Lord, since eternity is Thine, art Thou ignorant of what I say to Thee? or dost Thou see in time, what passeth in time? Why then do I lay in order before Thee so many relations? Not, of a truth, that Thou mightest learn them through me, but to stir up mine own and my readers' devotions towards Thee, that we may all say, Great is the Lord, and greatly to be praised. I have said already; and again will say, for love of Thy love do I this. For we pray also, and yet Truth hath said, Your Father knoweth what you have need of, before you ask. It is then our affections which we lay open unto Thee, confessing our own miseries, and Thy mercies upon us, that Thou mayest free us wholly, since Thou hast begun, that we may cease to be wretched in ourselves, and be blessed in Thee; seeing Thou hast called us, to become poor in spirit, and meek, and mourners, and hungering and athirst after righteousness, and merciful, and pure in heart, and peace-makers. See, I have told Thee many things, as I could and as I would, because Thou first wouldest that I should confess unto Thee, my Lord God. For Thou art good, for Thy mercy endureth for ever.
Lord, since you are eternal, can anything I say be unknown to you? Do you experience time as we do, seeing events unfold moment by moment? Why then do I share these stories with you? Not to inform you, but to kindle devotion in myself and my readers, so we may all declare: "Great is the Lord, and greatly to be praised." I've said it before and will say it again—I do this out of love for you. We pray, even though Truth has said, "Your Father knows what you need before you ask." We open our hearts to you, acknowledging both our struggles and your mercy, hoping you'll complete our liberation since you've begun it. Then we'll no longer find misery in ourselves but joy in you. You've called us to become poor in spirit, meek, mournful, hungry and thirsty for righteousness, merciful, pure in heart, and peacemakers. I've shared all I could, all I wanted to, because you first asked me to confess to you, my Lord God. For you are good, and your mercy endures forever.
But how shall I suffice with the tongue of my pen to utter all Thy exhortations, and all Thy terrors, and comforts, and guidances, whereby Thou broughtest me to preach Thy Word, and dispense Thy Sacrament to Thy people? And if I suffice to utter them in order, the drops of time are precious with me; and long have I burned to meditate in Thy law, and therein to confess to Thee my skill and unskilfulness, the day-break of Thy enlightening, and the remnants of my darkness, until infirmity be swallowed up by strength. And I would not have aught besides steal away those hours which I find free from the necessities of refreshing my body and the powers of my mind, and of the service which we owe to men, or which though we owe not, we yet pay.
How can I adequately express with my pen all your encouragements, warnings, comforts, and guidance that led me to preach your Word and serve your Sacrament to your people? Even if I could properly describe them all, time is precious to me. I have long yearned to study your law and confess to you both my understanding and ignorance, the dawn of your enlightenment and my lingering darkness, until my weakness is transformed into strength. I wish to spend my free hours—those not required for bodily rest, mental recovery, or service to others (both obligatory and voluntary)—focused entirely on this pursuit.
O Lord my God, give ear unto my prayer, and let Thy mercy hearken unto my desire: because it is anxious not for myself alone, but would serve brotherly charity; and Thou seest my heart, that so it is. I would sacrifice to Thee the service of my thought and tongue; do Thou give me, what I may offer Thee. For I am poor and needy, Thou rich to all that call upon Thee; Who, inaccessible to care, carest for us. Circumcise from all rashness and all lying both my inward and outward lips: let Thy Scriptures be my pure delights: let me not be deceived in them, nor deceive out of them. Lord, hearken and pity, O Lord my God, Light of the blind, and Strength of the weak; yea also Light of those that see, and Strength of the strong; hearken unto my soul, and hear it crying out of the depths. For if Thine ears be not with us in the depths also, whither shall we go? whither cry? The day is Thine, and the night is Thine; at Thy beck the moments flee by. Grant thereof a space for our meditations in the hidden things of Thy law, and close it not against us who knock. For not in vain wouldest Thou have the darksome secrets of so many pages written; nor are those forests without their harts which retire therein and range and walk; feed, lie down, and ruminate. Perfect me, O Lord, and reveal them unto me. Behold, Thy voice is my joy; Thy voice exceedeth the abundance of pleasures. Give what I love: for I do love; and this hast Thou given: forsake not Thy own gifts, nor despise Thy green herb that thirsteth. Let me confess unto Thee whatsoever I shall find in Thy books, and hear the voice of praise, and drink in Thee, and meditate on the wonderful things out of Thy law; even from the beginning, wherein Thou madest the heaven and the earth, unto the everlasting reigning of Thy holy city with Thee.
Lord my God, hear my prayer and let Your mercy attend to my desire. My concern extends beyond myself—I wish to serve others in brotherly love, as You can see in my heart. I offer You my thoughts and words; grant me what I need to serve You properly. I am poor and needy, while You provide abundantly to all who seek You. Though beyond earthly cares, You still care for us. Remove all rashness and dishonesty from my speech, both internal and external. Let Your Scriptures be my pure joy—let me neither misunderstand them nor misuse them to mislead others. Lord, hear me and show mercy. You are the Light for the blind and Strength for the weak; indeed, You are also Light for those who see and Strength for the strong. Hear my soul crying out from the depths. If You don't hear us in our lowest moments, where else can we turn? Where else can we cry out? The day and night are Yours; time flows at Your command. Grant us time to contemplate the mysteries of Your law, and don't turn away those who seek answers. You didn't create these complex passages in Scripture without purpose. Like deer finding sanctuary in forests to rest, roam, eat, and reflect, we find refuge in Your word. Complete my understanding, Lord, and reveal Your truths to me. Your voice brings me joy beyond all pleasures. Give me what I love, for I do love, and this love comes from You. Don't abandon Your gifts or reject Your growing seed that thirsts for You. Let me share what I discover in Your books, hear Your praise, be filled with Your presence, and reflect on the wonders of Your law—from Your creation of heaven and earth to the eternal reign of Your holy city with You.
Lord, have mercy on me, and hear my desire. For it is not, I deem, of the earth, not of gold and silver, and precious stones, or gorgeous apparel, or honours and offices, or the pleasures of the flesh, or necessaries for the body and for this life of our pilgrimage: all which shall be added unto those that seek Thy kingdom and Thy righteousness. Behold, O Lord my God, wherein is my desire. The wicked have told me of delights, but not such as Thy law, O Lord. Behold, wherein is my desire. Behold, Father, behold, and see and approve; and be it pleasing in the sight of Thy mercy, that I may find grace before Thee, that the inward parts of Thy words be opened to me knocking. I beseech by our Lord Jesus Christ Thy Son, the Man of Thy right hand, the Son of man, whom Thou hast established for Thyself, as Thy Mediator and ours, through Whom Thou soughtest us, not seeking Thee, but soughtest us, that we might seek Thee,—Thy Word, through Whom Thou madest all things, and among them, me also;—Thy Only-Begotten, through Whom Thou calledst to adoption the believing people, and therein me also;—I beseech Thee by Him, who sitteth at Thy right hand, and intercedeth with Thee for us, in Whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge. These do I seek in Thy books. Of Him did Moses write; this saith Himself; this saith the Truth.
Lord, have mercy on me and hear my prayer. My desires are not earthly—not for gold, silver, precious stones, fine clothes, honors, status, physical pleasures, or even basic necessities for this life's journey. These things will come to those who seek Your kingdom and righteousness. Look, Lord my God, at what I truly desire. Others have spoken of worldly pleasures, but they pale compared to Your law. See my heart's longing, Father. Look upon it with approval, and in Your mercy, grant me grace. Let me understand Your words deeply as I seek their meaning. I ask this through our Lord Jesus Christ, Your Son, whom You placed at Your right hand. He is our Mediator, through whom You sought us before we sought You, guiding us to seek You in return. He is Your Word, through whom You created everything, including me. Through Your only Son, You adopted Your faithful people, myself included. I make this prayer through Him who sits beside You, interceding for us, in whom all wisdom and knowledge are hidden. These are the treasures I seek in Your scriptures. Moses wrote of Him; He speaks of Himself; Truth itself confirms this.
I would hear and understand, how "In the Beginning Thou madest the heaven and earth." Moses wrote this, wrote and departed, passed hence from Thee to Thee; nor is he now before me. For if he were, I would hold him and ask him, and beseech him by Thee to open these things unto me, and would lay the ears of my body to the sounds bursting out of his mouth. And should he speak Hebrew, in vain will it strike on my senses, nor would aught of it touch my mind; but if Latin, I should know what he said. But whence should I know, whether he spake truth? Yea, and if I knew this also, should I know it from him? Truly within me, within, in the chamber of my thoughts, Truth, neither Hebrew, nor Greek, nor Latin, nor barbarian, without organs of voice or tongue, or sound of syllables, would say, "It is truth," and I forthwith should say confidently to that man of Thine, "thou sayest truly." Whereas then I cannot enquire of him, Thee, Thee I beseech, O Truth, full of Whom he spake truth, Thee, my God, I beseech, forgive my sins; and Thou, who gavest him Thy servant to speak these things, give to me also to understand them.
I want to understand how "In the Beginning You made heaven and earth." Moses wrote these words before passing from this life to join You, and he's no longer here with me. If he were, I would hold onto him, asking him to explain these things through Your grace. I would listen intently to every word from his mouth. If he spoke Hebrew, it would mean nothing to me, as those sounds wouldn't reach my understanding. But in Latin, I would grasp his meaning. Yet how would I know if he spoke truth? Even if I could verify this, would his words alone be enough? No—deep within my mind, in my innermost thoughts, Truth itself would speak. This Truth needs no language—not Hebrew, Greek, Latin, or any other tongue. It requires no voice, no words, no syllables. It would simply declare, "This is truth," and I would confidently tell Your servant, "You speak truly." Since I cannot question Moses directly, I appeal to You, Truth itself, the source of his truthful words. My God, I ask You to forgive my sins, and just as You enabled Your servant Moses to speak these things, grant me the wisdom to understand them.
Behold, the heavens and the earth are; they proclaim that they were created; for they change and vary. Whereas whatsoever hath not been made, and yet is, hath nothing in it, which before it had not; and this it is, to change and vary. They proclaim also, that they made not themselves; "therefore we are, because we have been made; we were not therefore, before we were, so as to make ourselves." Now the evidence of the thing, is the voice of the speakers. Thou therefore, Lord, madest them; who art beautiful, for they are beautiful; who art good, for they are good; who art, for they are; yet are they not beautiful nor good, nor are they, as Thou their Creator art; compared with Whom, they are neither beautiful, nor good, nor are. This we know, thanks be to Thee. And our knowledge, compared with Thy knowledge, is ignorance.
Look at the heavens and earth—their very existence declares that they were created. We know this because they are always changing, while anything that exists without being created remains constant, with no new qualities emerging over time. Change itself proves creation. These creations openly show they did not make themselves. They exist because something made them—they could not have existed before themselves to bring about their own existence. The evidence is clear in what we observe. You, Lord, made them. You are beautiful, and so they are beautiful. You are good, and so they are good. You exist, and so they exist. Yet their beauty, goodness and existence pale in comparison to yours, their Creator. Next to you, they possess neither true beauty, nor goodness, nor being. We understand this truth, and we thank you for this understanding. Still, our knowledge, when measured against yours, is merely ignorance.
But how didst Thou make the heaven and the earth? and what the engine of Thy so mighty fabric? For it was not as a human artificer, forming one body from another, according to the discretion of his mind, which can in some way invest with such a form, as it seeth in itself by its inward eye. And whence should he be able to do this, unless Thou hadst made that mind? and he invests with a form what already existeth, and hath a being, as clay, or stone, or wood, or gold, or the like. And whence should they be, hadst not Thou appointed them? Thou madest the artificer his body, Thou the mind commanding the limbs, Thou the matter whereof he makes any thing; Thou the apprehension whereby to take in his art, and see within what he doth without; Thou the sense of his body, whereby, as by an interpreter, he may from mind to matter, convey that which he doth, and report to his mind what is done; that it within may consult the truth, which presideth over itself, whether it be well done or no. All these praise Thee, the Creator of all. But how dost Thou make them? how, O God, didst Thou make heaven and earth? Verily, neither in the heaven, nor in the earth, didst Thou make heaven and earth; nor in the air, or waters, seeing these also belong to the heaven and the earth; nor in the whole world didst Thou make the whole world; because there was no place where to make it, before it was made, that it might be. Nor didst Thou hold any thing in Thy hand, whereof to make heaven and earth. For whence shouldest Thou have this, which Thou hadst not made, thereof to make any thing? For what is, but because Thou art? Therefore Thou spokest, and they were made, and in Thy Word Thou madest them.
How did You create heaven and earth? What was the mechanism behind such a magnificent creation? Unlike a human craftsman who shapes one object from another according to their mental vision, following the design they see in their mind's eye. But how could they do even this unless You had created their mind? The craftsman can only shape what already exists—clay, stone, wood, gold, or similar materials. And where would these materials come from if You hadn't created them? You gave the craftsman their body, the mind that controls their limbs, and the materials they work with. You gave them the ability to understand their craft and envision their work internally before creating it externally. You gave them physical senses to bridge the gap between mind and matter, allowing them to transform thoughts into reality and understand what they've created. This lets them consult their inner truth to judge whether their work is good. All these gifts praise You, their Creator. But how do You create? How did You make heaven and earth? You didn't make them within heaven or earth, nor in the air or waters, since these are part of heaven and earth. You didn't even make the world within the world, because there was no space for creation before it existed. You didn't have materials in hand to work with, because where would You get something You hadn't already created? Nothing exists except through You. So You spoke, and everything came to be—You created everything through Your Word.
But how didst Thou speak? In the way that the voice came out of the cloud, saying, This is my beloved Son? For that voice passed by and passed away, began and ended; the syllables sounded and passed away, the second after the first, the third after the second, and so forth in order, until the last after the rest, and silence after the last. Whence it is abundantly clear and plain that the motion of a creature expressed it, itself temporal, serving Thy eternal will. And these Thy words, created for a time, the outward ear reported to the intelligent soul, whose inward ear lay listening to Thy Eternal Word. But she compared these words sounding in time, with that Thy Eternal Word in silence, and said "It is different, far different. These words are far beneath me, nor are they, because they flee and pass away; but the Word of my Lord abideth above me for ever." If then in sounding and passing words Thou saidst that heaven and earth should be made, and so madest heaven and earth, there was a corporeal creature before heaven and earth, by whose motions in time that voice might take his course in time. But there was nought corporeal before heaven and earth; or if there were, surely Thou hadst, without such a passing voice, created that, whereof to make this passing voice, by which to say, Let the heaven and the earth be made. For whatsoever that were, whereof such a voice were made, unless by Thee it were made, it could not be at all. By what Word then didst Thou speak, that a body might be made, whereby these words again might be made?
But how did You speak? Was it like the voice from the cloud saying "This is my beloved Son"? That voice came and went—it started and finished, with syllables following one another until the last one faded into silence. It's clear that this was the movement of something created expressing Your eternal will within time itself. These temporary words reached the mind through the physical ear, while the inner ear listened to Your Eternal Word. The soul compared these fleeting sounds with Your silent Eternal Word and realized: "This is completely different. These words are beneath me—they vanish and disappear. But my Lord's Word remains above me forever." If You used such temporary words to command "Let heaven and earth be made," and thus created them, there must have been some physical thing already existing whose movement could carry that voice through time. But nothing physical existed before heaven and earth. Even if something did exist, You would have had to create it without using such a temporary voice—something to make the voice that would then say "Let heaven and earth be made." Whatever could have made such a voice would first need to be created by You—it couldn't exist otherwise. So what Word did You use to create the thing that would then make these words?
Thou callest us then to understand the Word, God, with Thee God, Which is spoken eternally, and by It are all things spoken eternally. For what was spoken was not spoken successively, one thing concluded that the next might be spoken, but all things together and eternally. Else have we time and change; and not a true eternity nor true immortality. This I know, O my God, and give thanks. I know, I confess to Thee, O Lord, and with me there knows and blesses Thee, whoso is not unthankful to assure Truth. We know, Lord, we know; since inasmuch as anything is not which was, and is, which was not, so far forth it dieth and ariseth. Nothing then of Thy Word doth give place or replace, because It is truly immortal and eternal. And therefore unto the Word coeternal with Thee Thou dost at once and eternally say all that Thou dost say; and whatever Thou sayest shall be made is made; nor dost Thou make, otherwise than by saying; and yet are not all things made together, or everlasting, which Thou makest by saying.
You call us to understand the Word—God with You as God—which is spoken eternally and through which all things are eternally spoken. For these words were not spoken in sequence, with one thing ending so another could begin, but rather all at once and eternally. Otherwise, we would have time and change, not true eternity or true immortality. This I know, my God, and I give thanks. I know and confess to You, Lord, and whoever is grateful for assured Truth knows and blesses You alongside me. We know, Lord, we know—that when something exists that did not exist before, or something no longer exists that once did, it experiences death and rebirth. Therefore, nothing in Your Word gives way to or is replaced by anything else, because It is truly immortal and eternal. And so, to the Word that is eternal with You, You speak everything You say at once and eternally. Whatever You declare shall be made is made, and You create only through speaking. Yet not everything You create through speaking is made simultaneously or lasts forever.
Why, I beseech Thee, O Lord my God? I see it in a way; but how to express it, I know not, unless it be, that whatsoever begins to be, and leaves off to be, begins then, and leaves off then, when in Thy eternal Reason it is known, that it ought to begin or leave off; in which Reason nothing beginneth or leaveth off. This is Thy Word, which is also "the Beginning, because also It speaketh unto us." Thus in the Gospel He speaketh through the flesh; and this sounded outwardly in the ears of men; that it might be believed and sought inwardly, and found in the eternal Verity; where the good and only Master teacheth all His disciples. There, Lord, hear I Thy voice speaking unto me; because He speaketh us, who teacheth us; but He that teacheth us not, though He speaketh, to us He speaketh not. Who now teacheth us, but the unchangeable Truth? for even when we are admonished through a changeable creature; we are but led to the unchangeable Truth; where we learn truly, while we stand and hear Him, and rejoice greatly because of the Bridegroom's voice, restoring us to Him, from Whom we are. And therefore the Beginning, because unless It abided, there should not, when we went astray, be whither to return. But when we return from error, it is through knowing; and that we may know, He teacheth us, because He is the Beginning, and speaking unto us.
Why, I ask you, Lord my God? I understand it somewhat, but struggle to put it into words. Perhaps it is this: anything that begins to exist and then ceases to exist does so only when, in Your eternal wisdom, it is known that it should begin or end. In Your wisdom, nothing truly begins or ends. This is Your Word, which is also "the Beginning, because it speaks to us." This is why in the Gospel He speaks through physical form. His words reached human ears so that people might believe, search within themselves, and discover eternal Truth. There, the perfect Teacher instructs all who follow Him. There, Lord, I hear Your voice speaking to me, for He who teaches us truly speaks to us. But those who do not teach us, even when speaking, do not truly communicate. Who teaches us but unchanging Truth? Even when we learn through changing things, they lead us to unchangeable Truth. There we truly learn as we listen and rejoice in the Bridegroom's voice, which guides us back to Him, our source. He is the Beginning because without His constant presence, we who stray would have nowhere to return. When we find our way back from error, we do so through understanding. And to understand, He teaches us, for He is both the Beginning and the one who speaks to us.
In this Beginning, O God, hast Thou made heaven and earth, in Thy Word, in Thy Son, in Thy Power, in Thy Wisdom, in Thy Truth; wondrously speaking, and wondrously making. Who shall comprehend? Who declare it? What is that which gleams through me, and strikes my heart without hurting it; and I shudder and kindle? I shudder, inasmuch as I am unlike it; I kindle, inasmuch as I am like it. It is Wisdom, Wisdom's self which gleameth through me; severing my cloudiness which yet again mantles over me, fainting from it, through the darkness which for my punishment gathers upon me. For my strength is brought down in need, so that I cannot support my blessings, till Thou, Lord, Who hast been gracious to all mine iniquities, shalt heal all my infirmities. For Thou shalt also redeem my life from corruption, and crown me with loving kindness and tender mercies, and shalt satisfy my desire with good things, because my youth shall be renewed like an eagle's. For in hope we are saved, wherefore we through patience wait for Thy promises. Let him that is able, hear Thee inwardly discoursing out of Thy oracle: I will boldly cry out, How wonderful are Thy works, O Lord, in Wisdom hast Thou made them all; and this Wisdom is the Beginning, and in that Beginning didst Thou make heaven and earth.
In the beginning, God, you created heaven and earth through your Word, your Son, your Power, your Wisdom, and your Truth—speaking and creating in wonderful ways. Who can truly understand this? Who can explain it? What is this force that shines through me and touches my heart without harm, making me both tremble and burn? I tremble because I am different from it, yet I burn because I share in its nature. It is Wisdom itself that shines through me, cutting through my confusion, though darkness soon clouds over me again, making me weak as punishment. My strength fails me in need, and I cannot bear my blessings until you, Lord, who has forgiven all my sins, heal all my weaknesses. For you will save my life from decay, crown me with love and mercy, and fulfill my desires with good things, as my youth is renewed like an eagle's. We are saved through hope, so we patiently await your promises. Let those who can hear you speak through your divine truth. I will boldly proclaim: How wonderful are your works, O Lord, made in Wisdom! This Wisdom is the Beginning, and in that Beginning you created heaven and earth.
Lo, are they not full of their old leaven, who say to us, "What was God doing before He made heaven and earth? For if (say they) He were unemployed and wrought not, why does He not also henceforth, and for ever, as He did heretofore? For did any new motion arise in God, and a new will to make a creature, which He had never before made, how then would that be a true eternity, where there ariseth a will, which was not? For the will of God is not a creature, but before the creature; seeing nothing could be created, unless the will of the Creator had preceded. The will of God then belongeth to His very Substance. And if aught have arisen in God's Substance, which before was not, that Substance cannot be truly called eternal. But if the will of God has been from eternity that the creature should be, why was not the creature also from eternity?"
Look at how they cling to their old ways of thinking when they ask us: "What was God doing before He created heaven and earth? If He was idle and not working then, why doesn't He remain idle now and forever, as He did before? If God suddenly developed a new desire to create something He had never made before, how can we call that true eternity, when new desires appear? After all, God's will isn't a creation—it comes before creation, since nothing could be created without the Creator's will existing first. Therefore, God's will must be part of His very essence. And if something new appeared in God's essence that wasn't there before, we can't truly call that essence eternal. But if God's will to create has existed eternally, why hasn't creation itself existed eternally?"
Who speak thus, do not yet understand Thee, O Wisdom of God, Light of souls, understand not yet how the things be made, which by Thee, and in Thee are made: yet they strive to comprehend things eternal, whilst their heart fluttereth between the motions of things past and to come, and is still unstable. Who shall hold it, and fix it, that it be settled awhile, and awhile catch the glory of that ever-fixed Eternity, and compare it with the times which are never fixed, and see that it cannot be compared; and that a long time cannot become long, but out of many motions passing by, which cannot be prolonged altogether; but that in the Eternal nothing passeth, but the whole is present; whereas no time is all at once present: and that all time past, is driven on by time to come, and all to come followeth upon the past; and all past and to come, is created, and flows out of that which is ever present? Who shall hold the heart of man, that it may stand still, and see how eternity ever still-standing, neither past nor to come, uttereth the times past and to come? Can my hand do this, or the hand of my mouth by speech bring about a thing so great?
Those who speak this way don't yet understand You, O Wisdom of God, Light of souls. They don't grasp how things are made by and through You. They try to understand eternal matters while their hearts waver between past and future, never finding stability. Who can steady their heart long enough to glimpse the splendor of unchanging Eternity and compare it to ever-changing time? Such a comparison is impossible. Even a long stretch of time is just a series of passing moments that can't be stretched out together. In Eternity, nothing passes away—everything exists at once. But in time, no moment contains all moments. The past is pushed forward by the future, while the future always follows the past. All of time—past and future—flows from the eternal present. Who can still the human heart long enough to see how eternity, which neither passes nor arrives, gives birth to past and future? Can my hand accomplish this? Can my voice express something so profound?
See, I answer him that asketh, "What did God before He made heaven and earth?" I answer not as one is said to have done merrily (eluding the pressure of the question), "He was preparing hell (saith he) for pryers into mysteries." It is one thing to answer enquiries, another to make sport of enquirers. So I answer not; for rather had I answer, "I know not," what I know not, than so as to raise a laugh at him who asketh deep things and gain praise for one who answereth false things. But I say that Thou, our God, art the Creator of every creature: and if by the name "heaven and earth," every creature be understood; I boldly say, "that before God made heaven and earth, He did not make any thing." For if He made, what did He make but a creature? And would I knew whatsoever I desire to know to my profit, as I know, that no creature was made, before there was made any creature.
When asked "What did God do before creating heaven and earth?" I won't respond like someone once did jokingly to deflect the question: "He was preparing hell for those who pry into mysteries." It's one thing to answer questions, but another to mock those who ask them. I'd rather honestly admit "I don't know" than mock a serious inquiry or earn praise for giving false answers. Instead, I'll say this: You, our God, created everything. If "heaven and earth" means all creation, then I can confidently say that before God made heaven and earth, He made nothing. After all, if He made anything, wouldn't it be a creation? And while there's much I wish I knew, I do know this one thing for certain: no creation existed before the first creation was made.
But if any excursive brain rove over the images of forepassed times, and wonder that Thou the God Almighty and All-creating and All-supporting, Maker of heaven and earth, didst for innumerable ages forbear from so great a work, before Thou wouldest make it; let him awake and consider, that he wonders at false conceits. For whence could innumerable ages pass by, which Thou madest not, Thou the Author and Creator of all ages? or what times should there be, which were not made by Thee? or how should they pass by, if they never were? Seeing then Thou art the Creator of all times, if any time was before Thou madest heaven and earth, why say they that Thou didst forego working? For that very time didst Thou make, nor could times pass by, before Thou madest those times. But if before heaven and earth there was no time, why is it demanded, what Thou then didst? For there was no "then," when there was no time.
If anyone's mind wanders to past times and questions why You—the All-powerful God, Creator and Sustainer of all things, Maker of heaven and earth—waited countless ages before creating everything, let them wake up and realize they're caught in false thinking. How could countless ages pass before Your creation when You are the very Author and Creator of time itself? What times could exist that You didn't make? How could time pass if it didn't exist? Since You created all time, if there was time before You made heaven and earth, why do they claim You delayed Your work? You created that time too, and no time could pass before You created time itself. And if there was no time before heaven and earth, why ask what You were doing then? There was no "then" when there was no time.
Nor dost Thou by time, precede time: else shouldest Thou not precede all times. But Thou precedest all things past, by the sublimity of an ever-present eternity; and surpassest all future because they are future, and when they come, they shall be past; but Thou art the Same, and Thy years fail not. Thy years neither come nor go; whereas ours both come and go, that they all may come. Thy years stand together, because they do stand; nor are departing thrust out by coming years, for they pass not away; but ours shall all be, when they shall no more be. Thy years are one day; and Thy day is not daily, but To-day, seeing Thy To-day gives not place unto tomorrow, for neither doth it replace yesterday. Thy To-day, is Eternity; therefore didst Thou beget The Coeternal, to whom Thou saidst, This day have I begotten Thee. Thou hast made all things; and before all times Thou art: neither in any time was time not.
You don't exist within time, nor come before it—if You did, You wouldn't precede all time. Instead, You exist before all past things through the magnificence of an eternal present, surpassing all future events because they're yet to come and will eventually become past. But You remain unchanged, Your years never ending. Your years don't come and go like ours do—ours flow in sequence, each arriving in turn. Your years exist simultaneously because they're permanent. They aren't pushed aside by new ones since they never fade away, while our years will cease to exist entirely. Your years are a single day, but not a daily occurrence—rather an eternal Now that neither yields to tomorrow nor replaces yesterday. Your Now is Eternity itself, which is why You created the Co-eternal, to whom You said, "Today I have created You." You created everything, and You exist before all time—there was never a moment when time existed without You.
At no time then hadst Thou not made any thing, because time itself Thou madest. And no times are coeternal with Thee, because Thou abidest; but if they abode, they should not be times. For what is time? Who can readily and briefly explain this? Who can even in thought comprehend it, so as to utter a word about it? But what in discourse do we mention more familiarly and knowingly, than time? And, we understand, when we speak of it; we understand also, when we hear it spoken of by another. What then is time? If no one asks me, I know: if I wish to explain it to one that asketh, I know not: yet I say boldly that I know, that if nothing passed away, time past were not; and if nothing were coming, a time to come were not; and if nothing were, time present were not. Those two times then, past and to come, how are they, seeing the past now is not, and that to come is not yet? But the present, should it always be present, and never pass into time past, verily it should not be time, but eternity. If time present (if it is to be time) only cometh into existence, because it passeth into time past, how can we say that either this is, whose cause of being is, that it shall not be; so, namely, that we cannot truly say that time is, but because it is tending not to be?
Time itself was made by You—nothing existed before You created time. No times are eternal like You are, since You remain constant. If times remained constant, they wouldn't be times at all. What exactly is time? Who can explain it simply and quickly? Who can even grasp it mentally enough to describe it? Yet what do we discuss more casually and confidently than time? We understand it when we talk about it and when others mention it. So what is time? When no one asks me, I know what it is. But when I try to explain it to someone who asks, I find I don't know. Still, I confidently say I know this: if nothing passed away, there would be no past; if nothing was approaching, there would be no future; and if nothing existed now, there would be no present. How can past and future exist when the past is gone and the future hasn't arrived yet? And if the present stayed forever present and never became past, it wouldn't be time at all—it would be eternity. If the present only exists by becoming the past, how can we say something exists whose very existence depends on becoming nonexistent? Can we truly say time exists when its nature is to stop existing?
And yet we say, "a long time" and "a short time"; still, only of time past or to come. A long time past (for example) we call an hundred years since; and a long time to come, an hundred years hence. But a short time past, we call (suppose) often days since; and a short time to come, often days hence. But in what sense is that long or short, which is not? For the past, is not now; and the future, is not yet. Let us not then say, "it is long"; but of the past, "it hath been long"; and of the future, "it will be long." O my Lord, my Light, shall not here also Thy Truth mock at man? For that past time which was long, was it long when it was now past, or when it was yet present? For then might it be long, when there was, what could be long; but when past, it was no longer; wherefore neither could that be long, which was not at all. Let us not then say, "time past hath been long": for we shall not find, what hath been long, seeing that since it was past, it is no more, but let us say, "that present time was long"; because, when it was present, it was long. For it had not yet passed away, so as not to be; and therefore there was, what could be long; but after it was past, that ceased also to be long, which ceased to be.
We talk about "long time" and "short time," but only when referring to the past or future. A hundred years ago is what we call a long time past, and a hundred years from now is a long time ahead. A few days ago is a short time past, and a few days from now is a short time ahead. But how can we measure something as long or short if it doesn't exist? The past is gone, and the future hasn't arrived yet. Instead of saying "it is long," we should say of the past "it was long" and of the future "it will be long." But isn't this truth itself mocking us? Consider a long period in the past—was it long while it was happening, or after it had already passed? Something can only be long while it exists. Once it's over, it no longer exists, so how can we measure what isn't there? So we shouldn't say "the past was long" because we can't measure what no longer exists. Instead, we should say "that present moment was long" because while it was happening, it truly had duration. It hadn't yet disappeared, so there was something to measure. But once it passed, it stopped being long because it stopped existing altogether.
Let us see then, thou soul of man, whether present time can be long: for to thee it is given to feel and to measure length of time. What wilt thou answer me? Are an hundred years, when present, a long time? See first, whether an hundred years can be present. For if the first of these years be now current, it is present, but the other ninety and nine are to come, and therefore are not yet, but if the second year be current, one is now past, another present, the rest to come. And so if we assume any middle year of this hundred to be present, all before it, are past; all after it, to come; wherefore an hundred years cannot be present. But see at least whether that one which is now current, itself is present; for if the current month be its first, the rest are to come; if the second, the first is already past, and the rest are not yet. Therefore, neither is the year now current present; and if not present as a whole, then is not the year present. For twelve months are a year; of which whatever by the current month is present; the rest past, or to come. Although neither is that current month present; but one day only; the rest being to come, if it be the first; past, if the last; if any of the middle, then amid past and to come.
Let's examine whether the present moment can truly be long. You, as a human being, can feel and measure time—so what do you think? Is a hundred years a long time when experienced in the present? Consider this: can a hundred years ever truly be "present"? If we're in the first year, only that year is present while the other ninety-nine are still in the future. If we're in the second year, one year has passed, one is present, and ninety-eight remain ahead. Take any year in between—everything before it is past, everything after it lies ahead. So a hundred years can never be simultaneously present. Even the current year isn't fully present. If we're in January, the remaining months are yet to come. If we're in February, January is already past, and later months haven't arrived. Therefore, the current year isn't truly present in its entirety. A year consists of twelve months, and only the current month can be considered present, with previous months behind us and future months ahead. But even the current month isn't fully present—only today is. If it's the first of the month, the remaining days lie ahead; if it's the last day, all others have passed; if we're somewhere in between, we're surrounded by both past and future days.
See how the present time, which alone we found could be called long, is abridged to the length scarce of one day. But let us examine that also; because neither is one day present as a whole. For it is made up of four and twenty hours of night and day: of which, the first hath the rest to come; the last hath them past; and any of the middle hath those before it past, those behind it to come. Yea, that one hour passeth away in flying particles. Whatsoever of it hath flown away, is past; whatsoever remaineth, is to come. If an instant of time be conceived, which cannot be divided into the smallest particles of moments, that alone is it, which may be called present. Which yet flies with such speed from future to past, as not to be lengthened out with the least stay. For if it be, it is divided into past and future. The present hath no space. Where then is the time, which we may call long? Is it to come? Of it we do not say, "it is long"; because it is not yet, so as to be long; but we say, "it will be long." When therefore will it be? For if even then, when it is yet to come, it shall not be long (because what can be long, as yet is not), and so it shall then be long, when from future which as yet is not, it shall begin now to be, and have become present, that so there should exist what may be long; then does time present cry out in the words above, that it cannot be long.
Look how what we call "the present" is reduced to barely a day. But let's examine that further—even a single day isn't truly present in its entirety. A day consists of twenty-four hours of day and night. The first hour anticipates those that follow, the last hour reflects on those past, and every hour in between has both past and future hours surrounding it. Even a single hour dissolves into smaller fragments. Whatever portion has passed is gone; whatever remains lies ahead. If we imagine the smallest possible moment of time—one that cannot be divided further—that alone could be called "present." Yet even this instant moves so quickly from future to past that it has no duration. If it had any duration at all, it would split into past and future. The present has no measurable length. So where can we find time that we might call "long"? In the future? We can't say "it is long" about the future because it doesn't exist yet. Instead, we say "it will be long." But when will that moment arrive? Even when that future becomes present, it won't be long—because nothing can be long until it exists. And once it exists as the present, it immediately demonstrates, as explained above, that it cannot be long at all.
And yet, Lord, we perceive intervals of times, and compare them, and say, some are shorter, and others longer. We measure also, how much longer or shorter this time is than that; and we answer, "This is double, or treble; and that, but once, or only just so much as that." But we measure times as they are passing, by perceiving them; but past, which now are not, or the future, which are not yet, who can measure? unless a man shall presume to say, that can be measured, which is not. When then time is passing, it may be perceived and measured; but when it is past, it cannot, because it is not.
We can understand and compare different spans of time, noting when some are shorter or longer than others. We measure how much longer one period is compared to another, saying things like "this is twice as long" or "this is three times as long" or "this is equal to that." But we can only measure time as it passes by observing it in the moment. How can anyone measure the past, which no longer exists, or the future, which hasn't happened yet? One would have to claim they can measure something that doesn't exist. So while we can perceive and measure time as it's happening, once it's passed, we cannot measure it because it's gone.
I ask, Father, I affirm not: O my God, rule and guide me. "Who will tell me that there are not three times (as we learned when boys, and taught boys), past, present, and future; but present only, because those two are not? Or are they also; and when from future it becometh present, doth it come out of some secret place; and so, when retiring, from present it becometh past? For where did they, who foretold things to come, see them, if as yet they be not? For that which is not, cannot be seen. And they who relate things past, could not relate them, if in mind they did not discern them, and if they were not, they could no way be discerned. Things then past and to come, are."
I ask you, Father—I do not claim to know: O God, guide and direct me. People say there are three times (as we learned and taught as children): past, present, and future. But is there only the present, since the other two don't exist? Or do they exist after all? When the future becomes present, does it emerge from some hidden place? And similarly, when the present becomes past, where does it go? For how could prophets see future events if they don't yet exist? What doesn't exist cannot be seen. And those who tell stories of the past couldn't do so unless they could see them in their minds. If these memories didn't exist, they couldn't be recalled at all. So both past and future must exist.
Permit me, Lord, to seek further. O my hope, let not my purpose be confounded. For if times past and to come be, I would know where they be. Which yet if I cannot, yet I know, wherever they be, they are not there as future, or past, but present. For if there also they be future, they are not yet there; if there also they be past, they are no longer there. Wheresoever then is whatsoever is, it is only as present. Although when past facts are related, there are drawn out of the memory, not the things themselves which are past, but words which, conceived by the images of the things, they, in passing, have through the senses left as traces in the mind. Thus my childhood, which now is not, is in time past, which now is not: but now when I recall its image, and tell of it, I behold it in the present, because it is still in my memory. Whether there be a like cause of foretelling things to come also; that of things which as yet are not, the images may be perceived before, already existing, I confess, O my God, I know not. This indeed I know, that we generally think before on our future actions, and that that forethinking is present, but the action whereof we forethink is not yet, because it is to come. Which, when we have set upon, and have begun to do what we were forethinking, then shall that action be; because then it is no longer future, but present.
Let me ask you, Lord, to explore this further. My hope is that my search won't be in vain. If past and future times exist, I want to know where they are. Even if I can't find them, I know this much: wherever they exist, they aren't there as future or past, but as present. If they existed as future, they wouldn't be there yet; if they existed as past, they would no longer be there. So whatever exists can only exist in the present. When we talk about past events, we aren't accessing the actual past things, but rather words formed from memories. These memories come from images that the original experiences left as impressions in our minds through our senses. My childhood, which no longer exists, belongs to a past that no longer exists. Yet when I recall and describe it now, I see it in the present because it still lives in my memory. I don't know, my God, if predicting the future works the same way—whether we can somehow perceive images of things that don't yet exist. What I do know is that we often plan our future actions, and while this planning happens in the present, the action we're planning hasn't happened yet because it's still to come. Once we begin doing what we planned, then that action becomes real—no longer future, but present.
Which way soever then this secret fore-perceiving of things to come be; that only can be seen, which is. But what now is, is not future, but present. When then things to come are said to be seen, it is not themselves which as yet are not (that is, which are to be), but their causes perchance or signs are seen, which already are. Therefore they are not future but present to those who now see that, from which the future, being foreconceived in the mind, is foretold. Which fore-conceptions again now are; and those who foretell those things, do behold the conceptions present before them. Let now the numerous variety of things furnish me some example. I behold the day-break, I foreshow, that the sun, is about to rise. What I behold, is present; what I foresignify, to come; not the sun, which already is; but the sun-rising, which is not yet. And yet did I not in my mind imagine the sun-rising itself (as now while I speak of it), I could not foretell it. But neither is that day-break which I discern in the sky, the sun-rising, although it goes before it; nor that imagination of my mind; which two are seen now present, that the other which is to be may be foretold. Future things then are not yet: and if they be not yet, they are not: and if they are not, they cannot be seen; yet foretold they may be from things present, which are already, and are seen.
Whatever form this ability to foresee future events takes, only what exists in the present can truly be seen. While we speak of seeing future events, we're not actually seeing the events themselves (since they don't exist yet). Instead, we're seeing their present causes or indicators. Thus, predictions aren't based on future events but on present signs visible to those who interpret them to forecast what's ahead. Let me give a concrete example. When I see the dawn breaking, I can predict that the sun will rise. The dawn I observe is present, while the sunrise I predict is future. I'm not seeing the actual sunrise yet, only predicting it will occur. Without forming a mental picture of the sunrise in my mind, I couldn't make this prediction. But neither the visible dawn in the sky nor my mental image of the sunrise is the actual sunrise itself—they're both present indicators that help me predict a future event. So future events don't exist yet. If they don't exist, they can't be seen. However, we can predict them by observing and interpreting signs that exist in the present moment.
Thou then, Ruler of Thy creation, by what way dost Thou teach souls things to come? For Thou didst teach Thy Prophets. By what way dost Thou, to whom nothing is to come, teach things to come; or rather of the future, dost teach things present? For, what is not, neither can it be taught. Too far is this way of my ken: it is too mighty for me, I cannot attain unto it; but from Thee I can, when Thou shalt vouchsafe it, O sweet light of my hidden eyes.
Creator and Ruler of all things, how do you teach souls about the future? You have taught your Prophets, but how do you—to whom nothing is yet to come—teach what will be? Or perhaps you teach present things about the future? After all, what does not exist cannot be taught. This concept is beyond my understanding: it is too profound for me to grasp. But with your help, when you choose to grant it, I can understand—O gentle light that illuminates my inner vision.
What now is clear and plain is, that neither things to come nor past are. Nor is it properly said, "there be three times, past, present, and to come": yet perchance it might be properly said, "there be three times; a present of things past, a present of things present, and a present of things future." For these three do exist in some sort, in the soul, but otherwhere do I not see them; present of things past, memory; present of things present, sight; present of things future, expectation. If thus we be permitted to speak, I see three times, and I confess there are three. Let it be said too, "there be three times, past, present, and to come": in our incorrect way. See, I object not, nor gainsay, nor find fault, if what is so said be but understood, that neither what is to be, now is, nor what is past. For but few things are there, which we speak properly, most things improperly; still the things intended are understood.
What is now obvious is that neither the future nor the past truly exist. While we commonly say "there are three times—past, present, and future," it might be more accurate to say "there are three presents: the present of past things, the present of present things, and the present of future things." These three exist in the mind, but nowhere else do I find them: the present of past things is memory, the present of present things is direct observation, and the present of future things is expectation. If we can express it this way, then yes, I see three times and acknowledge their existence. We can still use the common phrase "past, present, and future," despite its imprecision. I don't object to this usage or criticize it, as long as we understand that neither the future nor the past exists right now. We rarely speak with perfect precision—most of our expressions are imprecise, yet we still manage to convey our meaning.
I said then even now, we measure times as they pass, in order to be able to say, this time is twice so much as that one; or, this is just so much as that; and so of any other parts of time, which be measurable. Wherefore, as I said, we measure times as they pass. And if any should ask me, "How knowest thou?" I might answer, "I know, that we do measure, nor can we measure things that are not; and things past and to come, are not." But time present how do we measure, seeing it hath no space? It is measured while passing, but when it shall have passed, it is not measured; for there will be nothing to be measured. But whence, by what way, and whither passes it while it is a measuring? whence, but from the future? Which way, but through the present? whither, but into the past? From that therefore, which is not yet, through that, which hath no space, into that, which now is not. Yet what do we measure, if not time in some space? For we do not say, single, and double, and triple, and equal, or any other like way that we speak of time, except of spaces of times. In what space then do we measure time passing? In the future, whence it passeth through? But what is not yet, we measure not. Or in the present, by which it passes? but no space, we do not measure: or in the past, to which it passes? But neither do we measure that, which now is not.
We measure time as it passes to make comparisons—to say one period is twice as long as another, or that two periods are equal, or to make other such measurements. So we measure time in its passing. If someone asks "How do you know this?" I can answer that we clearly do measure time, and we can only measure things that exist. The past and future don't exist—only the present does. But how do we measure the present when it has no duration? We measure it as it's passing, but once it's passed, it can't be measured because it no longer exists. Where does time come from, how does it move, and where does it go while we're measuring it? It comes from the future, passes through the present, and moves into the past. In other words, it moves from what doesn't yet exist, through a momentary point, into what no longer exists. What exactly are we measuring if not some span of time? When we talk about single, double, triple, or equal periods, we're always referring to spans of time. So in what span do we measure passing time? In the future, from which it comes? But we can't measure what doesn't exist yet. In the present, through which it passes? But there's no duration to measure there. In the past, to which it moves? But we can't measure what no longer exists.
My soul is on fire to know this most intricate enigma. Shut it not up, O Lord my God, good Father; through Christ I beseech Thee, do not shut up these usual, yet hidden things, from my desire, that it be hindered from piercing into them; but let them dawn through Thy enlightening mercy, O Lord. Whom shall I enquire of concerning these things? and to whom shall I more fruitfully confess my ignorance, than to Thee, to Whom these my studies, so vehemently kindled toward Thy Scriptures, are not troublesome? Give what I love; for I do love, and this hast Thou given me. Give, Father, Who truly knowest to give good gifts unto Thy children. Give, because I have taken upon me to know, and trouble is before me until Thou openest it. By Christ I beseech Thee, in His Name, Holy of holies, let no man disturb me. For I believed, and therefore do I speak. This is my hope, for this do I live, that I may contemplate the delights of the Lord. Behold, Thou hast made my days old, and they pass away, and how, I know not. And we talk of time, and time, and times, and times, "How long time is it since he said this"; "how long time since he did this"; and "how long time since I saw that"; and "this syllable hath double time to that single short syllable." These words we speak, and these we hear, and are understood, and understand. Most manifest and ordinary they are, and the self-same things again are but too deeply hidden, and the discovery of them were new.
My soul burns to understand this complex mystery. Don't keep these common yet hidden things from my desire, Lord my God, good Father. Through Christ, I ask that you let me dive deep into them. Let them become clear through Your enlightening mercy, Lord. Who can I ask about these matters? To whom can I better admit my ignorance than to You, since You don't mind my passionate pursuit of Your Scriptures? Give me what I love, for I do love, and You gave me this love. Give, Father, for You truly know how to give good gifts to Your children. Give, because I've committed to understanding, and I'll struggle until You reveal it. Through Christ I ask, in His Holy Name, let no one distract me. I believed, and so I speak. This is my hope, this is why I live: to contemplate the Lord's delights. Look, You've aged my days, and they slip away mysteriously. We talk endlessly about time—"How long since he said that?" "How long since he did that?" "How long since I saw that?" and "This syllable takes twice as long as that short one." These words we speak and hear are understood perfectly well, yet these same simple things remain deeply mysterious, and discovering their true meaning would be revolutionary.
I heard once from a learned man, that the motions of the sun, moon, and stars, constituted time, and I assented not. For why should not the motions of all bodies rather be times? Or, if the lights of heaven should cease, and a potter's wheel run round, should there be no time by which we might measure those whirlings, and say, that either it moved with equal pauses, or if it turned sometimes slower, otherwhiles quicker, that some rounds were longer, other shorter? Or, while we were saying this, should we not also be speaking in time? Or, should there in our words be some syllables short, others long, but because those sounded in a shorter time, these in a longer? God, grant to men to see in a small thing notices common to things great and small. The stars and lights of heaven, are also for signs, and for seasons, and for years, and for days; they are; yet neither should I say, that the going round of that wooden wheel was a day, nor yet he, that it was therefore no time.
I once heard a scholar claim that time was defined by the movements of the sun, moon, and stars. I disagreed. Why shouldn't the movements of all objects be considered time? If the celestial bodies stopped moving but a potter's wheel kept spinning, wouldn't we still be able to measure time through its rotations? We could observe whether it spun at a constant speed or varied between faster and slower, noting longer and shorter revolutions. Even as we discuss this, aren't we speaking within time itself? Don't our words contain short and long syllables, distinguished only by their duration? God helps us see how the principles governing small things mirror those governing large ones. The celestial bodies indeed serve as markers for signs, seasons, years, and days. Yet I wouldn't claim that one rotation of a wooden wheel equals a day, nor would I deny that such rotation measures time in its own way.
I desire to know the force and nature of time, by which we measure the motions of bodies, and say (for example) this motion is twice as long as that. For I ask, Seeing "day" denotes not the stay only of the sun upon the earth (according to which day is one thing, night another); but also its whole circuit from east to east again; according to which we say, "there passed so many days," the night being included when we say, "so many days," and the nights not reckoned apart;—seeing then a day is completed by the motion of the sun and by his circuit from east to east again, I ask, does the motion alone make the day, or the stay in which that motion is completed, or both? For if the first be the day; then should we have a day, although the sun should finish that course in so small a space of time, as one hour comes to. If the second, then should not that make a day, if between one sun-rise and another there were but so short a stay, as one hour comes to; but the sun must go four and twenty times about, to complete one day. If both, then neither could that be called a day; if the sun should run his whole round in the space of one hour; nor that, if, while the sun stood still, so much time should overpass, as the sun usually makes his whole course in, from morning to morning. I will not therefore now ask, what that is which is called day; but, what time is, whereby we, measuring the circuit of the sun, should say that it was finished in half the time it was wont, if so be it was finished in so small a space as twelve hours; and comparing both times, should call this a single time, that a double time; even supposing the sun to run his round from east to east, sometimes in that single, sometimes in that double time. Let no man then tell me, that the motions of the heavenly bodies constitute times, because, when at the prayer of one, the sun had stood still, till he could achieve his victorious battle, the sun stood still, but time went on. For in its own allotted space of time was that battle waged and ended. I perceive time then to be a certain extension. But do I perceive it, or seem to perceive it? Thou, Light and Truth, wilt show me.
I want to understand the true nature of time—specifically how we use it to measure motion and compare durations, like saying one motion takes twice as long as another. Take "day" for example. It doesn't just mean the time the sun is visible (distinguishing day from night), but rather the sun's complete circuit from east to east, including both daylight and darkness. When we say "so many days passed," we're counting complete cycles, not separating nights. This raises questions: Is a day defined by the sun's motion alone, or by the duration of that motion, or both? If it's just the motion, would we call it a day if the sun completed its circuit in one hour? If it's just the duration, would we call it a day if the sun took only an hour between rises? If it's both, then neither scenario would qualify as a day—not a one-hour circuit, nor a normal duration without the sun's movement. I'm less interested in defining "day" than understanding time itself. When we measure the sun's circuit and say it took half its usual duration—twelve hours instead of twenty-four—we're comparing periods and calling one single and the other double. This applies whether the sun actually completes its east-to-east journey in the shorter or longer period. Don't tell me that celestial movements define time. Consider when the sun stood still during someone's prayer until they won their battle—the sun stopped, but time continued. The battle played out within its own timespan. This suggests time is some kind of extension or dimension. But am I truly understanding this, or just thinking I do? Truth will reveal the answer.
Dost Thou bid me assent, if any define time to be "motion of a body?" Thou dost not bid me. For that no body is moved, but in time, I hear; this Thou sayest; but that the motion of a body is time, I hear not; Thou sayest it not. For when a body is moved, I by time measure, how long it moveth, from the time it began to move until it left off? And if I did not see whence it began; and it continue to move so that I see not when it ends, I cannot measure, save perchance from the time I began, until I cease to see. And if I look long, I can only pronounce it to be a long time, but not how long; because when we say "how long," we do it by comparison; as, "this is as long as that," or "twice so long as that," or the like. But when we can mark the distances of the places, whence and whither goeth the body moved, or his parts, if it moved as in a lathe, then can we say precisely, in how much time the motion of that body or his part, from this place unto that, was finished. Seeing therefore the motion of a body is one thing, that by which we measure how long it is, another; who sees not, which of the two is rather to be called time? For and if a body be sometimes moved, sometimes stands still, then we measure, not his motion only, but his standing still too by time; and we say, "it stood still, as much as it moved"; or "it stood still twice or thrice so long as it moved"; or any other space which our measuring hath either ascertained, or guessed; more or less, as we use to say. Time then is not the motion of a body.
Do you want me to agree when someone claims time is "the motion of a body"? You don't expect me to. While it's true that bodies move in time, as you say, this doesn't mean that the motion itself is time—you're not saying that. When a body moves, I use time to measure how long it moves, from start to finish. If I can't see when it starts, and it keeps moving so I can't see when it ends, I can only measure from when I first noticed it until I lose sight of it. If I watch for a while, I can only say it took a long time, but not exactly how long, since we measure duration by comparison—like saying "this is as long as that" or "twice as long as that." When we can measure the distance something travels, from start to finish, or track its parts moving like on a lathe, then we can say exactly how long the motion took. Since the motion of a body is one thing, and our measurement of its duration is another, isn't it obvious which one should be called time? If a body sometimes moves and sometimes stays still, we measure both its motion and stillness in time. We might say "it was still for as long as it moved" or "it was still for twice or three times as long as it moved," or any other duration we can measure or estimate, more or less, as we typically say. Therefore, time cannot simply be the motion of a body.
And I confess to Thee, O Lord, that I yet know not what time is, and again I confess unto Thee, O Lord, that I know that I speak this in time, and that having long spoken of time, that very "long" is not long, but by the pause of time. How then know I this, seeing I know not what time is? or is it perchance that I know not how to express what I know? Woe is me, that do not even know, what I know not. Behold, O my God, before Thee I lie not; but as I speak, so is my heart. Thou shalt light my candle; Thou, O Lord my God, wilt enlighten my darkness.
I admit, Lord, that I still don't understand what time really is. I also admit that I'm aware I'm discussing this within time itself, and that when I say I've been talking about time for "long," that length only exists because time passes. So how can I know this if I don't understand what time is? Or perhaps I know but can't find the right words to express it? How frustrating that I'm not even sure what I don't know. Look, my God, I'm being completely honest with you—my words match what's in my heart. You will illuminate my path; you, Lord my God, will bring light to my confusion.
Does not my soul most truly confess unto Thee, that I do measure times? Do I then measure, O my God, and know not what I measure? I measure the motion of a body in time; and the time itself do I not measure? Or could I indeed measure the motion of a body how long it were, and in how long space it could come from this place to that, without measuring the time in which it is moved? This same time then, how do I measure? do we by a shorter time measure a longer, as by the space of a cubit, the space of a rood? for so indeed we seem by the space of a short syllable, to measure the space of a long syllable, and to say that this is double the other. Thus measure we the spaces of stanzas, by the spaces of the verses, and the spaces of the verses, by the spaces of the feet, and the spaces of the feet, by the spaces of the syllables, and the spaces of long, by the space of short syllables; not measuring by pages (for then we measure spaces, not times); but when we utter the words and they pass by, and we say "it is a long stanza, because composed of so many verses; long verses, because consisting of so many feet; long feet, because prolonged by so many syllables; a long syllable because double to a short one." But neither do we this way obtain any certain measure of time; because it may be, that a shorter verse, pronounced more fully, may take up more time than a longer, pronounced hurriedly. And so for a verse, a foot, a syllable. Whence it seemed to me, that time is nothing else than protraction; but of what, I know not; and I marvel, if it be not of the mind itself? For what, I beseech Thee, O my God, do I measure, when I say, either indefinitely "this is a longer time than that," or definitely "this is double that"? That I measure time, I know; and yet I measure not time to come, for it is not yet; nor present, because it is not protracted by any space; nor past, because it now is not. What then do I measure? Times passing, not past? for so I said.
Isn't my soul being honest when I say I measure time? But God, do I truly understand what I'm measuring? I can measure how a body moves through time, but am I actually measuring time itself? Could I really track an object's motion—its duration and the distance it travels—without measuring the time it takes? So how exactly do I measure time? Do we measure longer periods using shorter ones, like using a cubit to measure a rod? We seem to do this when we use a short syllable to measure a long one, saying one is twice the length of the other. We measure stanzas by their verses, verses by their feet, feet by syllables, and long syllables against short ones. We're not counting pages (that would be measuring space, not time). Instead, when we speak the words aloud, we say "this is a long stanza because it has many verses; long verses because they have many feet; long feet because they have many syllables; and long syllables because they're double the short ones." But this doesn't give us any reliable measure of time. A shorter verse spoken slowly might take longer than a longer verse spoken quickly. The same goes for feet and syllables. This makes me think time must be some kind of extension—but of what? I wonder if it's an extension of the mind itself. What exactly am I measuring, God, when I say either "this time is longer than that" or "this is twice as long as that"? I know I measure time, but I can't measure future time because it hasn't happened yet. I can't measure present time because it has no duration. And I can't measure past time because it no longer exists. So what am I measuring? Times as they pass, not after they've passed? That must be it.
Courage, my mind, and press on mightily. God is our helper, He made us, and not we ourselves. Press on where truth begins to dawn. Suppose, now, the voice of a body begins to sound, and does sound, and sounds on, and list, it ceases; it is silence now, and that voice is past, and is no more a voice. Before it sounded, it was to come, and could not be measured, because as yet it was not, and now it cannot, because it is no longer. Then therefore while it sounded, it might; because there then was what might be measured. But yet even then it was not at a stay; for it was passing on, and passing away. Could it be measured the rather, for that? For while passing, it was being extended into some space of time, so that it might be measured, since the present hath no space. If therefore then it might, then, lo, suppose another voice hath begun to sound, and still soundeth in one continued tenor without any interruption; let us measure it while it sounds; seeing when it hath left sounding, it will then be past, and nothing left to be measured; let us measure it verily, and tell how much it is. But it sounds still, nor can it be measured but from the instant it began in, unto the end it left in. For the very space between is the thing we measure, namely, from some beginning unto some end. Wherefore, a voice that is not yet ended, cannot be measured, so that it may be said how long, or short it is; nor can it be called equal to another, or double to a single, or the like. But when ended, it no longer is. How may it then be measured? And yet we measure times; but yet neither those which are not yet, nor those which no longer are, nor those which are not lengthened out by some pause, nor those which have no bounds. We measure neither times to come, nor past, nor present, nor passing; and yet we do measure times.
Push forward with strength, my mind. God is our helper—He created us, not the other way around. Move toward where truth begins to emerge. Consider how a sound begins, continues, and then stops—becoming silence. The sound is gone, no longer existing. Before it started, it was yet to come and couldn't be measured because it didn't exist. Now it can't be measured because it's gone. Only while it was playing could it be measured, because then there was something to measure. But even during playback, it wasn't static—it was constantly moving and fading. Does that make it more measurable? As it played, it stretched across time, allowing measurement, since the present moment has no duration. Now imagine another sound that plays continuously without breaks. Let's measure it while it plays, knowing that once it stops, it will be gone with nothing left to measure. We can truly measure it and determine its length. But while it's still playing, we can only measure from when it started until now. The space between is what we're measuring—from beginning to end. Therefore, an ongoing sound can't be measured for length or compared to others as equal, double, or similar. Once it ends, it no longer exists. So how can we measure it? Yet we do measure time—though we can't measure what hasn't happened, what's already passed, what has no pause, or what has no boundaries. We can't measure future time, past time, present time, or passing time. Still, somehow, we measure time.
"Deus Creator omnium," this verse of eight syllables alternates between short and long syllables. The four short then, the first, third, fifth, and seventh, are but single, in respect of the four long, the second, fourth, sixth, and eighth. Every one of these to every one of those, hath a double time: I pronounce them, report on them, and find it so, as one's plain sense perceives. By plain sense then, I measure a long syllable by a short, and I sensibly find it to have twice so much; but when one sounds after the other, if the former be short, the latter long, how shall I detain the short one, and how, measuring, shall I apply it to the long, that I may find this to have twice so much; seeing the long does not begin to sound, unless the short leaves sounding? And that very long one do I measure as present, seeing I measure it not till it be ended? Now his ending is his passing away. What then is it I measure? where is the short syllable by which I measure? where the long which I measure? Both have sounded, have flown, passed away, are no more; and yet I measure, and confidently answer (so far as is presumed on a practised sense) that as to space of time this syllable is but single, that double. And yet I could not do this, unless they were already past and ended. It is not then themselves, which now are not, that I measure, but something in my memory, which there remains fixed.
"Deus Creator omnium"—this eight-syllable verse alternates between short and long syllables. The four short syllables (first, third, fifth, and seventh) are single beats, while the four long ones (second, fourth, sixth, and eighth) are double beats. Each long syllable takes twice the time of a short one. I can pronounce them, analyze them, and clearly perceive this pattern. Using my basic perception, I can compare a long syllable to a short one and plainly hear that it's twice the length. But when they play in sequence—a short followed by a long—how can I properly measure the short one against the long? How can I verify that one is truly double the other? This is especially challenging since the long syllable can't begin until the short one ends. Even more puzzling: how do I measure the long syllable while it's happening, when I can only measure it after it's finished? Once it ends, it's gone. So what exactly am I measuring? Where are these syllables—both short and long—that I'm trying to compare? They've both sounded, flown past, and vanished. Yet I can still measure them and confidently state (based on practiced perception) that one is single and the other double. This wouldn't be possible unless they had already played and ended. So I'm not actually measuring the syllables themselves, which no longer exist, but rather their imprint in my memory, where they remain fixed.
It is in thee, my mind, that I measure times. Interrupt me not, that is, interrupt not thyself with the tumults of thy impressions. In thee I measure times; the impression, which things as they pass by cause in thee, remains even when they are gone; this it is which still present, I measure, not the things which pass by to make this impression. This I measure, when I measure times. Either then this is time, or I do not measure times. What when we measure silence, and say that this silence hath held as long time as did that voice? do we not stretch out our thought to the measure of a voice, as if it sounded, that so we may be able to report of the intervals of silence in a given space of time? For though both voice and tongue be still, yet in thought we go over poems, and verses, and any other discourse, or dimensions of motions, and report as to the spaces of times, how much this is in respect of that, no otherwise than if vocally we did pronounce them. If a man would utter a lengthened sound, and had settled in thought how long it should be, he hath in silence already gone through a space of time, and committing it to memory, begins to utter that speech, which sounds on, until it be brought unto the end proposed. Yea it hath sounded, and will sound; for so much of it as is finished, hath sounded already, and the rest will sound. And thus passeth it on, until the present intent conveys over the future into the past; the past increasing by the diminution of the future, until by the consumption of the future, all is past.
In my mind, I measure time. I must not let my thoughts be interrupted by the chaos of sensory impressions. Within my mind, I measure time through the impressions that things leave behind, even after they've passed. I measure these lasting impressions, not the passing things themselves. This is how I measure time—either this is what time is, or I'm not measuring time at all. When we measure silence and say it lasted as long as a particular sound, aren't we mentally recreating the duration of that sound to compare the intervals of silence? Even when voice and tongue are quiet, we mentally recite poems, verses, speeches, or movements, comparing their durations just as if we were speaking them aloud. If someone plans to make a long sound and decides its length beforehand, they've already measured that time in silence. After committing it to memory, they begin speaking, continuing until they reach their planned endpoint. The sound exists in past, present, and future—what's finished has already sounded, and the rest is yet to come. This process continues as present intention transforms future into past, with the past growing as the future shrinks, until eventually the future is consumed and everything becomes past.
But how is that future diminished or consumed, which as yet is not? or how that past increased, which is now no longer, save that in the mind which enacteth this, there be three things done? For it expects, it considers, it remembers; that so that which it expecteth, through that which it considereth, passeth into that which it remembereth. Who therefore denieth, that things to come are not as yet? and yet, there is in the mind an expectation of things to come. And who denies past things to be now no longer? and yet is there still in the mind a memory of things past. And who denieth the present time hath no space, because it passeth away in a moment? and yet our consideration continueth, through which that which shall be present proceedeth to become absent. It is not then future time, that is long, for as yet it is not: but a long future, is "a long expectation of the future," nor is it time past, which now is not, that is long; but a long past, is "a long memory of the past."
How can the future be used up when it hasn't even happened yet? And how can the past grow larger when it no longer exists? The answer lies in how our mind processes time through three actions: anticipating, focusing, and remembering. What we anticipate moves through our present focus into memory. Everyone agrees that future events haven't happened yet, but we still hold expectations of them in our minds. Similarly, we all know past events no longer exist, yet we maintain memories of them. And while the present moment has no duration—passing instantly—our awareness continues, transforming what will be present into what becomes past. So it's not the future itself that is long, since it doesn't exist yet. Rather, it's our expectation of the future that is long. Likewise, it's not the past itself that is long, since it no longer exists, but rather our memory of it that extends through time.
I am about to repeat a Psalm that I know. Before I begin, my expectation is extended over the whole; but when I have begun, how much soever of it I shall separate off into the past, is extended along my memory; thus the life of this action of mine is divided between my memory as to what I have repeated, and expectation as to what I am about to repeat; but "consideration" is present with me, that through it what was future, may be conveyed over, so as to become past. Which the more it is done again and again, so much the more the expectation being shortened, is the memory enlarged: till the whole expectation be at length exhausted, when that whole action being ended, shall have passed into memory. And this which takes place in the whole Psalm, the same takes place in each several portion of it, and each several syllable; the same holds in that longer action, whereof this Psalm may be part; the same holds in the whole life of man, whereof all the actions of man are parts; the same holds through the whole age of the sons of men, whereof all the lives of men are parts.
When I prepare to recite a Psalm, I first hold the whole thing in my mind as anticipation. Once I begin, whatever portion I've already spoken moves into memory, while what remains stays as anticipation. The present moment acts as a bridge, transforming what's ahead into what's behind. The more I recite, the shorter my anticipation grows and the longer my memory becomes, until finally the entire recitation exists only in memory. This same pattern—of future becoming present becoming past—occurs at every level: in each part of the Psalm, in each syllable, in longer works containing the Psalm, in an individual's entire life (made up of all their actions), and even across human history (made up of all human lives).
But because Thy loving-kindness is better than all lives, behold, my life is but a distraction, and Thy right hand upheld me, in my Lord the Son of man, the Mediator betwixt Thee, The One, and us many, many also through our manifold distractions amid many things, that by Him I may apprehend in Whom I have been apprehended, and may be re-collected from my old conversation, to follow The One, forgetting what is behind, and not distended but extended, not to things which shall be and shall pass away, but to those things which are before, not distractedly but intently, I follow on for the prize of my heavenly calling, where I may hear the voice of Thy praise, and contemplate Thy delights, neither to come, nor to pass away. But now are my years spent in mourning. And Thou, O Lord, art my comfort, my Father everlasting, but I have been severed amid times, whose order I know not; and my thoughts, even the inmost bowels of my soul, are rent and mangled with tumultuous varieties, until I flow together into Thee, purified and molten by the fire of Thy love.
Your loving kindness surpasses all life itself. My life has been filled with distractions, yet your strength has sustained me through my Lord, the Son of man, who bridges the gap between You, the One, and us in our scattered state. Through Him, I can grasp what has already grasped me. I can leave behind my old ways to pursue the One, forgetting what's past. Rather than being pulled apart, I am stretched forward—not toward fleeting things, but toward what lies ahead. With focus rather than distraction, I pursue the prize of heaven's call, where I'll hear your praise and witness your eternal joys that neither arrive nor fade. For now, my years are spent in sorrow. You, Lord, are my comfort, my eternal Father. I find myself divided by time, whose sequence eludes me. My thoughts and my very soul are torn by chaos until I finally merge into You, cleansed and transformed by the fire of Your love.
And now will I stand, and become firm in Thee, in my mould, Thy truth; nor will I endure the questions of men, who by a penal disease thirst for more than they can contain, and say, "what did God before He made heaven and earth?" Or, "How came it into His mind to make any thing, having never before made any thing?" Give them, O Lord, well to bethink themselves what they say, and to find, that "never" cannot be predicated, when "time" is not. This then that He is said "never to have made"; what else is it to say, than "in 'no time' to have made?" Let them see therefore, that time cannot be without created being, and cease to speak that vanity. May they also be extended towards those things which are before; and understand Thee before all times, the eternal Creator of all times, and that no times be coeternal with Thee, nor any creature, even if there be any creature before all times.
I will stand firm in You, my foundation and truth. I won't waste energy on those who, suffering from their own limiting mindset, desperately seek answers beyond their comprehension. They ask: "What did God do before creating heaven and earth?" and "What made Him suddenly decide to create, having never created before?" Lord, help them understand the flaw in their logic—that "never" has no meaning when time itself didn't exist. When they say God "never" created before, they're really saying He created in "no time"—but this makes no sense. Let them realize that time cannot exist without creation, and stop spreading such meaningless ideas. May they look beyond these limitations and understand You as You truly are: the eternal Creator who exists before all time. Let them grasp that no time can be as eternal as You are, nor can any creature—even if such a creature existed before all other time.
O Lord my God, what a depth is that recess of Thy mysteries, and how far from it have the consequences of my transgressions cast me! Heal mine eyes, that I may share the joy of Thy light. Certainly, if there be mind gifted with such vast knowledge and foreknowledge, as to know all things past and to come, as I know one well-known Psalm, truly that mind is passing wonderful, and fearfully amazing; in that nothing past, nothing to come in after-ages, is any more hidden from him, than when I sung that Psalm, was hidden from me what, and how much of it had passed away from the beginning, what, and how much there remained unto the end. But far be it that Thou the Creator of the Universe, the Creator of souls and bodies, far be it, that Thou shouldest in such wise know all things past and to come. Far, far more wonderfully, and far more mysteriously, dost Thou know them. For not, as the feelings of one who singeth what he knoweth, or heareth some well-known song, are through expectation of the words to come, and the remembering of those that are past, varied, and his senses divided,—not so doth any thing happen unto Thee, unchangeably eternal, that is, the eternal Creator of minds. Like then as Thou in the Beginning knewest the heaven and the earth, without any variety of Thy knowledge, so madest Thou in the Beginning heaven and earth, without any distraction of Thy action. Whoso understandeth, let him confess unto Thee; and whoso understandeth not, let him confess unto Thee. Oh how high art Thou, and yet the humble in heart are Thy dwelling-place; for Thou raisest up those that are bowed down, and they fall not, whose elevation Thou art.
O Lord my God, how deep are your mysteries, and how far have my sins driven me from understanding them! Heal my eyes so I may share in the joy of your light. Indeed, if there existed a mind with such vast knowledge to know all past and future events as clearly as I know a familiar psalm, that mind would be truly extraordinary and awe-inspiring. Nothing would be hidden from such a mind—neither past nor future—just as when I sing that psalm, I know which parts have passed and which remain. But you, the Creator of the Universe, the maker of souls and bodies, know all things past and future in a far greater way. Your knowledge is infinitely more wonderful and mysterious. Unlike someone singing a familiar song, whose attention shifts between anticipating upcoming words and remembering past ones, nothing happens to you in such a divided way. You are unchangeably eternal, the eternal Creator of minds. Just as you knew heaven and earth in the Beginning with perfect, unchanging knowledge, you created them without any division in your action. Let those who understand this confess to you, and let those who don't understand also confess to you. How exalted you are, yet you make your home with the humble in heart. You lift up those who are bowed down, and they cannot fall when you are their strength.