I.

Your voice speaks to my soul:
Be not afraid of my golden garments, have no fear of
the rays of my candles,
For they are all but veils of my love, they are all but as
tender hands covering my secret.
I will draw them away, weeping soul, that you may see I am
no stranger to you.
How should a mother not resemble her child?
All your sorrows are in me.
I am born out of suffering, I have bloomed out of five
holy wounds.
I grew on the tree of humiliation, I found strength in the
bitter wine of tears.
I am a white rose in a chalice full of blood.
I live on suffering, I am the strength out of suffering, I am
glory out of suffering:
Come to my soul and find your home.

II.

And your voice speaks:
I know of your shuddering at joy, I know how you go
pale before the hours that are clad in purple.
I know your terror before the beakers of fullness,
I know too how you tremble before the soul of the best
beloved!
For your depths are wounded by gladness; it reaches down
into you with cold hands,
It quenches all your desires like a great hesitation.
It sinks on your senses like stones of guilt. It falls on your
soul like the reek of wilted herbs.
It wraps you in pain from head to foot, then you are
sheltered from joy by joy-
Then all your grief becomes eternal.

III.

And your voice speaks:
I will read the secret of your sorrow, O tender one,
timid one, kin to my soul, beloved:
It is I who weep in the depths of you!
I have fashioned you for a thousand years and longer, I
blessed all your fathers and mothers with the cross.
You have cost me griefs and wounds, among thorns have I
released your hands from the world.
You have cost me solitude, you have cost me dark silence
through many generations.
You have cost me goods and chattels, you have cost me the
ground under my feet, you have cost me a whole
world!
You have grown subtle, soul, you have become like a
silky flax that it has taken long to spin:
You have become like a thread, so fine that it no longer
holds.
See, you float away lightly over the meadows of life, you
float away over the flowering lands,
But not one of them can hold you, homeless one, wandering
soul of my sorrow.

IV.

And your voice speaks:
I will sing a Gloria that shall fill the top of my towers
with the clangour of their bells.
Praise the Lord all sorrow of the earth!
Let the impoverished praise Him, and those who are in exile,
let the disappointed praise Him, and the disinherited,
let Him be praised by all whom nothing satisfies.
Be he praised by the bright torment of the spirit, and by
the dark torment of nature.
Be He praised by the holy torment of love.
Be He praised by the solitude of the soul and by the soul’s
captivity.
Be He praised by the sorrow of sin and by the woe that
all things perish,
Be He praised also by the bitter anguish of death.
See, I strip my altars of all adornment, all their fine linen
must fade like the loveliness of flowering fields.
All the images on them must hide their faces.
I will take away my last consolation, I will remove the
Lord’s Body, that my soul may become deep night.
For the sorrow of the world has become blessed, because it
has been loved.
Behold the wood of the Cross on which hung the
Salvation of the world.