On the Death of Satyrus — Book I

We have brought here, dearest brothers, my sacrifice—an undefiled sacrifice, a sacrifice pleasing to God—my lord and brother Satyrus. I did not forget that he was mortal, nor were my feelings mistaken, but grace overflowed even more abundantly. So I have nothing to complain about, but rather have reason to thank God, for I always wanted that if any troubles were to come to either the Church or to me, they should fall on me and on my household instead. Thanks be to God, therefore, that in this time of widespread fear, when everyone dreads what might come from the barbarian invasions, I ended the suffering of everyone through my personal grief, and what I feared for everyone was turned upon me instead. May this be fully accomplished, so that my grief may be a ransom for the grief of all.

1. We have brought hither, dearest brethren, my sacrifice, a sacrifice undefiled, a sacrifice well pleasing to God, my lord and brother Satyrus. I did not forget that he was mortal, nor did my feelings deceive me, but grace abounded more exceedingly. And so I have nothing to complain of, but have cause for thankfulness to God, for I always desired that if any troubles should await either the Church or myself, they should rather fall on me and on my house. Thanks, therefore, be to God, that in this time of common fear, when everything is dreaded from the barbarian movements, I ended the trouble of all by my personal grief, and that I dreaded for all which was turned upon me. And may this be fully accomplished, so that my grief may be a ransom for the grief of all.

Nothing on earth, dearest brethren, was more precious to me, nothing more worthy of love, nothing more dear than such a brother, but public matters come before private ones. And if anyone should ask what his feeling was, he would rather be killed for others than live for himself, because Christ died according to the flesh for all, so that we might learn not to live for ourselves alone.

2. Nothing among things of earth, dearest brethren, was more precious to me, nothing more worthy of love, nothing more dear than such a brother, but public matters come before private. And should any one enquire what was his feeling; he would rather be slain for others than live for himself, because Christ died according to the flesh for all, that we might learn not to live for ourselves alone.

I cannot be ungrateful to God. I must rejoice that I had such a brother rather than grieve that I have lost him, for having him was a gift, while losing him is a debt to be paid. So while I was able, I enjoyed the loan entrusted to me. Now the One who deposited the pledge has taken it back. There is no difference between denying that a pledge has been deposited and grieving when it is returned. Both are untrustworthy, and both put eternal life at risk. It is wrong to refuse repayment, and it is pious to refuse a sacrifice. Furthermore, while a human moneylender can be deceived, the Author of nature, the Lender of all we need, cannot be cheated. Therefore, the larger the loan, the more gratitude is owed for the use of what was given.

3. To this must be added that I cannot be ungrateful to God; for I must rather rejoice that I had such a brother than grieve that I had lost a brother, for the former is a gift, the latter a debt to be paid. And so, as long as I might, I enjoyed the loan entrusted to me, now He Who deposited the pledge has taken it back. There is no difference between denying that a pledge has been deposited and grieving at its being returned. In each there is untrustworthiness, and in each [ eternal] life is risked. It is a fault if you refuse repayment, and piety if you refuse a sacrifice. Since, too, the lender of money can be made a fool of, but the Author of nature, the Lender of all that we need, cannot be cheated. And so the larger the amount of the loan, so much the more gratitude is due for the use of the capital.

4. Therefore, I cannot be ungrateful concerning my brother, for he has given back what was common to nature and has gained what belongs to grace alone. For who would refuse the common lot? Who would grieve that a pledge specially entrusted to him is taken away, since the Father gave up His only Son to death for us? Who would think that he should be exempted from the lot of dying, when he has not been exempted from the lot of being born? It is a great mystery of divine love that not even in Christ was the death of the body made an exception. And although He was the Lord of nature, He did not refuse the law of the flesh which He had taken upon Himself. It is necessary for me to die, but for Him it was not necessary. Could not He Who said of His servant, "If I will that he remain until I come, what is that to you?" have remained as He was, if He had so willed? But by my brother's continued life here, he would have destroyed his reward and my sacrifice. What greater consolation is there for us than that Christ also died according to the flesh? Or why should I weep too violently for my brother, knowing as I do that divine love could not die?

4. Wherefore, I cannot be ungrateful concerning my brother, for he has given back that which was common to nature, and has gained what is peculiar to grace alone. For who would refuse the common lot? Who would grieve that a pledge specially entrusted to him is taken away, since the Father gave up His only Son to death for us? Who would think that he ought to be excepted from the lot of dying, who has not been excepted from the lot of being born? It is a great mystery of divine love, that not even in Christ was exception made of the death of the body; and although He was the Lord of nature, He refused not the law of the flesh which He had taken upon Him. It is necessary for me to die, for Him it was not necessary. Could not He Who said of His servant, If I will that he tarry thus until I come, what is that to you? John 21:22 not have remained as He was, if so He willed? But by continuance of my brother's life here, he would have destroyed his reward and my sacrifice. What is a greater consolation to us than that according to the flesh Christ also died? Or why should I weep too violently for my brother, knowing as I do that that divine love could not die.

Why should I alone weep more than others for someone whom you all weep for? I have combined my personal grief with the grief of everyone, especially because my tears are of no use, whereas yours strengthen faith and bring consolation. You who are rich weep, and by weeping prove that accumulated riches are of no help for safety, since death cannot be postponed by a money payment, and the last day takes away both the rich and the poor alike. You who are old weep, because in him you fear that you see the fate of your own children; and for this reason, since you cannot extend the life of the body, train your children not for bodily pleasure but for virtuous duties. And you who are young weep too, because the end of life is not necessarily old age. The poor also wept, and—which is much more valuable and much more fruitful—washed away his sins with their tears. Those are redeeming tears, those are groanings which conceal the grief of death, that grief which through the abundance of eternal joy covers over the feeling of former grief. And so, though the funeral is that of a private person, the mourning is public; and therefore the weeping cannot last long when it is made holy by the affection of all.

5. Why should I alone weep more than others for him for whom you all weep? I have merged my personal grief in the grief of all, especially because my tears are of no use, whereas yours strengthen faith and bring consolation. You who are rich weep, and by weeping prove that riches gathered together are of no avail for safety, since death cannot be put off by a money payment, and the last day carries off alike the rich and the poor. You that are old weep, because in him you fear that you see the lot of your own children; and for this reason, since you cannot prolong the life of the body, train your children not to bodily enjoyment but to virtuous duties. And you that are young weep too, because the end of life is not the ripeness of old age. The poor too wept, and, which is of much more worth, and much more fruitful, washed away his transgressions with their tears. Those are redeeming tears, those are groanings which hide the grief of death, that grief which through the plenteousness of eternal joy covers over the feeling of former grief. And so, though the funeral be that of a private person, yet is the mourning public; and therefore cannot the weeping last long which is hallowed by the affection of all.

For why should I weep for you, my most loving brother, who were torn from me so that you might become the brother of all? I have not lost you but changed the way we relate to each other. Before, we were inseparable in body; now we are undivided in affection, for you remain with me and always will. Indeed, while you were living with me, our homeland never took you away from me, nor did you ever prefer our homeland to me. And now you have become a guarantee for that other country, because I am beginning to feel less like a stranger there where the better part of myself already is. I was never wholly absorbed in myself—the greater part of each of us was in the other. Yet we were each of us in Christ, in whom is the whole sum of all and the portion of each person individually. This grave is more pleasing to me than your birthplace, because in it is the fruit not of nature but of grace. For in that body which now lies lifeless is the better work of my life, since in this body too, which I still carry, is the richer portion of yourself.

6. For why should I weep for you, my most loving brother, who wast thus torn from me that you might be the brother of all? For I have not lost but changed my intercourse with you; before we were inseparable in the body, now we are undivided in affection; for you remain with me, and ever will remain. And, indeed, while you were living with me, our country never tore you from me, nor did you yourself ever prefer our country to me; and now you have become surety for that other country, for I begin to be no stranger there where the better portion of myself already is. I was never wholly engrossed in myself, but the greater part of each of us was in the other, yet we were each of us in Christ, in Whom is the whole sum of all, and the portion of each severally. This grave is more pleasing to me than your natal soil, in which is the fruit not of nature but of grace, for in that body which now lies lifeless lies the better work of my life, since in this body, too, which I bear is the richer portion of yourself.

7. I wish that just as my memory and gratitude are devoted to you, whatever time I have left to breathe this air could be breathed into your life, and that half of my time could be taken from me and added to yours! It would have been right that for those whose use of inherited property was always undivided, the time of life should not have been divided, or at least that we who always shared everything in common during life without distinction should not have a difference in our deaths.

7. And would that, as memory and gratitude are devoted to you, so, too, whatever time I have still to breathe this air, I could breathe it into your life, and that half of my time might be struck off from me and be added to yours! For it had been just that for those, whose use of hereditary property was always undivided, the period of life should not have been divided, or at least that we, who always without difference shared everything in common during life, should not have a difference in our deaths.

But now, brother, where shall I go, or where shall I turn? The ox seeks its companion and feels incomplete, and by its repeated bellowing shows its tender longing when the one with whom it has been used to pulling the plough is missing. And shall I, my brother, not long for you? Or can I ever forget you, with whom I always pulled the plough of this life? In work I was weaker, but in love more closely bound; not so much capable through my strength, as endurable through your patience, who with the care of anxious affection always protected my side with yours, as a brother in your love, as a father in your care, as the older in watchfulness, as the younger in respect. So in the one relationship you fulfilled toward me the duties of many, so that I grieve not for one person only but for many lost in you, in whom alone flattery was unknown and dutifulness was displayed. For you had nothing to which you could add by pretense, since everything was contained in your dutifulness, so as neither to receive addition nor await any change.

8. But now, brother, whither shall I advance, or whither shall I turn? The ox seeks his fellow, and conceives itself incomplete, and by frequent lowing shows its tender longing, if perchance that one is wanting with whom it has been wont to draw the plough. And shall I, my brother, not long after you? Or can I ever forget you, with whom I always drew the plough of this life? In work I was inferior, but in love more closely bound; not so much fit through my strength, as endurable through your patience, who with the care of anxious affection ever protected my side with yours, as a brother in your love, as a father in your care, as older in watchfulness, as younger in respect. So in the one degree of relationship you expended on me the duties of many, so that I long after not one only but many lost in you, in whom alone flattery was unknown, dutifulness was portrayed. For you had nothing to which to add by pretence, inasmuch as all was comprised in your dutifulness, so as neither to receive addition nor await a change.

Where am I going in my excessive grief, forgetting my duty and thinking only of the kindness I received? The Apostle calls me back and puts a restraint on my sorrow, as it were, saying what you just heard: We would not have you be ignorant, brothers, concerning those who sleep, so that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope. Forgive me, dearest brothers. For we cannot all say: Be imitators of me, as I also am of Christ. But if you are looking for someone to imitate, you have One whom you may imitate. Not everyone is suited to teach, though I wish everyone were ready to learn.

9. But whither am I going, in my immoderate grief, forgetful of my duty, mindful of kindness received? The Apostle calls me back, and as it were puts a bit upon my sorrow, saying, as you heard just now: We would not that you should be ignorant, brethren, concerning them that sleep, that you be not sorrowful, as the rest which have no hope. 1 Thessalonians 4:14 Pardon me, dearest brethren. For we are not all able to say: Be imitators of me, as I also am of Christ. 1 Corinthians 4:16 But if you seek one to imitate, you have One Whom you may imitate. All are not fitted to teach, would that all were apt to learn.

We have not committed any serious sin by our tears. Not all weeping comes from unbelief or weakness. Natural grief is one thing, distrustful sadness is another, and there is a very great difference between longing for what you have lost and lamenting that you have lost it. Grief is not the only source of tears—joy also has its own tears. Both piety prompts weeping, and prayer waters the couch, and supplication, according to the prophet's saying, washes the bed. Their friends made great mourning when the patriarchs were buried. Tears, then, are marks of devotion, not causes of grief. I confess, then, that I too wept, but the Lord also wept. He wept for one not related to Him, I for my brother. He wept for all in weeping for one, I will weep for you in all, my brother.

10. But we have not incurred any grievous sin by our tears. Not all weeping proceeds from unbelief or weakness. Natural grief is one thing, distrustful sadness is another, and there is a very great difference between longing for what you have lost and lamenting that you have lost it. Not only grief has tears, joy also has tears of its own. Both piety excites weeping, and prayer waters the couch, and supplication, according to the prophet's saying, washes the bed. Their friends made a great mourning when the patriarchs were buried. Tears, then, are marks of devotion, not producers of grief. I confess, then, that I too wept, but the Lord also wept. He wept for one not related to Him, I for my brother. He wept for all in weeping for one, I will weep for you in all, my brother.

He wept for what affected us, not himself, because the Godhead does not shed tears. But he wept in that nature in which he was sad. He wept in that nature in which he was crucified, in which he died, and in which he was buried. He wept in that nature which the prophet brings to our minds today: "Mother Zion shall say, A man, yes, a man was made in her, and the Most High himself established her." He wept in that nature in which he called Zion his mother, born in Judea and conceived by the Virgin. But according to his divine nature he could not have a mother, for he is the Creator of his mother. As far as he was made, it was not by divine but by human generation, because he was made man—God was born.

11. He wept for what affected us, not Himself; for the Godhead sheds no tears; but He wept in that nature in which He was sad; He wept in that in which He was crucified, in that in which He died, in that in which He was buried. He wept in that which the prophet this day brought to our minds: Mother Sion shall say, A man, yea, a man was made in her, and the Most High Himself established her. He wept in that nature in which He called Sion Mother, born in Judæa, conceived by the Virgin. But according to His Divine Nature He could not have a mother, for He is the Creator of His mother. So far as He was made, it was not by divine but by human generation, because He was made man, God was born.

But you read in another place: Unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given. In the word Child there is an indication of age, while in the word Son there is the fullness of the Godhead. Made of His mother, born of the Father—yet the same Person was both born and given—you must not think of two but of one. For there is one Son of God, both born of the Father and sprung from the Virgin, differing in order but agreeing in one name. The lesson just heard also teaches this: a man was made in her and the Most High Himself established her. He is indeed man in the body, the Most High in power. And though He is God and man in diversity of nature, yet He is at the same time one in each nature. One property, then, is peculiar to His own nature; another He has in common with us. But in both He is one, and in both He is perfect.

12. But you read in another place: Unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given. Isaiah 9:6 In the word Child is an indication of age, in that of Son the fullness of the Godhead. Made of His mother, born of the Father yet the Same Person was both born and given, you must not think of two but of one. For one is the Son of God, both born of the Father and sprung from the Virgin, differing in order, but in name agreeing in one, as, too, the lesson just heard teaches for a man was made in her and the Most High Himself established her; man indeed in the body, the Most High in power. And though He be God and man in diversity of nature, yet is He at the same time one in each nature. One property, then, is peculiar to His own nature, another He has in common with us, but in both is He one, and in both is He perfect.

Therefore it is no wonder that God made Him to be both Lord and Christ. He made Him Jesus—that is, Him who received this name in His bodily nature. He made Him of whom the patriarch David also writes: Mother Sion shall say, A man, yes, a man is made in her. But being made man, He is unlike the Father not in Godhead but in His body; not separated from the Father, but differing in office; abiding united in power, but separated in the mystery of the Passion.

13. Therefore it is no subject of wonder that God made Him to be both Lord and Christ. He made Him Jesus, Him, that is, Who received the name in His bodily nature; He made Him of Whom also the patriarch David writes: Mother Sion shall say, A man, yea, a man is made in her. But being made man He is unlike the Father, not in Godhead but in His body; not separated from the Father, but differing in office, abiding united in power, but separated in the mystery of the Passion.

This topic requires more arguments to demonstrate the authority of the Father, the special property of the Son, and the Unity of the whole Trinity. But today I have taken on the task of offering consolation, not engaging in discussion, even though it is usual when consoling someone to draw the mind away from grief by turning it toward discussion. However, I would rather temper the grief than change the affection, so that the longing may be eased rather than put to sleep. I have no desire to turn too far away from my brother or be carried off by other thoughts, since I have undertaken this discourse as a way of accompanying him, so that I might follow in affection him as he departs and embrace in my mind the one I see with my eyes. It gives me pleasure to fix my whole gaze on him, to surround him with loving affection, while my mind is numb and I feel as though he is not lost since I am still able to see him present. I think of him as not dead, since I do not yet perceive that my service to him is no longer needed—service to which I had devoted my whole life and every breath I draw.

14. The treatment of this topic demands more arguments, by which to demonstrate the authority of the Father, the special property of the Son, and the Unity of the whole Trinity; but today I have undertaken the office of consolation, not of discussion, although it is customary in consoling to draw away the mind from its grief by application to discussion. But I would rather moderate the grief than alter the affection, that the longing may rather be assuaged than lulled to sleep. For I have no wish to turn away too far from my brother, and to be led off by other thoughts, seeing that this discourse has been undertaken, as it were, for the sake of accompanying him, that I might follow in affection him departing, and embrace in mind him whom I see with my eyes. For it gives me pleasure to fix the whole gaze of my eyes on him, to encompass him with kindly endearments; while my mind is stupefied, and I feel as though he were not lost whom I am able still to see present; and I think him not dead, my services to whom I do not as yet perceive to be wanting, services to which I had devoted the whole of my life and the drawing of every breath.

What, then, can I give back in return for such kindness and such efforts? I had made you, my brother, my heir; you have left me as the heir. I hoped to leave you as the survivor, and you have left me. In return for your kindnesses, so that I might repay your good deeds, I gave wishes; now I have lost my wishes but not your good deeds. What shall I, succeeding to my own heir, do? What shall I do who outlive my own life? What shall I do, no longer sharing this light which still shines on me? What thanks, what good services, can I repay to you? You have nothing from me but tears. And perhaps, secure in your reward, you do not desire those tears which are all that I have left. For even when you were still alive, you forbade me to weep, and showed that our grief was more painful to you than your own death. Tears are commanded to flow no longer, and weeping is held back. And gratitude to you forbids them too, lest while we weep for our loss we seem to despair concerning your merits.

15. What, then, can I pay back in return for such kindness and such pains? I had made you, my brother, my heir; you have left me as the heir; I hoped to leave you as survivor, and you have left me. I, in return for your kindnesses, that I might repay your benefits, gave wishes; now I have lost my wishes yet not your benefits. What shall I, succeeding to my own heir, do? What shall I do who outlive my own life? What shall I do, no longer sharing this light which yet shines on me? What thanks, what good offices, can I repay to you? You have nothing from me but tears. And perchance, secure of your reward, you desire not those tears which are all that I have left. For even when you were yet alive, you forbade me to weep, and showed that our grief was more pain to you than your own death. Tears are bidden to flow no longer, and weeping is repressed. And gratitude to you forbids them too, lest while we weep for our loss we seem to despair concerning your merits.

But for me at least, you lessen the bitterness of that grief. I have nothing to fear now, when I used to fear for you. I have nothing left that the world can now snatch from me. Although our holy sister still survives, venerable for her blameless life, your equal in character and not lacking in kind service, we both used to fear more for you. We felt that all the sweetness of this life was concentrated in you. To live for your sake was a delight; to die for you would be no cause for sorrow, for we both used to pray that you might survive us. It gave us no pleasure to think we might survive you. When did our very soul not shudder when such a dread touched us? How our minds were dismayed by the news of your sickness!

16. But for myself at least you lessen the bitterness of that grief; I have nothing to fear who used to fear for you. I have nothing which the world can now snatch from me. Although our holy sister still survives, venerable for her blameless life, your equal in character, and not falling short in kindly offices; yet we both used to fear more for you, we felt that all the sweetness of this life was stored up in you. To live for your sake was a delight, to die for you were no cause of sorrow, for we both used to pray that you might survive, it was no pleasure that we should survive you. When did not our very soul shudder when a dread of this kind touched us? How were our minds dismayed by the tidings of your sickness!

How tragic our hopes turned out to be! We thought the one restored to us was the one we now see carried away, and we now understand that your departure from this world was granted through your prayers to the holy martyr Lawrence! I wish you had obtained not only a safe journey home, but also a longer life! You could have received many more years, since you were able to secure your return home. And I do thank You, Almighty Everlasting God, that You have not denied us at least this final comfort, that You granted us the longed-for return of our beloved brother from the regions of Sicily and Africa; for he was taken from us so soon after his return, as if his death had been delayed only for this purpose—that he might come back to his brothers.

17. Alas for our wretched hopes! We thought that he was restored to us whom we see carried off, and we now recognize that your departure hence was obtained by your vows to the holy martyr Lawrence! And indeed I would that you had obtained not only a safe passage hence, but also a longer time of life! You could have obtained many years of life, since you were able to obtain your departure hence. And I indeed thank You, Almighty Everlasting God, that You have not denied us at least this last comfort, that You have granted us the longed-for return of our much loved brother from the regions of Sicily and Africa; for he was snatched away so soon after his return as though his death were delayed for this alone, that he might return to his brethren.

Now I clearly have my pledge that no change can ever tear from me. I have the relics I can embrace, I have the tomb I can cover with my body, I have the grave on which I can lie. And I will believe that I am more pleasing to God because I will rest upon the bones of that holy body. If only I had been able in the same way to place my body in the path of your death! If you had been attacked with a sword, I would have preferred to offer myself to be pierced in your place. If I could have called back your life as it was slipping away, I would have preferred to offer my own.

18. Now, I clearly have my pledge which no change can any more tear from me; I have the relics which I may embrace, I have the tomb which I may cover with my body, I have the grave on which I may lie, and I shall believe that I am more acceptable to God, because I shall rest upon the bones of that holy body. Would that I had been able in like manner to place my body in the way of your death! Had you been attacked with the sword, I would have rather offered myself to be pierced for you; had I been able to recall your life as it was passing away, I would have rather offered my own.

It did me no good to receive your last breath or to have breathed into your mouth as you were dying, because I thought that either I would receive your death myself or transfer my life to you. What a sad yet sweet pledge that last kiss was! What misery there was in that embrace, in which your lifeless body began to grow stiff and the last breath disappeared! I tightened my arms, but I had already lost the one I was holding. I drew in your last breath with my mouth so that I might share your death. But somehow that breath became life-giving to me, and even in death it spread the fragrance of a greater love. And if I was unable to extend your life with my breath, I wish that at least the strength of your last breath had been transferred into my mind, and that our mutual affection had inspired me with that purity and innocence of yours. You would have left me, dearest brother, this inheritance—one that would not strike my feelings with tears of grief but would commend your heir through remarkable grace.

19. It profited me nothing to receive your last breath, nor to have breathed into the mouth of you dying, for I thought that either I myself should receive your death, or should transfer my life to you. O that sad, yet sweet pledge of the last kiss! O the misery of that embrace, in which the lifeless body began to stiffen, the last breath vanished! I tightened my arms indeed, but had already lost him whom I was holding; I drew in your last breath with my mouth, that I might share your death. But in some way that breath became lifegiving to me, and even in death diffused an odour of greater love. And if I was unable to lengthen your life by my breath, would that at least the strength of your last breath might have been transfused into my mind, and that our affection might have inspired me with that purity and innocence of yours. You would have left me, dearest brother, this inheritance, which would not smite the affections with tears of grief, but commend your heir by notable grace.

What should I do now, since all the sweetness, all the comfort, and in fact all the pleasures of that life are lost to me? You alone were my comfort at home and my delight when away. You were my counselor in decision-making, the one who shared my troubles, who turned away my worry, and who drove away my sadness. You were the protector of my actions and the defender of my thoughts. Finally, you were the only one who took care of both household and public affairs. I call your holy soul to witness that when building the church, I often worried that I might displease you. When you returned, you even scolded me about your delay. Whether at home or away, you were the instructor and teacher of the priest, not allowing him to think about domestic matters while taking care to handle public affairs. But I need not worry about seeming to speak too proudly, because this is the praise you deserve: without displeasing anyone, you both managed your brother's household and enhanced the reputation of his priesthood.

20. What, then, shall I now do, since all the sweetness, all the solace, in fine, all the charms of that life are lost to me? For you were alone my solace at home, my charm abroad; you, I say, my adviser in counsel, the sharer in my cares, the averter of anxiety, the driver away of sorrow; you were the protector of my acts and the defender of my thoughts; you, lastly, the only one on whom rested care of home and of public matters. I call your holy soul to witness that, in the building of the church, I often feared lest I might displease you. Lastly, when you came back you chided your delay. So were you, at home and abroad, the instructor and teacher of the priest, that you did not allow him to think of domestic matters, and took thought to care for public matters. But I may not fear to seem to speak boastingly, for this is your meed of praise, that you, without displeasing any, both managed your brother's house and recommend his priesthood.

I truly feel my mind being moved by recalling your acts of service and listing your virtues, and yet in experiencing this I find my rest. Although these memories renew my grief, they nevertheless bring pleasure. Can I possibly not think of you, or ever think of you without tears? And will I ever be able either not to remember such a brother, or to remember him without tearful gratitude? For what has ever brought me pleasure that did not have its source in you? What has ever been a pleasure to me without you, or to you without me? Did we not have every habit in common, almost down to our very sight and our sleep? Were our desires ever in disagreement? And what action did we not take together? We seemed almost, in lifting our feet, to be moving each other's body.

21. I feel, indeed, that my mind is touched by the repetition of your services and the enumeration of your virtues, and yet in being thus affected I find my rest, and although these memories renew my grief, they nevertheless bring pleasure. Am I able either not to think of you, or ever to think of you without tears? And shall I ever be able either not to remember such a brother, or to remember him without tearful gratitude? For what has ever been pleasant to me that has not had its source in you? What, I say, has ever been a pleasure to me without you, or to you without me? Had we not every practice in common, almost to our very eyesight and our sleep? Were our wills ever at variance? And what step did we not take in common? So that we almost seemed in raising our feet to move each other's body.

But whenever either of us had to go out without the other, you would think his side was left undefended, you could see his face was troubled, you would assume his soul was sorrowful, the familiar grace and usual energy did not shine through, and the separation was frightening to everyone, making them afraid of some illness. It seemed so strange to everyone that we were apart. I certainly, unable to bear my brother's absence and constantly thinking about it, kept turning my head searching for him as if he were present, and I seemed to myself actually to see him and speak to him. But when my hope was disappointed, I felt as if I were dragging a yoke on my bent neck, moving forward with difficulty, meeting others with hesitation, and hurrying back home, since I had no pleasure in going farther without you.

22. But if ever either had to go forth without the other, one would think that his side was unprotected, one could see his countenance troubled, one would suppose that his soul was sad, the accustomed grace, the usual vigour did not shine forth, the loneliness was a subject of dread to all, and made them fearful of some sickness. Such a strange thing it seemed to all that we were separated. I certainly, impatient at my brother's absence, and having it constantly in mind, kept on turning my head seeking him, as it were, present, and seemed to myself then to see him and speak to him. But if I was disappointed in my hope, I seemed to myself, as it were, to be dragging a yoke on my bowed down neck, to advance with difficulty, to meet others with diffidence, and to return home hurriedly, since it gave me no pleasure to go farther without you.

When we both had to go out together, we took no more steps than we exchanged words, and our pace was no faster than our conversation. We walked less for the exercise than for the pleasure of talking, as each of us hung on the other's words. We didn't focus on watching the scenery as we went along, but listened to each other's eager conversation, took in the kindness in each other's eyes, and delighted in our brother's presence. How I used to quietly admire your virtues to myself, how I congratulated myself that God had given me such a brother—so modest, so capable, so innocent, so straightforward—so much so that when I thought of your innocence I began to doubt your capability, and when I saw your capability I could hardly believe your innocence! But you combined both qualities with remarkable completeness.

23. But when we both had to go forth, there were not more steps on the way than words, nor was our pace quicker than our talk, and it was less for the sake of walking than for the pleasure of conversing, for each of us hung on the lips of the other. We thought not of gazing intently on the view as we passed along, but listened to each other's anxious talk, drank in the kindly expression of the eyes, and inhaled the delight of the brother's appearance. How I used silently to admire within myself your virtues, how I congratulated myself that God had given me such a brother, so modest, so capable, so innocent, so simple, so that when I thought of your innocence I began to doubt your capability, when I saw your capability I could hardly imagine your innocence! But you combined both with wonderful perfection.

24. Finally, what we both had been unable to accomplish, you achieved alone. Prosper, as I hear, congratulated himself because he thought that on account of my priesthood he would not need to restore what he had stolen, but he found your authority alone to be greater than that of both of us together. And so he paid everything back, and was not ungrateful for your moderation, and did not mock your humility. But for whom, brother, did you seek to obtain that? We wanted the reward of your labors to be what actually proved them. You accomplished everything, and when you returned after doing all this, you alone, who should be preferred above all, are taken from us; as if you had postponed death for this purpose, that you might fulfill the duty of love, and then carry away the prize for excellence.

24. Lastly, what we both had been unable to effect, you accomplished alone. Prosper, as I hear, congratulated himself because he thought that on account of my priesthood he need not restore what he had purloined, but he found your power alone to be greater than that of us both together. And so he paid all, and was not ungrateful for your moderation, and did not scoff at your modesty. But for whom, brother, did you seek to gain that? We wished that should be the reward of your labours which was the proof of them. You accomplished everything, and when having done all you returned, you alone, who art to be preferred to all, art torn from us; as if you had put off death for this end, that you might fulfil the office of affection, and then carry off the palm for capability.

How little, dear brother, did the honors of this world delight us, since they separated us from one another! We accepted them not because we desired to gain them, but so that there would be no appearance of cheap pretense. Or perhaps they were granted to us so that, since you were going to destroy our joy by your early death, we might learn to live without each other.

25. How little, dearest brother, did the honours of this world delight us, because they separated us from one another! And we accepted them, not because the acquisition of them was to be desired, but that there might be no appearance of paltry dissimulation. Or perhaps they were therefore granted to us, that, inasmuch as by your early death you were about to shatter our pleasure, we might learn to live without each other.

I recognize the anxious dread of my mind when I often review what I have written. I tried to stop you, brother, from going to Africa yourself, and wanted you instead to send someone else. I was afraid to let you make that journey, to trust you to the waves, and a greater fear than usual came over my mind. But you made the arrangements for the journey and organized the business, and, as I hear, you entrusted yourself again to the waves in an old and leaky ship. Since you were aiming for speed, you set caution aside; eager to do me a favor, you made nothing of your danger.

26. And indeed I recognize the foreboding dread of my mind, when I often go again through what I have written. I endeavoured to restrain you, brother, from visiting Africa yourself, and wished you rather to send some one. I was afraid to let you go that journey, to trust you to the waves, and a greater fear than usual came over my mind; but you arranged the journey, and order the business, and, as I hear, entrusted yourself again to the waves in an old and leaky vessel. For since you were aiming at speed, you set caution aside; eager to do me a kindness, you made nothing of your danger.

Oh, what deceptive joy! How uncertain is the course of earthly events! We thought that the one who had returned from Africa, who came back from the sea, who survived shipwreck, could no longer be taken from us. Yet even though he was on land, we suffered an even more terrible shipwreck, because his death is a shipwreck for us—the death of someone whom shipwreck at sea could not kill because of his strong swimming. For what pleasure remains for us, now that such a precious treasure has been taken away, now that such a brilliant light in this world's darkness has been put out? In him, we have lost an honor not only to our family but to our entire homeland.

27. O deceitful joy! O the uncertain course of earthly affairs! We thought that he who was returned from Africa, restored from the sea, preserved after shipwreck, could not now be snatched from us; but, though on land, we suffered a more grievous shipwreck, for the death of him whom shipwreck at sea owing to strong swimming could not kill is shipwreck to us. For what enjoyment remains to us, from whom so sweet an ornament has been taken, so bright a light in this world's darkness has been extinguished? For in him an ornament not only of our family but of the whole fatherland has perished.

I am deeply grateful to you, dearest brothers and sisters, holy people, that you consider my grief to be your own, that you feel this loss as if it had happened to you personally, and that you offer me the tears of the whole city, of every age, and the good wishes of every social rank, with extraordinary affection. This is not merely private sympathy, but rather a kind of service and gift of public goodwill. And if any fellow-feeling with me because of losing such a brother touches you, I receive abundant benefit from it—I have proof of your love. I would prefer that my brother were still alive, but public kindness is very pleasant in good times and very comforting in times of trouble.

28. I feel, indeed, the deepest gratitude to you, dearest brethren, holy people, that you esteem my grief as no other than your own, that you feel this bereavement as having happened to yourselves, that you offer me the tears of the whole city, of every age, and the good wishes of every rank, with unusual affection. For this is not the grief of private sympathy, but as it were a service and offering of public good-will. And should any sympathy with me because of the loss of such a brother touch you, I have abundant fruit from it, I have the pledge of your affection. I might prefer that my brother were living, but yet public kindness is in prosperity very pleasant, and in adversity very grateful.

And, indeed, such great kindness seems to me to deserve no ordinary gratitude. For it is not without purpose that the widows in the Acts of the Apostles are described as weeping when Tabitha was dead, or that the crowd in the Gospel, moved by the widow's tears, accompanied the funeral of the young man who was to be raised again. There is, then, no doubt that through your tears the protection of the apostles is obtained—no doubt, I say, that Christ is moved to mercy when He sees you weeping. Though He has not now touched the bier, yet He has received the spirit commended to Him, and if He has not called the dead by His bodily voice, yet He has by the authority of His divine power delivered my brother's soul from the pains of death and from the attacks of wicked spirits. And though the dead man has not sat up on the bier, yet he has found rest in Christ; and if he has not spoken to us, yet he sees those things which are above us, and rejoices that he now sees higher things than we do. For through the things we read in the Gospels we understand what shall be, and what we see at present is a sign of what is to come.

29. And, indeed, so great kindness seems to me to merit no ordinary gratitude. For not without a purpose are the widows in the Acts of the Apostles described as weeping when Tabitha was dead, Acts 9:39 or the crowd in the Gospel, moved by the widow's tears and accompanying the funeral of the young man who was to be raised again. Luke 7:12 There is, then, no doubt that by your tears the protection of the apostles is obtained; no doubt, I say, that Christ is moved to mercy, seeing you weeping. Though He has not now touched the bier, yet He has received the spirit commended to Him, and if He have not called the dead by the bodily voice, yet He has by the authority of His divine power delivered my brother's soul from the pains of death and from the attacks of wicked spirits. And though he that was dead has not sat up on the bier, yet he has found rest in Christ; and if he have not spoken to us, yet he sees those things which are above us, and rejoices in that he now sees higher things than we. For by the things which we read in the Gospels we understand what shall be, and what we see at present is a sign of what is to be.

He had no need to be raised again for a temporary life, since the resurrection for eternity awaits him. For why should he fall back into this wretched and miserable state of decay and return to this sorrowful life, when we ought instead to rejoice at his rescue from such imminent evils and threatening dangers? If no one mourns for Enoch, who was taken up when the world was at peace and wars were not raging, but the people rather congratulated him, as Scripture says concerning him: "He was taken away, lest wickedness should alter his understanding," how much more rightly must this now be said, when to the dangers of the world is added the uncertainty of life. He was taken away so that he might not fall into the hands of the barbarians; he was taken away so that he might not see the ruin of the whole earth, the end of the world, the burial of his relatives, the death of fellow citizens; and finally, so that he might not see—which is more bitter than any death—the defilement of the holy virgins and widows.

30. He had no need of being raised again for time, for whom the raising again for eternity is waiting. For why should he fall back into this wretched and miserable state of corruption, and return to this mournful life, for whose rescue from such imminent evils and threatening dangers we ought rather to rejoice? For if no one mourns for Enoch, who was translated Genesis 5:24 when the world was at peace and wars were not raging, but the people rather congratulated him, as Scripture says concerning him: He was taken away, lest that wickedness should alter his understanding, Wisdom 4:11 with how much greater justice must this now be said, when to the dangers of the world is added the uncertainty of life. He was taken away that he might not fall into the hands of the barbarians; he was taken away that he might not see the ruin of the whole earth, the end of the world, the burial of his relatives, the death of fellow citizens; lest, lastly, which is more bitter than any death, he should see the pollution of the holy virgins and widows.

So then, brother, I consider you blessed both in how you lived your life and in the timing of your death. You were taken away not from us but from dangers; you did not lose life but escaped the fear of threatening troubles. If you knew with the compassion of your holy mind for those close to you that Italy is now oppressed by the nearness of the enemy, how you would groan, how you would grieve that our safety depends entirely on the barrier of the Alps, and that the protection of purity consists only in barricades of trees! With what sorrow you would mourn that your friends are separated from the enemy by such a slight division—from an enemy who is both impure and cruel, who spares neither chastity nor life.

31. So then, brother, I esteem you happy both in the beauty of your life and in the opportuneness of your death. For you were snatched away not from us but from dangers; thou did not lose life but escaped the fear of threatening troubles. For with the pity of your holy mind for those near to you, if you knew that Italy was now oppressed by the nearness of the enemy, how would you groan, how would you grieve that our safety wholly depended on the barrier of the Alps, and that the protection of purity consisted in barricades of trees! With what sorrow would you mourn that your friends were separated from the enemy by so slight a division, from an enemy, too, both impure and cruel, who spares neither chastity nor life.

How, I ask, could you have endured these things that we are forced to endure, and perhaps (which is more terrible) to witness—virgins violated, small children torn from their parents' arms and thrown onto spears, bodies consecrated to God defiled, and even elderly widows assaulted? How could you have endured these things, you who even with your dying breath, forgetting yourself yet still thinking of us, warned us about the barbarian invasion, saying that you had not spoken in vain when you told us we should flee? Perhaps it was because you saw that your death would leave us unprotected, and you acted not from weakness of spirit but from love, and were weak in relation to us but strong in yourself. For when the noble Symmachus your father summoned you home because Italy was reported to be aflame with war, because you were heading into danger, because you were likely to encounter enemies, you answered that this was precisely why you were coming—so that you would not abandon us in danger, so that you might show yourself a partner in your brother's peril.

32. How, I say, could thou bear these things which we are compelled to endure, and perchance (which is more grievous) to behold virgins ravished, little children torn from the embrace of their parents and tossed on javelins, the bodies consecrated to God defiled, and even aged widows polluted? How, I say, could thou endure these things, who even with your last breath, forgetful of yourself, yet not without thought for us, warned us concerning the invasion of the barbarians, saying that not in vain had you said that we ought to flee. Perchance was it because you saw that we were left destitute by your death, and you did it, not out of weakness of spirit, but from affection, and wast weak with respect to us, but strong with respect to yourself. For when you were summoned home by the noble man Symmachus your parent, because Italy was said to be blazing with war, because you were going into danger, because you were likely to fall among enemies, you answered that this was the cause of your coming, that you might not fail us in danger, that you might show yourself a sharer in your brother's peril.

Happy, then, was he in dying at such a timely moment, because he has not been kept alive for this sorrow. Certainly you are happier than your holy sister, who is deprived of your comfort, anxious about her own modesty, recently blessed with two brothers, now miserable because of both, able neither to follow the one nor to leave the other. For her, your tomb is a dwelling place, and the burial site of your body is a home. And if only even this resting place were safe! Our food is mixed with weeping and our drink with tears, for you have given us the bread of tears as food, and tears to drink in large measure—no, even beyond measure.

33. Happy, then, was he in so opportune a death, because he has not been preserved for this sorrow. Certainly you are happier than your holy sister, deprived of your comfort, anxious for her own modesty, lately blessed with two brothers, now wretched because of both, being able neither to follow the one nor to leave the other; for whom your tomb is a lodging, and the burying-place of your body a home. And would that even this resting-place were safe! Our food is mingled with weeping and our drink with tears, for you have given us the bread of tears as food, and tears to drink in large measure, nay, even beyond measure.

34. What can I say about myself now? I cannot die because that would mean leaving my sister, yet I do not want to live because that means being separated from you. What could ever bring me pleasure without you, when you were always my entire source of joy? What satisfaction is there in staying longer in this life and lingering on earth where we lived so happily as long as we lived together? If there were anything here that could bring us delight, it could not do so without you; and if we ever seriously wanted to extend our lives, we certainly would not want to exist now without you.

34. What now shall I say of myself, who may not die lest I leave my sister, and desire not to live lest I be separated from you? For what can ever be pleasant to me without you, in whom was always my whole pleasure? Or what satisfaction is it to remain longer in this life, and to linger on the earth where we lived with pleasure so long as we lived together? If there were anything which could delight us here, it could not delight without you; and if ever we had earnestly desired to prolong our life, now at any rate we would not exist without you.

This is truly unbearable. For what can I endure without you, who were such a companion in my life, such a sharer in my work, and partner in my responsibilities? And I could not even make the loss of him more bearable by thinking about it ahead of time, because my mind was so afraid to consider any such possibility concerning him! It wasn't that I was unaware of his mortal condition, but a certain kind of prayers and vows had so clouded my awareness of our common human weakness that I couldn't bring myself to think of anything happening to him except complete well-being.

35. This is indeed unendurable. For what can be endured without you, such a companion of my life, such a sharer of my toil and partaker of my duties? And I could not even make his loss more endurable by dwelling on it beforehand, so much did my mind fear to think of any such thing concerning him! Not that I was ignorant of his condition, but a certain kind of prayers and vows had so clouded the sense of common frailty, that I knew not how to think anything concerning him except entire prosperity.

When I was recently suffering from a serious illness (I wish it had killed me), my only grief was that you were not sitting beside my bed, sharing that loving duty with my holy sister, and that you would not be the one to close my eyes with your fingers when I died. What had I hoped for? What am I thinking about now? What promises have gone unfulfilled? What acts of service should follow? I was preparing for one thing, but I am forced to carry out another—not to be the one receiving funeral rites but the one performing them. O harsh eyes that could watch my brother die! O cruel and heartless hands that closed those eyes in which I used to see so much! O neck even harder still, which could bear such a sad burden, even though it was a service filled with comfort.

36. And then lately, when I was oppressed by a severe attack (would that it had been fatal), I grieved only that you were not sitting by my couch, and sharing the kindly duty with my holy sister might with your fingers close my eyes when dead. What had I wished? What am I now pondering? What vows are wanting? What services are to succeed? I was preparing one thing, I am compelled to set forth another; not being the subject of the funeral rites but the minister. O hard eyes, which could behold my brother dying! O cruel and unkind hands, which closed those eyes in which I used to see so much! O still harder neck, which could bear so sad a burden, though it were in a service full of consolation.

You, my brother, had a better right to perform these duties for me. I used to expect these services from you, I used to long for them. But now, having outlived my own life, what comfort can I find without you, who alone used to comfort me in my grief, to stir up my joy and drive away my sorrow? How do I look at you now, my brother, when you speak no words to me and give me no kiss? Yet in truth, our mutual love was so deeply rooted in each of us that it was nourished more by inward affection than displayed by outward expressions of tenderness, for we who declared such mutual trust and love did not need the testimony of others. The powerful spirit of our brotherhood had so thoroughly infused itself into each of us that there was no need to prove our love through physical embraces. Instead, our minds being aware of our affection, we were satisfied with our inward love and did not seem to need displays of tenderness. The very sight of each other shaped us for mutual love, for by some spiritual mark or physical resemblance, I don't know which, we seemed to be one in the other.

37. You, my brother, had more justly done these things for me. I used to expect these services at your hands, I used to long for them. But now, having survived my own life, what comfort can I find without you, who alone used to comfort me when mourning, to excite my happiness and drive away my sorrow? How do I now behold you, my brother, who now addresses no words to me and offers me no kiss? Though, indeed, our mutual love was so deeply seated in each of us, that it was cherished rather by inward affection than made public by open caresses, for we who professed such mutual trust and love did not seek the testimony of others. The strong spirit of our brotherhood had so infused itself into each of us, that there was no need to prove our love by caresses; but our minds being conscious of our affection, we, satisfied with our inward love, did not seem to require the show of caresses, whom the very appearance of each other fashioned for mutual love; for we seemed, I know not by what spiritual stamp or bodily likeness, to be the one in the other.

Who saw you and didn't think he had seen me? How often have I greeted people who, because they had already greeted you, said they had already been greeted by me? How many spoke something to you and reported that they had said it to me? What pleasure, what delight this often gave me, because I saw they were mistaken about us! What an agreeable mistake, what a pleasant slip, how innocent a deception, how sweet a trick! For there was nothing for me to fear in your words or actions, and I rejoiced when they were credited to me.

38. Who saw you, and did not think that he had seen me? How often have I saluted those who, because they had previously saluted you, said that they had been already saluted by me? How many said something to you, and related that they had said it to me? What pleasure, what amusement often was given me by this, because I saw that they were mistaken in us? What an agreeable mistake, what a pleasant slip, how innocent a deceit, how sweet a trick! For there was nothing for me to fear in your words or acts, and I rejoiced when they were ascribed to me.

However, if they insisted too strongly that they had given me some information, I used to smile and answer with delight: Be careful that it wasn't my brother you told. For since we had everything in common, one spirit and one disposition, only the secrets of friends were not common property—not because we feared any danger in sharing them, but so that we might keep faith by not disclosing them. Yet if we had a matter that needed to be discussed, we always consulted together, though the secret was not always shared between us. For although our friends spoke to either of us, knowing that what they said might reach the other, I know that secrets were for the most part kept with such good faith that they were not passed on even to the other brother. For this is convincing proof that what had not been shared with the brother was not betrayed to anyone else.

39. But if they insisted all too vehemently that they had given me some information, I used to smile and answer with delight: Take care that it was not my brother whom you told. For since we had everything in common, one spirit and one disposition, yet the secrets of friends alone were not common property, not that we were afraid of danger in the communication, but that we might keep faith by withholding it. Yet if we had a matter to be consulted about, our counsel was always in common, though the secret was not always made common. For although our friends spoke to either of us, so that what they said might reach the other; yet I know that secrets were for the most part kept with such good faith that they were not imparted even to the other brother. For this is a convincing proof that was not betrayed without which had not been imparted to the brother.

I confess, then, that being lifted up by these great and excellent blessings into a kind of mental ecstasy, I had stopped fearing that I might outlive him, because I thought he was more deserving of life. And so I received the blow that I am unable to bear, for the wounds of such pain are easier to endure when we think about them beforehand than when they come unexpectedly. Who will comfort me now in my sorrows? Who will lift me up when I am struck down? With whom will I share my concerns? Who will free me from the business of this world? For you were the one who managed our affairs, who supervised the servants, who settled matters between brother and sister—settling them not through conflict but through love.

40. I confess, then, that being raised by these so great and excellent benefits to a kind of mental ecstasy, I had ceased to fear that I might be the survivor, because I thought him more worthy to live, and therefore received the blow which I am unable to endure, for the wounds of such pain are more easily borne when dwelt upon beforehand than when unexpected. Who will now console me full of sorrows? Who will raise up him that is smitten down? With whom shall I share my cares? Who will set me free from the business of this world? For you were the manager of our affairs, the censor of the servants, the decider between brother and sister, the decider not in matters of strife but of affection.

Whenever my holy sister and I had a discussion about any matter, trying to decide which opinion was better, we would ask you to be our judge. You wouldn't hurt anyone, and being eager to satisfy both of us, you maintained your loving care and proper balance in making decisions so that each of us left satisfied, and you received thanks from both. Or if you yourself brought up something for discussion, how pleasant your arguments were! And even your anger—how free from bitterness it was! How your discipline was not harsh even to the servants themselves, since you tried harder to blame yourself in front of your fellow monks than to punish out of anger! Our monastic profession restrained our enthusiasm for correction, and indeed, you, my brother, removed from us every desire to correct others when you both promised to punish wrongdoing and yet desired to show mercy.

41. For if at any time there was a discussion between me and my holy sister on any matter, as to which was the preferable opinion, we used to take you as judge, who would hurt no one, and anxious to satisfy each, kept to your loving affection and the right measure in deciding, so as to let each depart satisfied, and gain for yourself the thanks of each. Or if you yourself brought anything for discussion, how pleasantly did you argue! And your very indignation, how free from bitterness it was! How was your discipline not unpleasant to the servants themselves! since you strove rather to blame yourself before your brethren than to punish through excitement! For our profession restrained in us the zeal for correction, and, indeed, you, my brother, removed from us every inclination to correct, when you promised to punish and desire to alleviate.

That, then, is evidence of no ordinary prudence, which virtue the wise define in this way. The first of good things is to know God, and with a pious mind to reverence Him as true and divine, and to delight in that lovable and desirable beauty of the eternal Truth with the whole affection of the mind. The second consists in deriving from that divine and heavenly source of nature love towards our neighbors, since even the wise of this world have borrowed from our laws. For they never could have obtained those principles for the discipline of humanity except from that heavenly fount of the divine law.

42. That is, then, evidence of no ordinary prudence, which virtue is thus defined by the wise. The first of good things is to know God, and with a pious mind to reverence Him as true and divine, and to delight in that loveable and desirable beauty of the eternal Truth with the whole affection of the mind. And the second consists in deriving from that divine and heavenly source of nature, love towards our neighbours, since even the wise of this world have borrowed from our laws. For they never could have obtained those points for the discipline of men, except from that heavenly fount of the divine law.

What, then, shall I say about his reverence regarding the worship of God? Before being initiated into the more perfect mysteries, when he was in danger of shipwreck—as the ship carrying him was struck upon rocky shallows and broken apart by waves tossing it back and forth—he feared not death itself, but rather that he might leave this life without the Mystery. He asked those whom he knew to be initiated for the divine Sacrament of the faithful. He did this not to gaze upon secret things with curious eyes, but to obtain help for his faith. He had it wrapped in a cloth and tied the cloth around his neck, then threw himself into the sea. He did not look for a plank broken loose from the ship's frame to float on for rescue, for he sought the means of faith alone. Believing that he was sufficiently protected and defended by this, he sought no other help.

43. What, then, shall I say of his reverence in regard to the worship of God? He, before being initiated in the more perfect mysteries, being in danger of shipwreck when the ship that bore him, dashed upon rocky shallows, was being broken up by the waves tossing it hither and there, fearing not death but lest he should depart this life without the Mystery, asked of those whom he knew to be initiated the divine Sacrament of the faithful; not that he might gaze on secret things with curious eyes, but to obtain aid for his faith. For he caused it to be bound in a napkin, and the napkin round his neck, and so cast himself into the sea, not seeking a plank loosened from the framework of the ship, by floating on which he might be rescued, for he sought the means of faith alone. And so believing that he was sufficiently protected and defended by this, he sought no other aid.

When we consider his courage at the same time, we see that when the vessel was breaking apart, he did not grab hold of a plank like a shipwrecked man, but as a brave man he found support in his own courage, and his hope did not fail him, nor did his expectation deceive him. Then, when he was saved from the waves and brought safely to shore at the port, he first acknowledged his Leader, to whom he had entrusted himself. Immediately afterward, either rescuing the servants himself or seeing that they were rescued, he disregarded his possessions and did not grieve over what was lost. Instead, he sought out the Church of God so that he might give thanks for his deliverance and receive the eternal mysteries, declaring that there was no greater duty than thanksgiving. But if being ungrateful to man has been judged similar to murder, how enormous a crime is it to be ungrateful to God!

44. One may consider his courage at the same time, for he, when the vessel was breaking up, did not as a shipwrecked man seize a plank, but as a brave man found in himself the support of his courage, nor did his hope fail nor his expectation deceive him. And then, when preserved from the waves and brought safe to land in the port, he first recognized his Leader, to Whom he had committed himself, and at once after either himself rescuing the servants, or seeing that they were rescued, disregarding his goods, and not longing for what was lost, he sought the Church of God, that he might return thanks for his deliverance, and acknowledge the eternal mysteries, declaring that there was no greater duty than thanksgiving. But if not to be grateful to man has been judged like to murder, how enormous a crime is it not to be grateful to God!

Now it is the mark of a prudent man to know himself, and as the wise have defined it, to live in accordance with nature. What, then, is so much in accordance with nature as to be grateful to the Creator? Look at this heaven—does it not render thanks to its Creator when He is seen? For the heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament proclaims His handiwork. The sea itself, when it is quiet and at rest, presents a representation of the Divine Quiet; when it is stirred up, it shows that the wrath on high is terrible. Do we not all rightly admire the grace of God when we observe that senseless nature restrains its waves as if with sense and reason, and that the waves know their own limit? And what shall I say of the earth, which in obedience to the divine command freely supplies food to all living things, and the fields restore what they have received multiplied as if by accumulating interest, and heaped up.

45. Now it is the mark of a prudent man to know himself, and, as it has been defined by the wise, to live in accordance with nature. What, then, is so much in accordance with nature as to be grateful to the Creator? Behold this heaven, does it not render thanks to its Creator when He is seen? For the heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament proclaims His handywork. The sea itself when it is quiet and at rest sets forth a representation of the Divine Quiet; when it is stirred up, it shows that the wrath on high is terrible. Do we not all rightly admire the grace of God, when we observe that senseless nature restrains its waves as it were with sense and reason, and that the waves know their own limit? And what shall I say of the earth, which in obedience to the divine command freely supplies food to all living things; and the fields restore what they have received multiplied as it were by accumulating interest, and heaped up.

So the person who had grasped the methods of divine work through nature's guidance, with the intense energy of his mind, knew that thanks should be paid first of all to the Preserver of all. But since he could not repay God, he could at least feel grateful. For the essence of this thankfulness is that when it is offered, it is felt, and by being felt, it is offered. So he offered thanks and received faith in return. For if he had experienced such protection from the heavenly Mystery while it was wrapped in a napkin, how much more did he expect if he received it with his mouth and drew it to the very depths of his heart? How much more must he have been expecting from that which, when received into his breast, had already benefited him so greatly when it was covered with a napkin?

46. So he who by the guidance of nature had grasped the methods of the divine work in the ardent vigour of his mind, knew that thanks should be paid first of all to the Preserver of all; but inasmuch as he could not repay, he could at least feel grateful. For the essence of this thankfulness is that when it is offered it is felt, and by being felt is offered. So he offered thanks and brought away faith. For he who had felt such protection on the part of the heavenly Mystery wrapped in a napkin, how much did he expect if he received it with his mouth and drew it to the very depth of his bosom? How much more must he have been expecting of that, when received into his breast, which had so benefited him when covered with a napkin?

But he was not so eager that he set aside caution. He called the bishop to him, and believing that there can be no true thankfulness unless it springs from true faith, he asked whether he agreed with the Catholic bishops, that is, with the Roman Church. Perhaps at that place the Church of that region was in schism. For at that time Lucifer had withdrawn from our communion, and although he had been an exile for the faith and had left behind heirs of his own faith, my brother did not think that there could be true faith in schism. For though schismatics kept the faith toward God, they did not keep it toward the Church of God, certain parts of which they allowed to be divided, as it were, and her members to be torn apart. For since Christ suffered for the Church, and the Church is the body of Christ, it does not seem that faith in Christ is shown by those who make His Passion of no effect and divide His body.

47. But he was not so eager as to lay aside caution. He called the bishop to him, and esteeming that there can be no true thankfulness except it spring from true faith, he enquired whether he agreed with the Catholic bishops, that is, with the Roman Church? And possibly at that place the Church of the district was in schism. For at that time Lucifer had withdrawn from our communion, and although he had been an exile for the faith, and had left inheritors of his own faith, yet my brother did not think that there could be true faith in schism. For though schismatics kept the faith towards God, yet they kept it not towards the Church of God, certain of whose limbs they suffered as it were to be divided, and her members to be torn. For since Christ suffered for the Church, and the Church is the body of Christ, it does not seem that faith in Christ is shown by those by whom His Passion is made of none effect, and His body divided.

And so, though he held onto the deposit of faith and was afraid to travel while owing such a great debt, he preferred to cross over to a place where he could make his payment safely. He was convinced that the payment of thankfulness to God consists in right dispositions and faith, and as soon as he had free access to the Church, he did not delay in making this payment. He both received the grace of God that he longed for and preserved it once he had received it. Nothing, then, can be wiser than that prudence which distinguishes between divine and human matters.

48. And so though he retained the deposit of faith, and feared to voyage as debtor of so vast an amount, yet he preferred to cross over to a place where he could make his payment in safety, for he was convinced that the payment of thankfulness to God consists in dispositions and faith, which payment, so soon as he had free access to the Church, he delayed not to make. And he both received the grace of God which he longed for, and preserved it when received. Nothing, then, can be wiser than that prudence which distinguishes between divine and human matters.

Why should I talk about his well-known eloquence in his legal work? What incredible admiration he aroused in the courtroom of the high prefecture! But I prefer to speak about those things which he considered, through contemplation of the mysteries of God, to be more important than human affairs.

49. Why should I speak of his well-known eloquence in his forensic duties? What incredible admiration did he excite in the hall of justice of the high prefecture! But I prefer to speak of those things which he esteemed, through consideration of the mysteries of God, to be preferable to human matters.

50. If anyone wants to see his courage more fully, let them consider how often after his shipwreck he crossed the sea with invincible disregard for his own life and traveled through vast regions on his journeys. And finally, at this very time he did not shrink from danger but faced it directly. He endured injustice patiently and paid no attention to the cold—if only he had been equally careful in taking precautions. But this was exactly where he was blessed: as long as his bodily strength allowed, he spent his life fulfilling the work of youth, carrying out without interruption what he wished to do, and paid no attention to his weakness.

50. And should any one wish more fully to regard his fortitude, let him consider how often after his shipwreck with invincible disregard of this life he crossed the sea and travelled through widespread regions in his journeys, and at last that at this very time he did not shrink from danger, but met it. Patient under injustice, regardless of cold, would that he had been equally thoughtful in taking precautions. But exactly herein was he blessed, that he, so long as his bodily strength allowed, spent his life fulfilling the work of youth, uninterruptedly carrying out what he wished to do, and paid no attention to his weakness.

51. But how can I express his simplicity? By this I mean a certain moderation of character and soberness of mind. Pardon me, I ask you, and attribute it to my grief if I allow myself to speak at length about him with whom I am no longer permitted to talk. And certainly it is an advantage for you to see that you have performed this kind service not led by weak emotions, but by sound judgment—not as if moved by pity for his death, but moved by desire to honor his virtues. For every simple soul is blessed. And his simplicity was so great that, converted as though into a child, he was remarkable for the simplicity belonging to that innocent age, for the likeness of perfect virtue, and for reflecting innocence of character as in a mirror. Therefore he entered into the kingdom of heaven, because he believed the word of God, because he, like a child, rejected the tricks of flattery, and chose rather to accept the pain of injustice with gentleness than to avenge himself harshly. He was more ready to listen to complaints than to deceit, ready for reconciliation, inaccessible to ambition, holy in modesty, so that in him one would rather speak of excessive bashfulness than have to look for what is necessary.

51. But in what words can I set forth his simplicity? By this I mean a certain moderation of character and soberness of mind. Pardon me, I beseech you, and attribute it to my grief, if I allow myself to speak somewhat fully about him with whom I am no longer permitted to converse. And certainly it is an advantage for you to see that you have performed this kindly office not led by weak feelings, but by sound judgment; not as impelled by pity for his death, but moved by desire to do honour to his virtues; for every simple soul is blessed. And so great was his simplicity, that, converted as it were into a child, he was conspicuous for the simplicity belonging to that guileless age, for the likeness of perfect virtue, and for reflecting as in a mirror innocence of character. Therefore he entered into the kingdom of heaven, because he believed the word of God, because he, like a child, rejected the artifices of flattery, and chose rather to accept with gentleness the pain of injustice than to avenge himself sharply; he was more ready to listen to complaints than to guile, ready for conciliation, inaccessible to ambition, holy in modesty, so that in him one would rather speak of excess of bashfulness than have to seek for such as is needful.

The foundations of virtue are never excessive, for modesty does not hinder but actually enhances the fulfillment of duty. His face was colored with a certain virginal modesty, revealing his inner disposition in his appearance. If he happened to encounter some female relative unexpectedly, he would bow down and lower himself toward the ground. Though he was not different in the company of men, he rarely lifted his face, raised his eyes, or spoke. When he did any of these things, it was with a kind of bashful modesty of heart, which also corresponded with the chastity of his body. He preserved the gifts of holy baptism undefiled, being pure in body and even more pure in heart. He feared the shame of impurity in conversation no less than in his body, and he believed that modesty in pure speech deserved no less regard than chastity of body.

52. But the foundations of virtue are never in excess, for modesty does not hinder but rather commends the discharge of duty. And so was his face suffused with a certain virginal modesty, showing forth his inward feeling in his countenance, if perchance he had, coming on a sudden, met some female relative, he was as it were bowed down and sunk to the earth, though he was not different in company with men, he seldom lifted up his face, raised his eyes, or spoke; when he did one of these things, it was with a kind of bashful modesty of heart, with which, too, the chastity of his body agreed. For he preserved the gifts of holy baptism inviolate, being pure in body and still more pure in heart; fearing not less the shame of impurity in conversation than in his body; and thinking that no less regard was to be paid to modesty in purity of words than in chastity of body.

In summary, he loved chastity so much that he never sought a wife, although in his case it was not merely the desire for chastity but also the grace of his love for us. But in a wonderful way he concealed his feelings about marriage and avoided all boasting. He concealed his feelings so carefully that even when we urged him toward marriage, he appeared to postpone it rather than avoid it. This was the one matter he did not share with his brother and sister, not out of any uncertain hesitation but simply out of virtuous modesty.

53. In fine, he so loved chastity as never to seek a wife, although in him it was not merely the desire of chastity, but also the grace of his love for us. But in a wonderful manner he concealed his feeling as to marriage, and avoided all boastfulness; and so carefully did he conceal his feeling, that even when we pressed it on him, he appeared rather to postpone wedlock than to avoid it. So this was the one point with which he did not trust his brother and sister, not through any doubtful hesitation, but simply through virtuous modesty.

54. Who, then, could help but marvel that a man in age between a brother and a sister—one a virgin, the other a priest—yet in greatness of soul not inferior to either, should so excel in two great gifts as to reflect the chastity of one calling and the sanctity of the other, being bound not by formal profession but by the practice of virtue. If, then, lust and anger give birth to other vices, I may rightly call chastity and gentleness the parents, as it were, of virtues; although, just as piety is the origin of all good things, it is also the seedbed of other virtues.

54. Who, then, could refrain from wondering that a man in age between a brother and a sister, the one a virgin, the other a priest, yet in greatness of soul not below either, should so excel in two great gifts, as to reflect the chastity of one vocation and the sanctity of the other, being bound not by profession but by the exercise of virtue. If, then, lust and anger bring forth other vices, I may rightly call chastity and gentleness as it were the parents of virtues; although, as it is the origin of all good things, so too is piety the seed-plot of other virtues.

What, then, shall I say of his economy, a kind of self-control concerning possessions? For he who takes care of his own does not seek what belongs to others, nor is he made arrogant by abundance when he is content with what he has. For he did not wish to recover anything except what was his own, and that more to avoid being cheated than to become richer. For he rightly called those who seek what belongs to others hawks of money. But if greed is the root of all evils, he who does not seek money has certainly stripped himself of vices.

55. What, then, shall I say of his economy, a kind of continence regarding possessions? For he who takes care of his own does not seek other men's goods, nor is he puffed up by abundance who is contented with his own. For he did not wish to recover anything except his own, and that rather that he might not be cheated than that he might be richer. For he rightly called those who seek other men's goods hawks of money. But if avarice be the root of all evils, 1 Timothy 6:10 he who does not seek for money has certainly stripped himself of vices.

Abraham never took pleasure in elaborate feasts or numerous dishes, except when he invited friends. He wanted what was enough for nature, not excess for the sake of pleasure. And indeed, he was not poor in resources, but was poor in spirit. We should not doubt his happiness at all, since he neither took delight in riches as a wealthy man, nor thought what he had was too little as a poor man would.

56. Nor did he ever delight in more carefully prepared feasts or many dishes, except when he invited friends, wishing for what was sufficient for nature, not for superabundance for pleasure's sake. And, indeed, he was not poor in means, but was so in spirit. Matthew 5:3 Certainly we ought by no means to doubt of his happiness, who neither as a wealthy man delighted in riches, nor as a poor man thought that what he had was scanty.

57. It remains that, to complete our discussion of the cardinal virtues, we should observe in him the elements of justice. For although the virtues are related to each other and connected, still a more distinct outline of each one is needed, and especially of justice. For justice, being somewhat strict toward itself, is wholly devoted to what lies outside itself, and whatever it possesses through a certain severity toward self, being carried along by love for all, it pours out upon its neighbors.

57. It remains that, to come to the end of the cardinal virtues, we should notice in him the constituents of justice. For although virtues are related to each other and connected, still as it were a more distinct sketch of each is wanted, and especially of justice. For it being somewhat niggardly towards itself is wholly devoted to what is without, and whatever it has through a certain rigour towards self, being carried away by love for all, it pours forth on its neighbours.

There are many forms of this virtue. One is directed toward friends, another toward all people, another pertains to the worship of God or the relief of the poor. What he was toward everyone is demonstrated by the affection of the people in the province where he served. They used to say that he was more like a parent to them than a judge, a kind mediator for devoted clients, and a steadfast administrator of just law.

58. But there are many kinds of this virtue. One towards friends, another towards all men, another with respect to the worship of God or the relief of the poor. So what he was towards all, the affection of the people of the province over which he was set shows; who used to say that he was rather their parent than a judge, a kind umpire for loving clients, a steadfast awarder of just law.

His relationship with his brother and sister is shown by the fact that our inheritance remained undivided—not distributed or diminished, but kept intact, even though he embraced all people with his goodwill. He said that love was no reason to make a will. He made this clear in his final words when he commended those he had loved, saying he had chosen never to marry so that he would not be separated from his brother and sister, and that he would not make a will so that our feelings would not be hurt in any way. Finally, even though we begged and pleaded with him, he believed he should not decide anything himself. However, he did not forget the poor, but only asked that we give them whatever amount seemed right to us.

59. But what he was with his brother and sister, though all men were embraced in his good-will, our undivided patrimony testifies, and the inheritance neither distributed nor diminished, but preserved. For he said that love was no reason for making a will. This, too, he signified with his last words, when commending those whom he had loved, saying that it was his choice never to marry a wife, that he might not be separated from his brother and sister, and that he would not make a will, lest our feelings should in any point be hurt. Lastly, though begged and entreated by us, he thought that nothing ought to be determined by himself, not, however, forgetting the poor, but only asking that so much should be given to them as should seem just to us.

He gave sufficient proof of his fear of God by this alone, and set an example of religious devotion toward other people. What he gave to the poor, he offered to God, since whoever distributes to the poor lends to God, and by requiring only what was just, he left them not just a little but everything. This is the complete sum of justice: to sell what one has and give to the poor. For whoever has dispersed and given to the poor, his righteousness endures forever. So he left us as stewards, not heirs, because an inheritance is a matter of dispute for heirs, but stewardship is a duty to the poor.

60. By this alone he gave a sufficient proof of his fear of God, and set an example of religious feeling as regards men. For what he gave to the poor he offered to God, since he that distributes to the poor lends unto God; Proverbs 19:17 and by requiring what was just, he left them not a little, but the whole. For this is the total sum of justice, to sell what one has and give to the poor. For he who has dispersed, and has given to the poor, his righteousness endures forever. So he left us as stewards, not heirs; for the inheritance is to the heirs a matter of question, the stewardship is a duty to the poor.

We can rightly say that the Holy Spirit spoke to us today through the voice of the boy reader: "He who is innocent in his hands and of a clean heart, who has not lifted up his soul to vanity, nor used deceit against his neighbor—this is the generation of those who seek the Lord." Such a person will ascend into the hill of the Lord and dwell in the tabernacle of God, because he has walked without spot, he has worked righteousness, he has spoken truth, he has not deceived his neighbor, nor has he lent his money for usury—he who always wished only to keep what he had inherited.

61. So that one may rightly say that the Holy Spirit has this day told us by the voice of the boy reader: He that is innocent in his hands and of a clean heart, who has not lifted up his soul to vanity, nor used deceit unto his neighbour, this is the generation of them that seek the Lord. He, then, shall both ascend into the hill of the Lord and dwell in the tabernacle of God; because he has walked without spot, he has worked righteousness, he has spoken truth, he has not deceived his neighbour; nor did he lend his money for usury, who always wished [no more than] to retain that which was inherited.

Why should I describe how his piety exceeded mere justice, when he thought that because of my office something should be given to the unlawful possessor of our property, declared that I was the source of the gift, but turned over the income from his own share to the common fund?

62. Why should I relate that in his piety he went beyond mere justice, when he, having thought that in consideration of my office something ought to be given to the unlawful possessor of our property, declared that I was the author of the bounty, but made over the receipts of his own share to the common fund.

63. These things and others, which brought me pleasure at the time, now intensify the memory of my grief. Nevertheless, they remain and always will remain, nor do they ever fade away like a shadow; for the grace of virtue does not die with the body, nor do natural life and merits end at the same time, although the use of natural life does not perish forever, but rests in a kind of temporary suspension.

63. These and other matters, which were then a pleasure to me, now sharpen the remembrance of my grief. They abide, however, and always will do so, nor do they ever pass away like a shadow; for the grace of virtue dies not with the body, nor do natural life and merits come to an end at the same time, although the use of natural life does not perish for ever, but rests in a kind of exemption for a time.

64. For someone who has accomplished such good works and been delivered from dangers, I will weep more out of longing for him than from loss. The very timeliness of his death reminds us that we ought to honor him with grateful veneration rather than grieve for him, because it is written that private grief should end in public sorrow. This is stated in prophetical language not only to that one woman who is represented there, but to each person, since it appears to be addressed to the Church.

64. For one, then, who has performed such good deeds, and is rescued from perils, I shall weep rather from longing for him than for the loss. For the very opportuneness of his death bids us bear in mind that we must follow him rather with grateful veneration than grieve for him, for it is written that private grief should cease in public sorrow. This is said in the prophetical language, not only to that one woman, who is figured there, but to each, since it seems to be said to the Church.

This message comes to me, and Holy Scripture says: Do you teach this? Is this how you instruct the people of God? Don't you realize that your example is dangerous to others? Unless perhaps you complain that your prayer is not heard. First of all, this is shameless arrogance—to want to obtain for yourself what you know has been denied to many, even saints, when you are aware that God shows no partiality. For although God is merciful, if He always heard everyone, He would appear to act no longer by His own free will, but by a kind of necessity. Besides, since everyone asks, if He were to hear everyone, no one would die. For how much do you pray daily? Should God's plan, then, be canceled on your account? Why do you lament that something is sometimes not obtained, when you know it cannot always be obtained?

65. To me, then, does this message come, and Holy Scripture says: Do you teach this, is it thus that you instruct the people of God? Do you not know that your example is a danger to others? save that perchance you complain that your prayer is not heard. First of all this is shameless arrogance, to desire to obtain for yourself what you know to have been denied to many, even saints, when you are aware that God is no respecter of persons? Acts 10:34 For although God is merciful, yet if He always heard all, He would appear to act no longer of His own free will, but by a kind of necessity. Then, since all ask, if He were to hear all, no one would die. For how much do you daily pray? Is, then, God's appointment to be made void in consideration of you? Why, then, do you lament that is sometimes not obtained, which you know cannot always be obtained?

You fool, it says, above all women, don't you see our mourning and what has happened to us? Sion our mother is deeply saddened and greatly humbled. Mourn now very bitterly, since we all mourn, and be sorrowful since we all are sorrowful, while you grieve for just one brother. Ask the earth and she will tell you that it is she who ought to mourn, having outlived so many who grow upon her. From her, it says, all were born in the beginning, and from her others will come, and look, almost all of them walk into destruction, and a multitude of them is completely rooted out. Who, then, ought to mourn more than she who has lost such a great multitude, and not you, who are sorrowful for only one person?

66. You fool, it says, above all women, do you not see our mourning, and what has happened to us, how that Sion our mother is saddened with all sadness, and humbled with humbling. Mourn now also very sore, since we all mourn, and be sad since we all are sad, and you are grieved for a brother. Ask the earth and she shall tell you that it is she which ought to mourn, outliving so many that grow upon her. And out of her, it says, were all born in the beginning, and out of her shall others come, and, behold, they walk almost all into destruction, and a multitude of them is utterly rooted out. Who, then, ought to make more mourning than she that has lost so great a multitude, and not thou, which art sorry but for one?

Let our shared mourning absorb our personal grief and cut off the bitterness of our private sorrow. For we ought not to grieve for those we see set free, and we remember that so many holy souls are not being released from the chains of the body at this time without purpose. For we see, as if by God's decree, such devout widows dying so close together in time that it seems like a kind of departure on a journey, not a sinking into death, so that their chastity—in which they have served God for their full time—would not be exposed to danger. What groans, what mourning, such a bitter memory stirs up in me! And even if I had no time for mourning, yet in my own personal grief over the loss of the very flower of so much merit, the common lot of nature consoled me; and my grief over one person alone veiled the bitterness of the public funeral by the show of piety at home.

67. Let, then, the common mourning swallow up ours and cut off the bitterness of our private sorrow. For we ought not to grieve for those whom we see to be set free, and we bear in mind that so many holy souls are not without a purpose at this time loosed from the chains of the body. For we see, as if by God's decree, such reverend widows dying so closely at one time, that it seems to be a sort of setting out on a journey, not a sinking in death, lest their chastity in which they have served God their full time should be exposed to peril. What groans, what mourning, does so bitter a recollection stir up in me! And if I had no leisure for mourning, yet in my own personal grief, in the loss of the very flower of so much merit, the common lot of nature consoled me; and my grief in consideration of one alone veiled the bitterness of the public funeral by the show of piety at home.

I turn again, then, O sacred Scripture, to your consolations, for I take delight in dwelling on your precepts and your pronouncements. It is far easier for heaven and earth to pass away than for one small detail of the law to fail! But let us now listen to what is written: "Now, keep your sorrow to yourself, and bear with good courage the things which have happened to you. For if you acknowledge that God's determination is just, you will both receive your son back in due time, and will be praised among women." If this is said to a woman, how much more should it apply to a priest! If such words are said about a son, it is certainly not inappropriate that they should also be spoken concerning the loss of a brother—though if he had been my son I could never have loved him more. For just as in the death of children, the wasted effort and the pain endured for nothing seem to increase the sorrow, so too in the case of brothers the habits of daily life together and shared work intensify the bitterness of grief.

68. I seek again, then, O sacred Scripture, your consolations, for it delights me to dwell on your precepts and on your sentences. How far more easy is it for heaven and earth to pass away, than for one tittle of the law to fail! But let us now listen to what is written: Now, it says, keep your sorrow to yourself, and bear with a good courage the things which have befallen you. For if you shall acknowledge the determination of God to be just, you shall both receive your son in time, and shall be praised among women. If this is said to a woman, how much more to a priest! If such words are said of a son it is certainly not unfitting that they should be uttered also concerning the loss of a brother; though if he had been my son I could never have loved him more. For as in the death of children, the lost labour and the pain borne to no purpose seem to increase the sorrow; so, too, in the case of brothers the habits of intercourse and joint occupations inflame the bitterness of grief.

But look! I hear Scripture saying: Do not continue this argument, but allow yourself to be persuaded. For how great are the misfortunes of Zion! Be comforted concerning the sorrow of Jerusalem. You see that our holy places are polluted and the name that was called upon us is almost profaned. Those who are ours have suffered shame, our priests are burned, our Levites gone into captivity, our wives are polluted, our virgins suffer violence, our righteous people are carried away, our little ones given up, our young men brought into bondage, and our strong men have become weak. And what is the greatest of all: the seal of Zion has lost her glory, since now she is delivered into the hands of those who hate us. Therefore, shake off your great sadness and put away the multitude of sorrows, so that the Mighty One may be merciful to you again, and the Most High will give you rest by easing your labors.

69. But, lo! I hear the Scripture saying: Do not continue this discourse, but allow yourself to be persuaded. For how great are the misfortunes of Sion! Be comforted in regard of the sorrow of Jerusalem. For you see that our holy places are polluted and the name that was called upon us is almost profaned, they that are ours have suffered shame, our priests are burnt, our Levites gone into captivity, our wives are polluted, our virgins suffer violence, our righteous men are carried away, our little ones given up, our young men brought in bondage, and our strong men become weak. And, which is the greatest of all, the seal of Sion hast lost her glory, since now she is delivered into the hands of them that hate us. Do thou, then, shake off your great heaviness, and put from you the multitude of sorrows, that the Mighty may be merciful to you again, and the Highest shall give you rest by easing your labours.

I will stop crying, then, because one must accept beneficial treatments, since there should be some distinction between believers and unbelievers. Let those weep who cannot have the hope of the resurrection—those deprived of it not by God's judgment but by the rigor of the faith. Let this be the difference between the servants of Christ and the worshippers of idols: the latter weep for their friends, whom they believe to have perished forever; they never stop crying and find no relief from grief, since they think the dead have no rest. But for us, for whom death is the end not of our physis but only of this life, since our physis itself is restored to a better condition, let the coming of death wipe away all tears.

70. So, then, my tears shall cease, for one must yield to healthful remedies, since there ought to be some difference between believers and unbelievers. Let them, therefore, weep who cannot have the hope of the resurrection, of which not the sentence of God but the strictness of the faith deprives them. Let there be this difference between the servants of Christ and the worshippers of idols, that the latter weep for their friends, whom they suppose to have perished for ever; that they should never cease from tears, and gain no rest from sorrow, who think that the dead have no rest. But from us, for whom death is the end not of our nature but of this life only, since our nature itself is restored to a better state, let the advent of death wipe away all tears.

And certainly if those who have thought that death is the end of sensation and the decay of our nature have ever found any consolation, how much more must we find it—we to whom the awareness of good we have done brings the promise of better rewards! The pagans have their consolation because they think that death is a stopping of all evils, and just as they are without the fruit of life, so too they think they have escaped all the feeling and pain of those severe and constant sufferings we must endure in this life. We, however, just as we are better sustained by our rewards, ought also to be more patient through our consolation, for those whom death will not swallow up but eternity will receive seem not to be lost but sent on ahead.

71. And certainly if they have ever found any consolation who have thought that death is the end of sensation and the failing of our nature, how much more must we find it so to whom the consciousness of good done brings the promise of better rewards! The heathen have their consolation, because they think that death is a cessation of all evils, and as they are without the fruit of life, so, too, they think that they have escaped all the feeling and pain of those severe and constant sufferings which we have to endure in this life. We, however, as we are better supported by our rewards, so, too, ought we to be more patient through our consolation, for they seem to be not lost but sent before, whom death is not going to swallow up, but eternity to receive.

My tears will therefore cease, or if they cannot cease, I will weep for you, my brother, as part of our common sorrow, and will hide my private groaning in the public grief. How can my tears completely stop when they burst forth every time your name is spoken, or when my daily routines stir up your memory, or when my affection recalls your face, or when remembrance renews my grief? How can you be absent when you are made present again in so many activities? You are present, I say, and are always brought before me, and with my whole mind and soul I embrace you, look at you, speak to you, kiss you. I hold you whether in the dark night or in clear daylight, when you graciously return to visit and comfort me in my sorrow. And now the very nights that used to seem burdensome during your lifetime because they prevented us from seeing each other, and sleep itself, which was recently the hateful interrupter of our conversation, have begun to be sweet because they restore you to me. Those people are not wretched but blessed whose mutual presence does not fail, whose care for each other is not diminished, whose mutual esteem grows stronger. For sleep is a likeness and image of death.

72. My tears shall therefore cease, or if they cannot cease, I will weep for you, my brother, in the common sorrow, and will hide my private groaning in the public grief. For how can my tears wholly cease, since they break forth at every utterance of your name, or when my very habitual actions arouse your memory, or when my affection pictures your likeness, or when recollection renews my grief. For how can you be absent who art again made present in so many occupations? You are present, I say, and art always brought before me, and with my whole mind and soul do I embrace you, gaze upon you, address you, kiss you; I grasp you whether in the gloomy night or in the clear light, when you vouch-safe to revisit and console me sorrowing. And now the very nights which used to seem irksome in your lifetime, because they denied us the power of looking on each other; and sleep itself, lately, the odious interrupter of our converse, have commenced to be sweet, because they restore you to me. They, then, are not wretched but blessed whose mutual presence fails not, whose care for each other is not lessened, whose mutual esteem is increased. For sleep is a likeness and image of death.

But if our souls, during the quiet of night, while still attached to the chains of the body and bound within the prison bars of our limbs, can still see higher and separate things, how much more can they see these things when, in their pure and heavenly senses, they suffer no hindrances from bodily weakness. And so, as a certain evening was drawing on and I was complaining that you did not revisit me when I was at rest, you were actually fully present always. So that, as I lay with my limbs bathed in sleep while I was awake in mind for you, you were alive to me. I could say, What is death, my brother? For certainly you were not separated from me for a single moment, since you were so present with me everywhere that the enjoyment of each other, which we were unable to have in the interactions of this life, is now always and everywhere with us. For at that time, all things could not be present, since neither did our physical condition allow it, nor could the sight of each other or the sweetness of our bodily embraces be enjoyed at all times and in all places. But the images in our souls were always present with us, even when we were not together, and these have not come to an end but constantly come back to us, and the greater the longing, the greater abundance we have of them.

73. But if, in the quiet of night, our souls still cleaving to the chains of the body, and as it were bound within the prison bars of the limbs, yet are able to see higher and separate things, how much more do they see these, when in their pure and heavenly senses they suffer from no hindrances of bodily weakness. And so when, as a certain evening was drawing on, I was complaining that thou did not revisit me when at rest, you were wholly present always. So that, as I lay with my limbs bathed in sleep, while I was [in mind] awake for you, you were alive to me, I could say, What is death, my brother? For certainly you were not separated from me for a single moment, for you were so present with me everywhere, that enjoyment of each other, which we were unable to have in the intercourse of this life, is now always and everywhere with us. For at that time certainly all things could not be present, for neither did our physical constitution allow it, nor could the sight of each other, nor the sweetness of our bodily embraces at all times and in all places be enjoyed. But the pictures in our souls were always present with us, even when we were not together, and these have not come to an end, but constantly come back to us, and the greater the longing the greater abundance have we of them.

So then, I hold you, my brother, and neither death nor time will tear you from me. Tears themselves are sweet, and weeping itself a pleasure, because through them the longing of the soul is soothed, and affection, once relieved, finds peace. For I cannot be without you, nor ever forget you, or think of you without tears. O bitter days, which show that our union is broken! O nights worthy of tears, which have taken from me such a good companion in rest, such an inseparable friend! What suffering you would cause me, unless the image of him being present offered itself to me, unless the visions of my soul showed me the one whom my bodily sight no longer reveals!

74. So, then, I hold you, my brother, and neither death nor time shall tear you from me. Tears themselves are sweet, and weeping itself a pleasure, for by these the eagerness of the soul is assuaged, and affection being eased is quieted. For neither can I be without you, nor ever forget you, or think of you without tears. O bitter days, which show that our union is broken! O nights worthy of tears, which have lost for me so good a sharer of my rest, so inseparable a companion! What sufferings would you cause me, unless the likeness of him present offered itself to me, unless the visions of my soul represented him whom my bodily sight shows me no more!

Now, now, O brother, dearest to my soul, although you have departed through a death that came too soon, you are at least happy because you do not have to bear these sorrows and are not forced to grieve the loss of a brother. You could not stand being separated from him for long, but you quickly came back and visited him again. But if you used to hurry to drive away the weariness of my loneliness and to ease the sadness of your brother's mind, how much more often should you now return to visit my suffering soul and yourself relieve the sorrow that comes from you!

75. Now, now, O brother, dearest to my soul, although you are gone by too early a death, happy at least are you, who dost not endure these sorrows, and art not compelled to mourn the loss of a brother, separation from whom you could not long endure, but quickly returned and visit him again. But if then you hastened to banish the weariness of my loneliness, to lighten the sadness of your brother's mind, how much more often ought thou now to revisit my afflicted soul, and yourself lighten the sorrow which has its origin from you!

76. But my duties as a priest now require me to pause for a while, and attention to my priestly responsibilities draws my mind away. But what will become of my holy sister, who though she controls her feelings through fear of God, yet fans the flames of grief itself through the fervor of her devotion? Lying face down on the ground, embracing her brother's tomb, exhausted from difficult walking, sad in spirit, day and night she renews her grief. For though she often interrupts her weeping with speech, she renews it in prayer; and although in her knowledge of Scripture she surpasses those who bring comfort, she makes up for her desire to weep by the persistence of her prayers, renewing the flood of her tears especially when no one can interrupt her. So you have something you may pity, not something you may criticize, for weeping in prayer is a sign of virtue. And although this is common among virgins, whose softer nature and more tender feelings produce abundant tears at the sight of ordinary human weakness, even without the experience of family grief, yet when there is a greater cause for sorrow, no limit is set to that sorrow.

76. But the exercise of my office now bids me rest awhile, and attention to my priestly duties draws my mind away; but what will happen to my holy sister, who though she moderates her affection by the fear of God, yet again kindles the grief itself of the affection by the zeal of her devotion? Prostrate on the ground, embracing her brother's tomb, wearied with toilsome walking, sad in spirit, day and night she renews her grief. For though she often breaks off her weeping by speech, she renews it in prayer; and although in her knowledge of her Scriptures she excels those who bring consolation, she makes up for her desire of weeping by the constancy of her prayers, renewing the abundance of her tears then chiefly, when no one can interrupt her. So you have that which you may pity, not what you may blame, for to weep in prayer is a sign of virtue. And although that be a common thing with virgins, whose softer sex and more tender affection abound in tears at the sight of the common weakness, even without the feeling of family grief, yet when there is a greater cause for sorrowing, no limit is set to that sorrow.

The means of consolation are lacking because excuses are plentiful. For you cannot forbid what you yourself teach, especially when she attributes her tears to devotion rather than sorrow, and hides the flow of ordinary grief out of fear of shame. Therefore, console her—you who can reach her soul and penetrate her mind. Let her perceive that you are present, feel that you have not departed, so that having received the consolation of one whose merit she is certain of, she may learn not to grieve heavily for him who warned her that he should not be mourned.

77. The means of consolation, then, are wanting since excuses abound. For you can not forbid that which you teach, especially when she attributes her tears to devotion, not to sorrow, and conceals the course of the common grief for fear of shame. Console her, therefore, you who can approach her soul, and penetrate her mind. Let her perceive that you are present, feel that you are not departed, that having enjoyed his consolation of whose merit she is assured, she may learn not to grieve heavily for him, who warned her that he was not to be mourned for.

But why should I hold you back, brother, why should I wait for my words to fade away and, so to speak, be buried along with you? Although the sight and appearance of your lifeless body, and its remaining beauty and form still present here, bring comfort to our eyes, I will delay no longer. Let us proceed to the tomb. But first, before the people, I offer the final farewell, declare peace to you, and give the last kiss. Go ahead of us to that dwelling, common to all and awaiting everyone, and certainly now desired by me more than by others. Prepare a shared dwelling for the one with whom you have lived, and just as here we have had all things in common, so there too, let us have no separate possessions.

78. But why should I delay you, brother, why should I wait that my address should die and as it were be buried with you? Although the sight and form of your lifeless body, and its remaining comeliness and figure abiding here, comfort the eyes, I delay no longer, let us go on to the tomb. But first, before the people I utter the last farewell, declare peace to you, and pay the last kiss. Go before us to that home, common and waiting for all, and certainly now longed for by me beyond others. Prepare a common dwelling for him with whom you have dwelt, and as here we have had all things in common, so there, too, let us know no divided rights.

Do not keep waiting for long the one who desires you, do not make the one who is hurrying after you wait, help the one who is rushing forward, and if I seem to you to be delaying too long, call me to you. For we have never been separated from each other for very long, and you were always in the habit of returning. But since you cannot return again, I will come to you—it is only fair that I repay your kindness and take my turn. There was never much difference in the circumstances of our lives: whether in health or sickness, our condition was shared by both of us, so that if one became sick the other also fell ill, and when one began to recover, the other likewise recovered. How have we lost these bonds between us? This time too we shared our illness—how is it that we did not share death as well?

79. Do not, I pray you, long put off him who is desirous of you, expect him who is hastening after you, help him who is hurrying, and if I seem to you to delay too long, summon me. For we have not ever been long separated from each other, but you were always wont to return. Nor since you can not return again, I will go to you; it is just that I should repay the kindness and take my turn. Never was there much difference in the condition of our life; whether health or sickness, it was common to both, so that if one sickened the other fell ill, and when one began to recover, the other, too, was convalescent. How have we lost our rights? This time, too, we had our sickness in common, how is it that death was not ours in common?

And now to You, Almighty God, I entrust this innocent soul. To You I offer my sacrifice. Accept favorably and mercifully the gift of a brother, the offering of a priest. I present these first offerings of myself in advance. I come to You with this pledge—a pledge not of money but of life. Do not cause me to remain too long in debt for such a payment. This is not the ordinary bond of brotherly love, nor the common course of nature, but something increased by such a measure of virtue. I can endure it, if I am soon required to pay it.

80. And now to You, Almighty God, I commend this guileless soul, to You I offer my sacrifice; accept favourably and mercifully the gift of a brother, the offering of a priest. I offer beforehand these first libations of myself. I come to You with this pledge, a pledge not of money but of life, cause me not to remain too long a debtor of such an amount. It is not the ordinary interest of a brother's love, nor the common course of nature, which is increased by such an amount of virtue. I can bear it, if I shall be soon compelled to pay it.