of censure than vice? Yet I went deeper into vice to avoid being despised, and when there was no act by admitting to which I could rival my depraved companions, I used to pretend I had done things I had not done at all, so that my innocence should not lead my companions to scorn my lack of courage, and lest my chastity be taken as a mark of inferiority.

Alas for me! Do I dare to say that you were silent, my God, when I was straying from you? Were you really silent to me at that time? Whose, then, were the words spoken to me by my mother, your faithful follower? Were they not your words, the song you were constantly singing into my ears? None of it sank down to my heart, though, to induce me to act on it. She urged me to keep clear of fornication, and especially not to commit adultery with any man's wife. I remember in my inmost heart the intense earnestness with which she cautioned me against this, but these warnings seemed to me mere woman's talk, which I would have blushed to heed. In truth they came from you, but I failed to realize that, and assumed that you were silent and she alone was talking. By using her you were not silent to me at all; and when I scorned her I was scorning you—I, her son, the son of your handmaid, I your servant! But I was quite reckless; I rushed on headlong in such blindness that when I heard other youths of my own age bragging about their immoralities I was ashamed to be less depraved than they. The more disgraceful their deeds the more credit they claimed; and so I too became as lustful for the plaudits as for the lechery itself. What is more to be reviled than vile debauchery? Afraid of being reviled I grew viler and when I had no indecent acts to admit that could put me on a level with these abandoned youths, I pretended to obscenities I had not committed, lest I might be thought less courageous for being more innocent, and be accounted cheaper for being more chaste.

Do I venture to say that you, my God, kept silence all the time I was wandering further and further from you? Woe to me if I do. Was it thus that you were silent at that time? Whose words were they but yours that you whispered to me through your faithful servant, my mother? None of these counsels, however, sunk into my heart; I did not follow them. For she wanted me to avoid fornication, and most of all—and in some corner of my heart I remember how anxiously she admonished me—not to commit adultery. These warnings seemed to me just women's words, and I would have been ashamed to obey them. But they came from you, though in my ignorance I thought that you were silent, and it was my mother talking. You were speaking to me through her, and not keeping silent; and in despising my mother and your maidservant, I was despising you, my Master (Ps. 116.14 [Ps. 115.16]). But I did not know that it was your voice. So blind was I, and so precipitate was my fall, that when I heard my contemporaries boasting of their exploits, I felt ashamed that I had less to be ashamed of. The more immoral their actions, the more they would brag about them. They lusted for such acts, and not for the act alone; they lusted also for glory. What is worthy of censure, if not vice? I, however, was becoming more vicious in order to avoid censure. And when my actions were not enough to put me on a level with these hardened delinquents, I would pretend to have done things that I had not. I was afraid that the more innocent I was, the more of a coward I would seem; and that the more chaste I was, the more contemptible I would be considered.

Can I, alas, have the nerve to claim that you were saying nothing to as I strayed from you? Were you in fact saying nothing at that time? Then whose if not yours were the words you drummed into my ears through my mother? But they did not sink into my heart, to make me act. She wished—and I recall deep within me how urgently insistent was she—that I would refrain from all illicit sex, but especially from relations with a married woman. Her warnings seemed old wives' tales to me, too embarrassing to be taken seriously. But these warnings came, without my knowing it, from you—I thought you were saying nothing, while what she said proved that you were not silent after all. It was you I scorned in scorning her—I her son, 'the son of your serving woman, and myself your servant.' In my ignorance I blundered on, so blinded that it shamed me to be less shameless than my fellows. I listened as they boasted of their deeds, and the more perverse the deeds, the more pride they took in them, not only orgasmic over orgies but over publicizing them. What could more deserve vilification than such villainy? Yet I actually became villainous to avoid vilification—where I could not match them in admission of foul ways, I feigned deeds never done, preferring to be thought more outrageous than conformist, more dissolute than respectable.

Oh, the state of me! Do I actually dare to say that you were silent, my God, when I went farther away from you? But were you truly silent to me at the time? Whose words were those if not yours, the words you chanted in my ears through my mother, who was devoted to you? But from that source nothing made its way down into my heart to make me obey.

At that period she didn't want me—and I remember how she took me aside and warned me with huge agitation—to engage in sexual immorality, and absolutely not to debauch anyone's wife. These seemed to be nothing but the sort of warnings women typically give, so complying would have been mortifying. But they were your warnings, and I didn't know. I thought you were silent and she was speaking, though it was through her that you weren't silent. In the form of her, you were held in contempt by me, her son, the son of your female slave, which made me your male slave.

But I didn't know this, and I was going straight downhill in such thorough blindness that among boys my age I was embarrassed at having disgraced myself less than they had, since I heard them tossing around stories of their crimes and preening more intensely the more disgusting these were; and I felt like doing the thing not only because I craved it, but also because of the plaudits that went with it.

What deserves to be reviled, if not vile behavior? But to avoid reprobation, I made myself a worse reprobate, and when I had no basis for confessing to compete with those depraved people, I pretended to have done what I hadn't, so that I wouldn't seem more despicable the less I was to blame, and worth less the purer I kept myself.

Alas for me! And do I dare to say that you, my God, were silent as I went further and further away from you? Did you really say nothing to me in those days? The winsome words that you spoke into my ears through your faithful servant, my mother: whose words were they, if not yours? But they did not make their way from my ears into my heart, so that I might act as they urged me to do. For it was her desire—and I remember how she admonished me privately and with great anxiety—that I should avoid fornication and, above all, that I should not commit adultery with another man's wife. Womanly admonitions, I thought them; I would have been embarrassed to obey them. But no: they were yours, and I knew it not. I thought you were keeping silent and she was the one speaking; but you were not silent; you were speaking through her, and in scorning her I was scorning you—I, her son, the son of your handmaid, I, your servant. But I knew it not. I rushed ahead, so blind that among those of my own age I was ashamed of being less vicious than they were. For I would hear them boasting of their crimes: the more disgraceful the act, the more they boasted. So I had pleasure not only in doing what I wanted to do but also in the praise I received for having done it.

What deserves reproach, if not vice? But I became more vicious in order to escape reproach, and when I had nothing to admit that would have put me on the same level as those who were lost, I would pretend to have done what I had not done, lest I should appear contemptible because I was more innocent and be looked down upon because I was more chaste.

Dicebam haec, et flebam, amarissima contritione cordis mei. et ecce audio vocem de vicina domo cum cantu dicentis, et crebro repentenis, quasi pueri an puellae, nescio: tolle lege, tolle lege. statimque mutato vultu intentissimus cogitare coepi, utrumnam solerent pueri in aliquo genere ludendi cantitare tale aliquid, nec occurebat omnino audisse me uspiam: repressoque impetu lacrimarum surrexi, nihil aliud interpretans divinitus mihi iuberi, nisi ut aperirem codicem et legerem quod primum caput invenissem. audieram enim de Antonio, quod ex evangelica lectione, cui forte supervenerat, admonitus fuerit, tamquam sibi diceretur quod legebatur: vade, vende omnia, quae habes, da pauperibus et habebis thesaurum in caelis; et veni, sequere me: et tali oraculo confestim ad te esse conversum. itaque concitus redii in eum locum, ubi sedebat Alypius: ibi enim posueram codicem apostoli, cum inde surrexeram. arripui, aperui et legi in silentio capitulum, quo primum coniecti sunt oculi mei: non in comissationibus et ebrietatibus, non in cubilibus et inpudicitiis, non in contentione et aemulatione, sed induite dominum Iesum Christum, et carnis providentiam ne feceritis in concupiscentiis. nec ultra volui legere, nec opus erat. statim quippe cum fine huiusce sententiae, quasi luce securitatis infusa cordi meo, omnes dubitationis tenebrae diffugerunt.

So was I speaking and weeping in the most bitter contrition of my heart, when, lo! I heard from a neighbouring house a voice, as of boy or girl, I know not, chanting, and oft repeating, "Take up and read; Take up and read. " Instantly, my countenance altered, I began to think most intently whether children were wont in any kind of play to sing such words: nor could I remember ever to have heard the like. So checking the torrent of my tears, I arose; interpreting it to be no other than a command from God to open the book, and read the first chapter I should find. For I had heard of Antony, that coming in during the reading of the Gospel, he received the admonition, as if what was being read was spoken to him: Go, sell all that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven, and come and follow me: and by such oracle he was forthwith converted unto Thee. Eagerly then I returned to the place where Alypius was sitting; for there had I laid the volume of the Apostle when I arose thence. I seized, opened, and in silence read that section on which my eyes first fell: Not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and wantonness, not in strife and envying; but put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make not provision for the flesh, in concupiscence. No further would I read; nor needed I: for instantly at the end of this sentence, by a light as it were of serenity infused into my heart, all the darkness of doubt vanished away.

Such things I said, weeping in the most bitter sorrow of my heart. And suddenly I heard a voice from some nearby house, a boy's voice or a girl's voice, 1 do not know: but it was a sort of sing-song, repeated again and again, "Take and read, take and read." I ceased weeping and immediately began to search my mind most carefully as to whether children were accustomed to chant these words in any kind of game, and I could not remember that I had ever heard any such thing. Damming back the flood of my tears I arose, interpreting the incident as quite certainly a divine command to open my book of Scripture and read the passage at which I should open. For it was part of what I had been told about Antony that from the Gospel which he happened upon he had felt that he was being admonished, as though what was being read was being spoken directly to himself: Go, sell what thou hast and give to the poor, and thou shall have treasure in heaven; and come follow Me. By this experience he had been in that instant converted to You. So I was moved to return to the place where Alypius was sitting, for I had put down the Apostle's book there when I arose. I snatched it up, opened it and in silence read the passage upon which my eyes first fell: Not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and impurities, not in contention and envy, but put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ and make not provision for the flesh in its concupiscences. I had no wish to read further, and no need. For in that instant, with the very ending of the sentence, it was as though a light of utter confidence shone in all my heart, and all the darkness of uncertainty vanished away.

Such words I spoke, and with most bitter contrition I wept within my heart. And lo, I heard from a nearby house, a voice like that of a boy or a girl, I know not which, chanting and repeating over and over, "Take up and read. Take up and read." Instantly, with altered countenance, I began to think some kind of game, but I could not recall hearing it anywhere. I checked the flow of my tears and got up, for I interpreted this solely as a command given to me by God to open the book and read the first chapter I should come upon. For I had heard how Anthony had been admonished by a reading from the Gospel at which he chanced to be present, as if the words read were addressed to him: "Go, sell what you have, and give to the poor, and you shall have treasure in heaven, and come, follow me," and that by such portent he was immediately converted to you.

So I hurried back to the spot where Alypius was sitting, for I had put there the volume of the apostle when I got up and left him. I snatched it up, opened it, and read in silence the chapter on which my eyes first fell. "Not in rioting and drunkenness, but put you on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make not provision for the flesh in its concupiscences." No further wished I to read, nor was there need to do so. Instantly, in truth, at the end of this sentence, as if before a peaceful light streaming into my heart, all the dark shadows of doubt fled away.

I was asking myself these questions, weeping all the while with the most bitter sorrow in my heart, when all at once I heard the singsong voice of a child in a nearby house. Whether it was the voice of a boy or a girl I cannot say, but again and again it repeated the refrain 'Take it and read, take it and read'. At this I looked up, thinking hard whether there was any kind of game in which children used to chant words like these, but I could not remember ever hearing them before. I stemmed my flood of tears and stood up, telling myself that this could only be a divine command to open my book of Scripture and read the first passage on which my eyes should fall. For I had heard the story of Antony, and I remembered how he had happened to go into a church while the Gospel was being read and had taken it as a counsel addressed to himself when he heard the words Go home and sell all that belongs to you. Give it to the poor, and so the treasure you have shall be in heaven; then come back and follow me. By this divine pronouncement he had at once been converted to you.

So I hurried back to the place where Alypius was sitting, for when I stood up to move away I had put down the book containing Paul's Epistles. I seized it and opened it, and in silence I read the first passage on which my eyes fell: Not in revelling and drunkenness, not in lust and wantonness, not in quarrels and rivalries. Rather, arm yourselves with the Lord Jesus Christ; spend no more thought on nature and nature's appetites. I had no wish to read more and no need to do so. For in an instant, as I came to the end of the sentence, it was as though the light of confidence flooded into my heart and all the darkness of doubt was dispelled.

As I was saying this and weeping in the bitter agony of my heart, suddenly I heard a voice from the nearby house chanting as if it might be a boy or a girl (I do not know which), saying and repeating over and over again ‘Pick up and read, pick up and read.' At once my countenance changed, and I began to think intently whether there might be some sort of children's game in which such a chant is used. But I could not remember have heard of one. I checked the flood of tears and stood up. I interpreted it solely as a divine command to me to open the book and read the first chapter I might find. For I had heard how Antony happened to be present at the gospel reading, and took it as an admonition addressed to himself when the words were read: 'Go, sell all you have, give to the poor, and you shall have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me' (Matt. 19:21). By such an inspired utterance he was immediately 'converted to you' (Ps. 50:15). So I hurried back to the place where Alypius was sitting. There I had put down the book od the apostle when I got up. I seized it, opened it and in silence read the first passage on which my eyes lit: 'Not in riots and drunken parties, not in eroticism and indecencies, not in strife and rivalry, but put on the Lord Jesus Christ and make no provision for the flesh in its lusts' (Rom. 13:13-14).

I neither wished nor needed to read further. At once, with the last words of this sentence, it was as if a light of relief from all anxiety flooded into my hear. All the shadows of doubt were dispelled.

I went on talking like this and weeping in the intense bitterness of my broken heart. Suddenly I heard a voice from a house nearby—perhaps a voice of some boy or girl, I do not know—singing over and over again, "Pick it up and read, pick it up and read." My expression immediately altered and I begin to think hard whether children ordinarily repeated a ditty like this in any sort of game, but I could not recall ever having heard it anywhere else. I stemmed the flood of tears and rose to my feet, believing that this could be nothing other than a divine command to open the Book and read the first passage I chanced upon; for I had heard the story of how Antony had been instructed by a gospel text. He happened to arrive while the gospel was being read, and took the words to addressed to himself when he heard, Go and sell all you possess and give the money to the poor: you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me. So he was promptly converted to you by this plainly divine message. Stung into action, I returned to the place where Alypius was sitting, for on leaving it I had put down there the book of the apostle's letters. I snatched it up, opened it and read in silence the passage on which my eyes first lighted: Not in dissipation and drunkenness, nor in debauchery and lewdness, nor in arguing and jealousy; but put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh or the gratification of your desires. I had no wish to read further, nor was there need. No sooner had I reached the end of the verse than the light of certainty flooded my heart and all dark shadows of doubt fled away.

So saying, I wept, my heart crushed with very bitterness. And behold, suddenly I heard a voice from the house next door; the sound, as it might be, of a boy or a girl, repeating in a singsong voice a refrain unknown to me: ‘Pick it up and read it, pick it up and read it.' Immediately my countenance was changed, and I began to ponder most intensely whether children were in the habit of singing a chant of this sort as part of a game of some kind, but I had no recollection at all of having heard it anywhere. I checked my outburst of tears and arose, taking this to be nothing other than a God-sent command that I should open the Bible and read the first chapter I found, whatever it might be. For I had heard that Antony, on chancing to enter church in the middle of the Gospel reading, had taken heed of what was being read as if it were addressed to himself: Go and sell all that you have; give it to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come and follow me (Matt. 19.21). By this divine utterance, I had heard, he was immediately converted to you. In high excitement, therefore, I returned to the place where Alyp­ius was sitting; for I had left my copy of the Apostle Paul there when I had risen to go aside. I seized it, opened it, and read in silence the first heading I cast my eyes upon: Not in riotousness and drunkenness, not in lewdness and wantonness, not in strife and rivalry; but put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh and its lusts (Rom. 13.13-14). I neither wished nor needed to read more. No sooner had I finished the sentence than it was as if the light of steadfast trust poured into my heart, and all the shadows of hesitation fled away.

I was carrying on so, crying acrid tears of ‘heart's contrition,' when I heard from a nearby house the voice of a boy—or perhaps a girl, I could not tell—chanting in repeated singsong: Lift! Look! My features relaxed immediately while I studied as hard as I could whether children use such a chant in any of their games. But I could not remember ever having heard it. No longer crying, I leaped up, not doubting that it was by divine prompting that I should open the book and read what first I hit on.

For I had heard how Anthony, though he merely chanced to be present when a certain passage of Scripture was read, nonetheless took it to heart as meant specifically for him when he heard: ‘Go, sell all you own, give it to the poor, and you will have heavenly treasure—only come, and follow me.' At this divine signal he turned suddenly to you. I rushed back to where Alypius was sitting, since there I had left the book of the Apostle when I moved away from him. I grabbed, opened, read: ‘Give up indulgence and drunken­ness, give up lust and obscenity, give up strife and rivalries, and clothe yourself in Jesus Christ the Lord, leaving no further allowance for fleshly desires.' The very instant I finished that sentence, light was flooding my heart with assurance, and all my shadowy reluctance evanesced.

I was saying these things and weeping, with agonizing anguish in my heart, and then I heard a voice from the household next door, the voice of someone—a little boy or girl, I don't know which—incessantly and insistently chanting, "Pick it up! Read it! Pick it up! Read it!"

Immediately, my mood changed, and I started considering, with great concentration, whether children were accustomed to chanting something like that in any kind of game. I couldn't remember that I'd heard anything like it anywhere. I got control over the onslaught of my tears and got up, construing the chant as a straightforward divine command to open a book and read the chapter I first found there. I had heard that Antony had been admonished by a reading of the Gospel that he had walked in on by chance; what was being read seemed to be speaking to him personally: "Go, sell everything you have and give it to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me." Moved by this omen, he turned to you in no time.

Excited, I returned to the spot where Alypius was sitting: I'd put down a book of the apostle Paul's letters there when I got up. I grabbed it and opened it, and I read in silence the passage on which my eyes first fell: "Don't clothe yourself in raucous dinner parties and drunkenness, not in the immorality of sleeping around, not in feuds and competition; but clothe yourself in the Master, Jesus Christ, and do not make provision for the body in its inordinate desires."

I didn't want to read further, and there was no need. The instant I finished this sentence, my heart was virtually flooded with a light of relief and certitude, and all the darkness of my hesitation scattered away.

I said these things and wept most bitter tears in the brokenness of my heart. Then suddenly I heard a voice from next door—a boy's voice or a girl's, I do not know—singing, repeating again and again, "Pick up and read, pick up and read." At once my countenance was changed and I began to think most intently about whether there was any sort of game in which children would say something like that. I could not recall ever having heard it before, so I stopped the flow of my tears and arose, taking this to be no less than a divine voice commanding me to open a book and read whatever passage I first came upon. For I had heard how Antony happened upon the reading of the Gospel and took what he heard as an admonition, as though what was read was said directly to him: "Go, sell all that you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasures in heaven; and come, follow me." And by such a divine announcement he was turned immediately to you.

And so, stirred by this voice, I returned to the place where I had been sitting with Alypius: for I had set down a book of the Apostle there when I got up and left. 1 snatched it up, opened it, and read in silence the passage that first caught my eye: "not in reveling and drunkenness, not in debauchery and licentiousness, not in quarreling and jealousy, but put on the Lord Jesus Christ and make no provision for the flesh in its lusts." I had no desire to read further; there was no need. As soon as I reached the end of this sentence the light of assurance was poured into my heart and all the clouds of doubt melted away.

Sed quo fructu id volunt? an congratulari mihi cupiunt, cum audierint. quantum ad te accedam munere tuo, et orare pro me, cum audierint, quantum retarder pondere meo? indicabo me talibus. non enim parvus est fructus, domine deus meus, ut a multis tibi gratiae agantur de nobis et a multis rogeris pro nobis. amet in me fraternus animus quod amandum doces, et doleat in me quod dolendum doces. animus ille hoc faciat fraternus, non extraneus, non filiorum alienorum, quorum os locutum est vanitatem, et dextera eorum dextera iniquitatis, sed fraternus ille, qui cum approbat me, gaudet de me, cum autem improbat me, contristatur pro me, quia sive approbet sive improbet me, diligit me. indicabo me talibus: respirent in bonis meis, suspirent in malis meis. bona mea instituta tua sunt et dona tua, mala mea delicta mea sunt et iudicia tua. respirent in illis et suspirent in his, et hymnus et fletus ascendant in conspectum tuum de fraternis cordibus, turibulis tuis. tu autem, domine, delectatus odore sancti templi tui, miserere mei secundum magnam misericordiam tuam, propter nomen tuum, et nequaquam deserens coepta tua consumma imperfecta mea.

But for what fruit would they hear this? Do they desire to joy with me, when they hear how near, by Thy gift, I approach unto Thee? and to pray for me, when they shall hear how much I am held back by my own weight? To such will I discover myself For it is no mean fruit, O Lord my God, that by many thanks should be given to Thee on our behalf, and Thou be by many entreated for us. Let the brotherly mind love in me what Thou teachest is to be loved, and lament in me what Thou teachest is to be lamented. Let a brotherly, not a stranger, mind, not that of the strange children, whose mouth talketh of vanity, and their right hand is a right hand of iniquity, but that brotherly mind which when it approveth, rejoiceth for me, and when it disapproveth me, is sorry for me; because whether it approveth or disapproveth, it loveth me. To such will I discover myself: they will breathe freely at my good deeds, sigh for my ill. My good deeds are Thine appointments, and Thy gifts; my evil ones are my offences, and Thy judgments. Let them breathe freely at the one, sigh at the other; and let hymns and weeping go up into Thy sight, out of the hearts of my brethren, Thy censers. And do Thou, O Lord, he pleased with the incense of Thy holy temple, have mercy upon me according to Thy great mercy for Thine own name's sake; and no ways forsaking what Thou hast begun, perfect my imperfections.

But for what profit do they wish to hear it? Do they desire to rejoice with me when they hear how close by Your grace I have come to You, and to pray for me when they hear how far I am held from You by my own weight? To such shall I show myself. For it is no small fruit, O Lord my God, that many should give thanks to You for me and many should pray to You for me. Let the mind of my brethren love that in me which You teach to be worthy of love, and grieve for that in me which You teach to be worthy of grief. So let the mind of my brethren act—not the mind of strangers nor the children of strangers, whose mouth has spoken vanity, and whose right hand is the right hand of iniquity—but the mind of my brethren who rejoice for what they see good in me and are grieved for what they see ill, but whether they see good or ill still love me.To such shall I show myself: let their breath come faster for my good deeds: let them sigh for my ill. For my good deeds are Your act and Your gift, my ill deeds are my own faults and Your punishments. Let their breath come faster for the one, let them sigh for the other, and let the hymn of praise and the weeping rise up together in Your sight from Your censers which are the hearts of my brethren. And do Thou, Lord, delighted with the odour of Thy holy tem­ple, have mercy upon me according to Thy great mercy, and for Thy name's sake; and in no point deserting what Thou hast begun, supply what is imperfect in me.

But with what benefit do they wish to hear me? Do they wish to share my thanksgiving, when they hear how close it is by your gift that I approach to you, and to pray for me, when they hear how I am held back by my own weight? To such men I will reveal myself. It is no small benefit, O Lord my God, that "thanks may be given to you by many in our behalf," and that many should pray to you for us. Let a brother's mind love in me what you teach us must be lamented. Let a brother's mind do this, not a stranger's mind, not the mind "of strange children, whose mouth has spoken vanity, and their right hand is the right hand of iniquity." Let it be that brotherly mind which, when it approves me, rejoices over men, and when it disapproves of me, is saddened over me, for the reason that, whether it approves or disapproves, it loves me. To such men I will reveal myself. May they sigh for my good deeds, and may they sigh over my evil deeds. All my goods are things that you have established and they are your gifts; my evils are my own misdeeds and your judgments upon me. May they sigh for the one, and sigh over the other. May hymns and weeping ascend in your sight from the hearts of my brethren, your censers. Be pleased, O Lord, with the odor of your holy temple, and "have mercy on me according to your great mercy" for your name's sake. Do not abandon in any way what you have begun in me, but make perfect my imperfections.

But what good do they hope will be done if they listen to what I say? Is it that they wish to join with me in thanking you, when they hear how close I have come to you by your grace, and to pray for me, when they hear how far I am set apart from you by the burden of my sins? If this is what they wish, I shall tell them what I am. For no small good is gained, O Lord my God, if many offer you thanks for me and many pray to you for me. Let all who are truly my brothers love in me what they know from your teaching to be worthy of their love, and let them sorrow to find in me what they know from your teaching to be occasion for remorse. This is what I wish my true brothers to feel in their hearts. I do not speak of strangers or of alien foes, who make treacherous promises, and lift their hands in perjury. But my true brothers are those who rejoice for me in their hearts when they find good in me, and grieve for me when they find sin. They are my true brothers, because whether they see good in me or evil, they love me still. To such as these I shall reveal what I am. Let them breathe a sigh of joy for what is good in me and a sigh of grief for what is bad. The good I do is done by you in me and by your grace: the evil is my fault; it is the punishment you send me. Let my brothers draw their breath in joy for the one and sigh with grief for the other. Let hymns of thanksgiving and cries of sorrow rise together from their hearts, as though they were vessels burning with incense before you. And I pray you, O Lord, to be pleased with the incense that rises in your holy temple and, for your name's sake, to have mercy on me, as you are ever rich in mercy. Do not relinquish what you have begun, but make perfect what is still imperfect in me.

But what edification do they hope to gain by this? Do they desire to join me in thanksgiving when they hear how, by your gift, I have come close to you, and do they pray for me when they hear how I am held back by my own weight? To such sympathetic readers I will indeed reveal myself. For it is no small gift, my Lord God, if ‘many give you thanks on our account' (2 Cor. 1: 11), and if many petition you on our behalf. A brotherly mind will love in me what you teach to be lovable, and will regret in me what you teach to be regrettable. This is a mark of a Christian brother's mind, not an outsider's—not that of 'the sons of aliens whose mouth speaks vanity, and their right hand is a right hand of iniquity' (Ps. 143:7f). A brotherly person rejoices on my account when he approves me, but when he disapproves he grieves on my behalf. Whether he approves or disapproves, he is loving me. To such people I will reveal myself. They will take heart from my good traits, and sigh with sadness at my bad ones. My good points are instilled by you and are your gifts. My bad points are my faults and your judgements on them. Let them take heart from the one and regret the other. Let both praise and tears ascend in your sight from brotherly hearts, your censers.

But you Lord, who take delight in the odour of your holy temple, 'have pity on me according to your mercy for your name's sake' (Ps. 50:3). You never abandon what you have begun. Make perfect my imperfections.

But what do they hope to gain, those who want this? Do they wish to congratulate me when they hear how much progress I am making toward you by your gift, and to pray for me when they hear how badly I am dragged back by my own weight? To people like that I will disclose myself, for it is no small gain, O Lord my God, if thanks are offered to you by many people on our account and many pray to you for us. Yes, let a fraternal mind love in me what you teach us to be worthy of love, and deplore in me what you teach us to be deplorable. But let it be a brotherly mind that does this, not the mind of a stranger, not the minds of alien foes who mouth falsehood and whose power wreaks wickedness; let it be a brotherly mind which when it approves of me will rejoice over me, and when it disapproves will be saddened on my account, because whether it approves or disapproves it still loves me. To such people I will disclose myself: let them sigh with relief over my good actions, but with grief over my evil deeds. The good derive from you and are your gift; the evil are my sins and your punishments. Let them sigh with relief over the one and with grief over the other, and let both hymns and laments ascend into your presence from the hearts of my brethren, which are your censers. And then do you, Lord, in your delight at the fragrance which pervades your holy temple, have mercy on me according to your great mercy for the sake of your name. Do not, I entreat you, do not abandon your unfinished work, but bring to perfection all that is wanting in me.

But what profit do they have in wishing to hear of me? Uo they wish to share in my thanksgiving, when they hear what progress you have granted me to make towards you? Do they wish to pray for me when they hear how much I have been s owed down by' the burden of myself ? To such people I will make myself known. It is no slight profit, O Lord, if many give thanks to you for my sake, and that many pray to you for my sake (2Cor. r.n). Let some brotherly spirit love that in me which you teach should be loved, and mourn for that in me which you teach should be mourned. Let it be some brotherly spirit who tines this; not a stranger's, not one of the foreign children, whose mouth speaks vanity, and whose right hand is a right hand of ini­quity (ps. 144.7-8 [Ps. 143.7-8]). Let it be a brotherly spirit, who, tn finding good in me, rejoices over me, and in finding fault in me, is foil of sorrow over me. To such I will make myself known; let them sigh with relief over my good things, and with sorrow over my bad things. My good things are your statutes and your gifts, my bad things are my sins and your judgements. Let them sigh with relief for the former, with sorrow for the latter; and let songs of praise and lamentations arise into your presence from the hearts of my brethren, those vessels foil of incense offered to you. And you, O Lord, that take delight in the fragrance of your holy temple, have mercy upon me according to your great mercy, for your own Name's sake, you who never abandon what you have begun, bring to fulfillment the things in me that are imperfect.

But what is their motive? Would they share my joy when they hear how close, by your gift, I am lifted up to you, and share my prayer when they hear how far, by my own dead weight, I fall off from you? If so, to such I will open myself. For it is not a trivial help, God my Lord, to have many give thanks for me or for many to pray for me.' I hope that a brother in spirit will love in me what you show him is lovable, lament in me what you show is lamentable—a brother, not a stranger, not 'a race of strangers, the speech of whose mouth is void of meaning, the work of whose strong hand is baneful,' but one whose feels joy at what he approves in me, sorrow at what he disapproves, but feels love in both his joy and his sorrow. To such I will open myself, to those who feel relief for the good, grief for the bad to be found in me. Since any good lodged in me comes from you, is your boon, while any bad discovered in me is mine, and comes under your ban, their relief will be for the former, their grief for the latter, and their relief's singing or their grief's wailing will rise up to your presence, 'an incense from their heart's thurible, to please you, Lord, with this odor of holiness filling your temple,' so you will 'show pity to me commensurate with your great pity,' with your own honor, and you will 'not abandon what you have begun in me until it is completed.'

But what is the benefit they want from this? Do they long to rejoice with me, when they hear how close I've approached to you, because you granted this? And to pray for me, when they hear how much I'm held back by the weight of what's in me? I'll point the finger at myself for such people.

It's no small benefit, God my Master, that many give thanks to you on our behalf, and that on our behalf many plead with you. Let a brother's mind love in me whatever, according to your instruction, should instill love, and let it grieve for whatever in me, according to your instruction, should instill grief.

Yes, let the mind that does this be a brother's mind, not an outsider's, not the mind of other parents' sons, "whose mouth has spoken empty words, and whose right hands commit crimes"—but a brother's mind, which when it approves of me, is joyful for me, and when it disapproves of me, is gloomy for me, because whether it approves or disapproves, it holds me dear. I'll point the finger at myself for people like that.

Let them sigh with relief for what is good in me; let them sigh with sadness for what is bad in me. What is good in me was ordained and given by you; what is bad is made up of my offenses and the sentences you have passed against me. Let my own people sigh with relief for the former, and sigh with sadness for the latter, and let a song of praise, and let weeping, rise into your presence from brotherly hearts, which are your vessels for burning incense.

And you, Master, in your delight at the fragrance of your holy temple, deal tenderly with me, according to your great tenderheartedness—I ask it in your holy name. And by no means abandon what you've begun, but bring to culmination all that is incomplete in me.

But what benefit do they want from this? Do they desire to rejoice with me when they hear how close I have come to you through your gift, and to pray for me when they hear how much I am held back from you by my own heaviness? To people like this I will disclose myself. It is indeed no meager benefit, O Lord my God, when many people give thanks to you on our behalf, and many prayers are brought before you for our sake. Let brotherly minds love in me what you teach should be loved and lament in me what you teach should be lamented. But let it be a brotherly mind that does this, not one that is estranged, not one of the foreign children whose mouth has spoken vanity and whose right hand is a right hand of iniquity, but a brotherly mind, one that rejoices when it sees good in me and is grieved when it sees something amiss in me. For whether it sees good in me or sees something amiss in me, it loves me. To people like this I will disclose myself, so that they might find relief in what is good in me and grief in what is bad. The good things in me are your works and your gifts; the bad things are my own transgressions and your judgments. Let them find relief in the good things and grief in the bad, and let brotherly hearts, your censers, raise up a hymn and a lamentation before you. But of you, Lord, who take delight in the fragrance of your holy temple, I ask that you have mercy upon me according to your great mercy, for your own Name's sake, and that you by no means abandob the work you have begun in me, but complete what remains unfinished.

Sero te amavi, pulchritudo tam antiqua et tam nova, sero te amavi! et ecce intus eras et ego foris, et ibi te quaerebam, et in ista formosa, quae fecisti, deformis inruebam. mecum eras, et tecum non eram. ea me tenebant longe a te, quae si in te non essent, non essent. vocasti et clamasti et rupisti surditatem meam: coruscasti, splenduisti et fugasti caecitatem meam: fragrasti, et duxi spiritum, et anhelo tibi, gustavi et esurio et sitio, tetigisti me, et exarsi in pacem tuam.

Too late loved I Thee, O Thou Beauty of ancient days, yet ever new! too late I loved Thee! And behold, Thou wert within, and I abroad, and there I searched for Thee; deformed I, plunging amid those fair forms which Thou hadst made. Thou wert with me, but I was not with Thee. Things held me far from Thee, which, unless they were in Thee, were not at all. Thou calledst, and shoutedst, and burstest my deafness. Thou flashedst, shonest, and scatteredst my blindness. Thou breathedst odours, and I drew in breath and panted for Thee. I tasted, and hunger and thirst. Thou touchedst me, and I burned for Thy peace.

Late have I loved Thee, O Beauty so ancient and so new; late have I loved Thee! For behold Thou wert within me, and I outside; and I sought Thee outside and in my unloveliness fell upon those lovely things that Thou hast made.Thou wert with me and I was not with Thee. I was kept from Thee by those things, yet had they not been in Thee, they would not have been at all.Thou didst call and cry to me and break open my deafness: and Thou didst send forth Thy beams and shine upon me and chase away my blindness: Thou didst breathe fragrance upon me, and I drew in my breath and do now pant for Thee: I tasted Thee, and now hunger and thirst for Thee: Thou didst touch me, and I have burned for Thy peace.

Too late have I loved you, O Beauty so ancient and so new, too late have I loved you! Behold, you were within me, while I was outside: it was there that I sought you, and, a deformed creature, rushed headlong upon these things of beauty which you have made. You were with me, but I was not with you. They kept me far from you, those fair things which, if they were not in you, would not exist at all. You have called to me, and have cried out, and have shattered my deafness. You have blazed forth with light, and have shone upon me, and you have put my blindness to flight! You have sent forth fragrance, and I have drawn in my breath, and I pant after you. I have tasted you, and I hunger and thirst after you. You have touched me, and I have burned for your peace.

I have learnt to love you late, Beauty at once so ancient and so new! I have learnt to love you late! You were within me, and I was in the world outside myself. I searched for you outside myself and, disfigured as I was, I fell upon the lovely things of your creation. You were with me, but I was not with you. The beautiful things of this world kept me far from you and yet if they had not been in you, they would have had no being at all. You called me; you cried aloud to me; you broke my barrier of deafness. You shone upon me; your radiance enveloped me; you put my blindness to flight. You shed your fragrance about me; I drew breath and now I gasp for your sweet odour. I tasted you, and now I hunger and thirst for you. You touched me, and I am inflamed with love of your peace.

Late have I loved you, beauty so old and so new: late have I loved you. And see, you were within and I was in the external world and sought you there, and in my unlovely state I plunged into those lovely created things which you made. You were with me, and I was not with you. The lovely things kept me far from you, though if they did not have their existence in you, they had no existence at all. You called and cried out loud and shattered my deafness. You were radiant and resplendent, you put to flight my blindness. You were fragrant, and I drew in my breath and now pant after you. I tasted you, and I feel but hunger and thirst for you. You touched me, and I am set on fire to attain the peace which is yours.

Late have I loved you, Beauty so ancient and so new,
late have I loved you!
Lo, you were within,
but I outside, seeking there for you,
and upon the shapely things you have made I rushed headlong,
I, misshapen.
You were with me, but I was not with you.
They held me back far from you,
those things which would have no being
were they not in you.
You called, shouted, broke through my deafness;
you flared, blazed, banished my blindness;
you lavished your fragrance, I gasped, and now I pant for you;
I tasted you, and I hunger and thirst;
you touched me, and I burned for your peace.

Late have I loved you, Beauty so ancient and so new, late have I loved you! Behold, you were within and I was without; and there I sought you, plunging unformed as I was into the fair things that you have formed and made. You were with me, and I was not with you. I was kept far from you by the things that would not have been, were they not in you. You called and cried aloud, and shattered my deafness; you flashed and blazed like lightning, and routed my blindness. You cast your fragrance, and I drew breath, yet pant for you; I tasted, yet hunger and thirst; you touched me, and I was on fire for your peace.

Slow was I, Lord, too slow in loving you. To you, earliest and latest beauty, I was slow in love. You were waiting within me while I went outside me, looking for you there, misshaping myself as I flung myself upon the shapely things you made. You were with me all the while I was not with you, kept from you by things that could not be except by being in you. You were calling to me, shouting, drumming on deaf ears. You thundered and lightninged, piercing my blindness. You shed a perfume—inhaling it, I pant for you. For your taste, I hunger and thirst. At your caress, I am feverish for satiation.

I took too long to fall in love with you, beauty so ancient and so new. I took too long to fall in love with you! But there you were, inside, and I was outside—and there I searched for you, and into those shapely things you made, my misshapen self went sliding. You were with me, but I wasn't with you. Those things, which wouldn't exist unless they existed in you, held me back, far from you. You called and shouted and shattered my deafness. You flashed, you shone, and you put my blindness to flight. You smelled sweet, and I drew breath, and now I pant for you. I tasted you, and now I'm starving and parched; you touched me, and I burst into flame with desire for your peace.

Late have I loved you, beauty so ancient and so new!
Late have I loved you!
And behold, you were within, but I was outside and looked
   for you there, and in my ugliness I seized upon these
   beautiful things that you have made.
You were with me, but I was not with you.
Those things held me far away from you—
   things that would not even exist if they were not in you.
You called, you shouted, and you broke through my deafness;
   you flashed, you shone, and you dispersed my blindness;
   you breathed perfume, and I drew in my breath and pant
      for you;
I tasted, and I hunger and thirst;
you touched me, and I was set on fire for your peace.

Cur, quaeso, domine deus meus? utcumque video, sed quomodo id eloquar nescio, nisi quia omne, quod esse incipit et esse desinit, tunc esse incipit et tunc desinit, quando debuisse incipere vel desinere in aeterna ratione cognoscitur, ubi nec incipit aliquid nec desinit. ipsum est verbum tuum, quod et principium est, quia et loquitur nobis. sic in evangelio per carnem ait, et hoc insonuit foris auribus hominum, ut crederetur et intus quaeretur, et inveniretur in aeterna veritate, ubi omnes discipulos bonus et solus magister docet. ibi audio vocem tuam, domine, dicentis mihi, quoniam ille loquitur nobis, qui docet nos, qui autem non docet nos, etiam si loquitur, non nobis loquitur. quid porro nos docet nisi stabilis veritas? quia et per creaturam mutabilem cum admonemur, ad veritatem stabilem ducimur, ubi vere discimus, cum stamus et audimus eum, et gaudio gaudemus propter vocem sponsi, reddentes nos, unde sumus. et ideo principium, quia, nisi maneret, cum erraremus, non esset quo rediremus. cum autem redimus ab errore, cognoscendo utique redimus; ut autem cognoscamus, docet nos, quia principium est et loquitur nobis.

Why, I beseech Thee, O Lord my God? I see it in a way; but how to express it, I know not, unless it be, that whatsoever begins to be, and leaves off to be, begins then, and leaves off then, when in Thy eternal Reason it is known, that it ought to begin or leave off; in which Reason nothing beginneth or leaveth off. This is Thy Word, which is also "the Beginning, because also It speaketh unto us." Thus in the Gospel He speaketh through the flesh; and this sounded outwardly in the ears of men; that it might be believed and sought inwardly, and found in the eternal Verity; where the good and only Master teacheth all His disciples. There, Lord, hear I Thy voice speaking unto me; because He speaketh us, who teacheth us; but He that teacheth us not, though He speaketh, to us He speaketh not. Who now teacheth us, but the unchangeable Truth? for even when we are admonished through a changeable creature; we are but led to the unchangeable Truth; where we learn truly, while we stand and hear Him, and rejoice greatly because of the Bridegroom's voice, restoring us to Him, from Whom we are. And therefore the Beginning, because unless It abided, there should not, when we went astray, be whither to return. But when we return from error, it is through knowing; and that we may know, He teacheth us, because He is the Beginning, and speaking unto us.

Tell me, O Lord my God, how this can be? In a kind of way I see, but how to express it I do not know: save that whatever comes into being and ceases to be, begins at the moment and ends at the moment when the eternal reason—which has in itself no beginning or ending—knows that it should begin or end. That eternal reason is Your Word, the Beginning who also speaks unto us. This He tells us in the Gospel to our bodily ear, this He uttered exteriorly in the ears of men: that we might believe in Him, and seek Him within us and find Him in the eternal Truth, where the one good Master teaches all His disciples.

There it is that I hear Your voice, Lord, telling me that only one who teaches us is speaking to us, and that whoever does not teach us may be speaking, but not to us. Yet who teaches us save Truth unchanging? When from changing creatures we learn anything, we are led to Truth that does not change: and there we truly learn, as we stand and hear Him and rejoice with joy for the voice of the bridegroom, returning to the Source of our being. Thus it is that He is the Beginning: unless He remained when we wandered away, there should be no abiding place for our return. But when we return from error, we return by realising the Truth; that we may realise it, He instructs us, for He is the Beginning who also speaks unto us.

Why, I beseech you, O Lord my God, is this? In a way, I see it, but how I am to express it I do not know, unless it is because whatever begins to be, and then ceases to be, does then begin to be and then cease to be when it is known in your eternal reason, wherein nothing begins or ceases, that it must begin or cease. This is your Word, which is also the beginning because it also speaks to us. Thus in the Gospel he speaks through the flesh, and this word sounded outwardly in the ears of men, so that it might be believed, and sought inwardly, and found in the eternal Truth where the sole good Master teaches all his disciples. There, O Lord, I hear your voice speaking to me, since he who teaches us speaks to us. But a man who does not teach us, even though he speaks, does not speak to us. Who teaches us now, unless it be stable Truth? Even when we are admonished by a changeable creature, we are led to stable Truth, where we truly learn "while we stand and hear him" and "rejoice with joy because of the bridegroom's voice" restoring us to him from whom we are.

Therefore, he is a beginning, for unless he abided when we went astray, he would not be there when we returned. But when return from error, we truly return by knowing that we do so, and that we may know this, he teaches us, because he is the beginning and he speaks to us.

Why is this so, O Lord my God? In some degree I see why it is, but I do not know how to put it into words except by saying that whatever begins to be, or ceases to be, does so at the moment when the eternal reason knows that it should begin to be or cease to be, although in the eternal reason there is no beginning and no ending. The eternal reason is your Word, who is also the Beginning, because he also speaks to us. So he tells us in the Gospel by word of mouth. Your Word, the Beginning, made himself audible to the bodily ears of men, so that they should believe in him and, by looking for him within themselves, should find him in the eternal Truth, where the one good Master teaches all who listen to him. It is there that I hear your voice, O Lord, telling me that only a master who really teaches us really speaks to us: if he does not teach us, even though he may be speaking, it is not to us that he speaks. But who is our teacher except the Truth which never changes? Even when we learn from created things, which are subject to change, we are led to the Truth which does not change. And there we truly learn, as we stand by and listen to him and rejoice at hearing the bridegroom's voice, restoring ourselves to him who gave us our being. He is therefore the Beginning, the abiding Principle, for unless he remained when we wandered in error, there would be none to whom we could return and restore ourselves. But when we return from error, we return by knowing the Truth; and in order that we may know the Truth, he teaches us, because he is the Beginning and he also speaks to us.

Why, I ask, Lord my God? In some degree I see it, but how to express it I do not know, unless to say that everything which begins to be and ceases to be begins and ends its existence at that moment when, in the eternal reason where nothing begins or ends, it is known that it is right for it to begin and end. This reason is your Word, which is also the Beginning in that it also speaks to us. Thus in the gospel the Word speaks through the flesh, and this sounded externally in human ears, so that it should be believed and sought inwardly, found in the eternal truth where the Master who alone is good (Matt. 19: 16) teaches all his disciples. There, Lord, I hear your voice speaking to me, for one who teaches us speaks to us, but one who does not teach us, even though he may speak, does not speak to us. Who is our teacher except the reliable truth? Even when we are instructed through some mutable creature, we are led to reliable truth when we are learning truly by standing still and listening to him, We then 'rejoice with joy because of the voice of the bridegroom' (John 3:29), and give ourselves to the source whence we have our being. And in this way he is the Beginning because, unless he were constant, there would be no fixed point to which we could return. But when we return from error, it is by knowing that we return. He teaches us that we may know, for he is the Beginning, and he speaks to us.

Why is this, I ask, O Lord my God? I do understand to some degree, but I do not know how to articulate it, except like this: everything which begins to exist and then ceases to exist does so at the due time for its beginning and cessation decreed in that eternal Reason where nothing begins or comes to an end. This eternal Reason is your Word, who is "the Beginning" in that he also speaks to us. The gospel records that he claimed this by word of mouth, making his claim audible to people's outward ears that they might believe him and seek him within themselves and find him in the eternal Truth where he, our sole teacher, instructs apt disciples. There it is that I hear your voice, O Lord, the voice of one who speaks to me, because anyone who truly teaches us speaks to us directly, whereas one who is no true teacher does not speak to us, though speak he may. After all, can anyone teach us, other than stable Truth? When some changeable creature advises us, we are but led to that stable Truth, where we truly learn as we stand and listen to him, and are filled with joy on hearing the Bridegroom's voice, and surrender ourselves once more to him from whom we came. He is "the Beginning" for us in the sense that if he were not abidingly the same, we should have nowhere to return to after going astray. When we turn back from our errant ways it is by acknowledging the truth that we turn back, and he it is who teaches us to acknowledge it, because he is "the Beginning" who speaks to us.

Why is this so, O Lord? I see why after a fashion, but how to express it I do not know, unless by saying that everything that begins or ceases to be, begins or ceases to be at just that moment when it is deemed in the eternal Reason, in which nothing begins or ceases, that it ought to have begun or ceased. That Reason is your Word, who is also the Beginning, for he also speaks to us (Jn 8.25). Thus he says in the Gospel through the flesh; he uttered these outward sounds for the ears of men, to the end that they might believe and seek and find (Matt. 7:7) him inwardly in the eternal Truth, where the good and only Teacher teaches all his disciples. It is here that I hear your voice, O Lord, as you tell me that he who speaks to us is he who teaches us, and that he who does not teach us, even though he speaks, does not speak to us. And who is our teacher, if not the abiding Truth? Even when we receive intimations through your creation, which is subject to change, it is to the abiding Truth that we are led. There we learn in truth, when we abide and listen to him and rejoice greatly at the voice of the Bridegroom (Jn 3.29), and return ourselves to our source. He is the Beginning, for if he did not remain firm while we went astray, there would be no place to which we could return. But when we return from our wandering, it is by coming to know the Truth that we return. In order that we might come to know the Truth, he teaches us, for he is the Beginning, and he speaks to us (Jn 8.25).

Why should this be so, I ask you, Lord my God? I have some grasp of it, but how to explain it is beyond me, unless I can put it this way: All things that begin to be or cease being do so when your eternal reason, which neither begins nor ceases, knows that it ought to begin or cease. That reason is your Word, ‘the origin, since he speaks to us' as such—-for so in the gospel [of John] he spoke in his incarnate self, and these words sounded externally in men's ears, that it might be believed and internally examined, and understood in the eternal truth where all learn from him who is the true and ‘only teacher.' There I listen to your voice speaking to me—for all teachers must speak to us, and those not teaching might speak without speaking to us—and who can teach but the immutable truth? Even when we are pointed toward the truth by a mutable human, we are being guided toward the immutable truth where we truly learn by waiting for and listening to him and, overjoyed with ‘joy at the Bridegroom's voice,' we return ourselves to our own origin. He is our origin, since we would have no place to return after wandering unless he were continuously there. And whenever we return from wandering, it is by understanding that we are returning, and he teaches us to understand this because he is ‘the origin insofar as he speaks to us.'

But please tell me, my Master and God—why? Somehow I see it, but I don't know how to state it except in the following way. Everything that begins or ceases to exist does so at that moment when it is recognized that now it needs to do so; and this is recognized by an eternal reasoning, in which nothing begins and nothing ends.

This act of reasoning is your Word, which is also the principium, "the beginning," or "the first, guiding principle or authority," because it also speaks to us. In this way, in the Gospel the Word speaks through the flesh, and this Word was heard outwardly by human ears so that we would believe, and so that inwardly the Word would be sought and found in eternal truth, where the good teacher, who is the only teacher, teaches all his students.

There, inwardly, I hear your voice, Master, as you speak to me, because the one who speaks to us teaches us. On the other hand, if anyone doesn't teach us, even if he's speaking he's not speaking to us. What, then, teaches us if not the truth that stands fast?

Even when we're prompted by changeable creation, we're led to the truth that stands steady. There we truly learn, when we stand and hear him and rejoice beyond rejoicing at the voice of the betrothed, and return, and restore ourselves to the source of our being.

In this way, it is the beginning, the starting point, the first authority or principle, because unless it stayed steady while we wandered around, there would be no place to return to. When we return from our wandering, we do that by an act of recognition. The Word teaches us, so that we can recognize it as the beginning and the first guiding principal or authority, which speaks to us.

Why is this, I ask you, O Lord my God? I do see it, in a way, but I do not know how to express it, unless it is because all that begins to be and ceases to be begins and ceases at the right time as it is known in the eternal reason where nothing either begins or ceases. This is your eternal Word, who is also the Beginning, because he speaks to us. In this way he speaks to us in the Gospel through the flesh; he proclaimed it outwardly to human ears so that the word might be believed and sought within and found in that eternal Truth where the good Teacher, the only Teacher, teaches all his students. In that eternal Truth, O Lord, I hear your voice, the voice of one who is speaking to me. For anyone who teaches us speaks to us, whereas one who does not teach us does not speak to us, even if he does speak. And indeed what teaches us, besides unwavering Truth? For even when we are admonished by a changeable creature, we are led to unwavering Truth; that is where we truly learn when we stand and listen to him and exult with joy because of the bridegroom's voice, giving ourselves back to him from whom we have our being. And this is why he is the Beginning; for if he did not abide when we went astray, there would be nowhere for us to return. Now when we return from error, it is of course by knowing that we return; and in order that we might know, he teaches us, because he is the Beginning and speaks to us.

Audivi a quodam homine docto, quod solis et lunae ac siderum motus ipsa sint tempora, et non adnui. cur enim non potius omnium corporum motus sint tempora? an vero, si cessarent caeli lumina et moveretur rota figuli, non esset tempus, quo metiremur eos gyros, et diceremus aut aequalibus morulis agi, aut si alias tardius, alias velocius moveretur, alios magis diuturnos esse, alios minus? aut cum haec diceremus, non et nos in tempore loqueremur, aut essent in verbis nostris aliae longae syllabae, aliae breves, nisi quia illae longiore tempore soniussent, istae breviore? deus, dona hominibus videre in parvo communes notitias rerum parvarum atque magnarum. sunt sidera et luminaria caeli in signis et in temporibus et in diebus et in annis. sunt vero; sed nec ego dixerim circuitum illius ligneolae rotae diem esse, nec tamen ideo tempus non esse ille dixerit.

I heard once from a learned man, that the motions of the sun, moon, and stars, constituted time, and I assented not. For why should not the motions of all bodies rather be times? Or, if the lights of heaven should cease, and a potter's wheel run round, should there be no time by which we might measure those whirlings, and say, that either it moved with equal pauses, or if it turned sometimes slower, otherwhiles quicker, that some rounds were longer, other shorter? Or, while we were saying this, should we not also be speaking in time? Or, should there in our words be some syllables short, others long, but because those sounded in a shorter time, these in a longer? God, grant to men to see in a small thing notices common to things great and small. The stars and lights of heaven, are also for signs, and for seasons, and for years, and for days; they are; yet neither should I say, that the going round of that wooden wheel was a day, nor yet he, that it was therefore no time.

I once heard a learned man say that time is simply the movement of the sun and moon and stars. I did not agree. For why should not time rather be the movement of all bodies? Supposing the light of heaven were to cease and the potter's wheel moved on, would there not be time by which we could measure its rotations and say that these were at equal intervals, or some slower, some quicker, some taking longer, some shorter? And if we spoke thus, should we not ourselves be speaking in time: would there not be in our words some syllables long, some short—because some would sound for a longer time, some for a shorter?

O God, grant unto men to see by some small example the elements in common between small things and great. There are stars and the lights of heaven to be for signs and for seasons and for days and years. This is evident, but just as I would not affirm that one turn of that little wooden wheel is a day, neither should my philosopher say that it is no time at all.

I have heard from a certain learned man that the movements of the sun, moon, and stars constitute time, but I did not agree with him. Why should not rather the movement of all bodies be times? In fact, if the lights of heaven should stop, while a potter's wheel was kept moving, would there be no time by which we might measure those rotations? Would we say either that it moved with equal speeds, or if it sometimes moved more slowly and sometimes more swiftly, that some turns were longer and others shorter? Or while we were saying this, would we not also be speaking in time? Or would there be in our words some long syllables and others short, except for the fact that some were sounded for a longer and others for a shorter time? Grant to men, O God, that they may see in a little matter evidence common to things both small and great. The stars and the lights of heaven are "for signs, and for seasons, and for days, and for years." Truly they are such. Yet I should not say that the turning of that little wooden wheel constitutes a day nor under those conditions should that learned man say that there is no time.

I once heard a learned man say that time is nothing but the movement of the sun and the moon and the stars, but I did not agree. Would it not be more likely that time was the movement, not only of heavenly bodies, but of all other bodies as well? If all the lights of the sky ceased to move but the potter's wheel continued to turn, would there not still be time by which we could measure its rotations? Should we no longer be able to say that it turned with a regular rhythm, or that its speed varied, or that some turns took more and others less time? When we said this, should we not be speaking in time? And would not our words consist of syllables of unequal length, simply because more time is required for the pronunciation of some than of others?

O God, grant that men should recognize in some small thing like this potter's wheel the principles which are common to all things, great and small alike. There are stars and other lights in the sky, set there to be portents, and be the measures of time, to mark out the day and the year. This much is plain. But if I cannot claim that a turn of that little wooden wheel is one day, neither can the learned assert that it is not time at all.

I have heard a learned person say that the movements of sun, moon, and stars in themselves constitute time. But I could not agree. Why should not time consist rather of the movement of all physical objects? If the heavenly bodies were to cease and a potter's wheel were revolving, would there be no time by which we could measure its gyrations, and say that its revolutions were equal; or if at one time it moved more slowly and at another time faster, that some rotations took longer, others less? And when we utter these words do not we also speak in time? In our words some syllables are long, others short, in that the sounding of the former requires a longer time, whereas the latter are shorter.

God grant to human minds to discern in a small thing universal truths valid for both small and great matters. There are stars and heavenly luminaries to be 'for signs and for times, and for days and for years' (Gen. 1:14). But I would not say that a revolution of that wooden wheel is a day; and that learned friend could not assert that its rotation was not a period of time.

I was once told by a certain learned man that the movements of the sun, moon and stars themselves constitute time. I did not agree with him. Why, in that case, should not the movements of all corporeal things constitute time? Suppose the luminaries of heaven were to halt, but a potter's wheel went on turning, would there not still be time by which we could measure those rotations, and say either that all of them took the same time, or (if the speed of the wheel varied) that some were of longer duration, others shorter? And when we said this, would we too not be speaking within time; and in the words we used, would there not be some long syllables and some short; and why could that be said of them, unless because some of them had taken a longer time to pronounce than others?

Through this small thing, O God, grant our human minds insight into the principles common to small things and great. The stars and the other luminaries in the sky are there to mark our times and days and years. Yes, granted; but as I would not assert that the revolution of that little wooden wheel constituted a day, so my learned informant on the other hand had no business to say that its gyrations did not occupy a space of time.

I once heard a learned man say that motions of the sun and the moon and the stars are time, but I did not agree. For why are the motions of all physical objects not time instead? Or suppose that the heavenly lights were to cease in their courses, but a potter's wheel were to spin; would there not be time by which we could measure its revolutions and say that it revolved at regular intervals, or that some revolutions were slower and some quicker, some took more time and some less? Or if we did say this, would we not be speaking in time? Or how would some of the syllables of our words be long and some short, were it not because some were pronounced over a longer period of time and some over a shorter? O God, grant men in little things to see the signs that mark things large and small alike. The stars and the heavenly bodies exist over the signs of the zodiac; in periods of time, in days and in years. They exist; but neither would I say that a revolution of my notional little wheel was a day, nor would my learned friend say that for that reason it was not time.

A scholar once told me that time is nothing but the motion of the sun and moon and stars, without my agreeing. If that were true, why should not time be motion in any or all physical objects? If the lights of heaven should go out, but a potter's wheel were still turning, would there be no time by which we could measure its rotation, saying that each takes as long as the others? Or if some rotations are slower, others faster, can we not say that the former takes more time, the latter less? And in the act of saying this, do we not speak in time? Could we call syllables long or short unless some took a longer time, some a shorter time to pronounce? Grant to man, my God, to see in small matters principles that are common to small things and great. The stars and luminaries of the sky are there 'to serve as indications and times, as days and years.' I grant that, and would not maintain that a turn of the potter's wheel marks a day. But that scholar could not claim, either, that it does not mark a time.

I once heard from a certain learned person that the movements of the sun and moon and the other heavenly bodies con­stitute time itself, but I didn't agree. In that case, why shouldn't the movements of all objects constitute time?

Are we really to think that if the luminous objects in the sky stopped while a potter's wheel was still moving, there wouldn't be any time by which we could measure those rotations and say whether they were happening at equal intervals, or whether they were slower at some times and faster at others, or whether some rotations took longer than others?

And in these cosmic circumstances, wouldn't we also be speaking in time when we make these statements here? In the case of our own words, would there be any reason that some syllables are long and others short, except that the former made a sound in a longer space of time and the latter in a shorter space?

God, grant to humankind the ability to see in small things the shared signs of things both small and great. The stars and the great lights of the sky serve as earthly signs, for seasons, for days, for years. These things truly exist; but I wouldn't say that the circuit of that little disc made of wood is a day—yet likewise neither should that learned man say that time, in itself, doesn't exist.

A certain learned person once said to me that the movements of the sun and moon and stars are times, but I did not agree. Why not rather say that the movements of all bodies are times? If the heavenly lights stood still but a potter's wheel moved, would there not be time by which we would measure its revolutions and say that they were of equal periods—or, if the wheel moved at an unsteady speed, that some revolutions took less time and others more? And as we said these things, would not we ourselves be speaking in time? Would not some syllables in our speech be long and others short—and that only because the longer syllables sounded for a longer time and the shorter syllables for a shorter time? God, grant human beings the power to see in small things the common principles of things both small and great. Stars and heavenly lights are for signs and times and days and years. That is certainly true. But I would not say that the rotation of that little wooden wheel is a day; and that learned man should not say that if the heavenly bodies stood still, there would be no time.