Great art Thou, O Lord, and greatly to be praised; great is Thy power, and Thy wisdom infinite. And Thee would man praise; man, but a particle of Thy creation; man, that bears about him his mortality, the witness of his sin, the witness that Thou resistest the proud: yet would man praise Thee; he, but a particle of Thy creation. Thou awakest us to delight in Thy praise; for Thou madest us for Thyself, and our heart is restless, until it repose in Thee. Grant me, Lord, to know and understand which is first, to call on Thee or to praise Thee? and, again, to know Thee or to call on Thee? for who can call on Thee, not knowing Thee? for he that knoweth Thee not, may call on Thee as other than Thou art. Or, is it rather, that we call on Thee that we may know Thee? but how shall they call on Him in whom they have not believed? or how shall they believe without a preacher? and they that seek the Lord shall praise Him: for they that seek shall find Him, and they that find shall praise Him. I will seek Thee, Lord, by calling on Thee; and will call on Thee, believing in Thee; for to us hast Thou been preached. My faith, Lord, shall call on Thee, which Thou hast given me, wherewith Thou hast inspired me, through the Incarnation of Thy Son, through the ministry of the Preacher.
You are great, O Lord, and worthy of all praise. Your power is immense, and Your wisdom knows no bounds. We, mere fragments of Your creation, wish to praise You—we who carry our mortality and bear witness to our sins, we who know You oppose the proud. Still, we desire to praise You, though we are but tiny pieces of Your vast creation. You awaken in us joy in praising You, for You made us for Yourself, and our hearts remain restless until they find peace in You. Lord, help me understand: which comes first—calling to You or praising You? And what of knowing You versus calling to You? For how can one call to You without knowing You? Those who don't know You might call to something You're not. Or perhaps we call to You so that we might know You? But how can people call to one they don't believe in? How can they believe without someone to teach them? Those who seek the Lord will praise Him—for seekers will find Him, and those who find Him will sing His praise. I will seek You, Lord, by calling to You, and I will call to You because I believe in You, for we have been taught Your word. My faith, Lord—which You gave me and inspired in me through Your Son's incarnation and through the Preacher's ministry—will call out to You.
And how shall I call upon my God, my God and Lord, since, when I call for Him, I shall be calling Him to myself? and what room is there within me, whither my God can come into me? whither can God come into me, God who made heaven and earth? is there, indeed, O Lord my God, aught in me that can contain Thee? do then heaven and earth, which Thou hast made, and wherein Thou hast made me, contain Thee? or, because nothing which exists could exist without Thee, doth therefore whatever exists contain Thee? Since, then, I too exist, why do I seek that Thou shouldest enter into me, who were not, wert Thou not in me? Why? because I am not gone down in hell, and yet Thou art there also. For if I go down into hell, Thou art there. I could not be then, O my God, could not be at all, wert Thou not in me; or, rather, unless I were in Thee, of whom are all things, by whom are all things, in whom are all things? Even so, Lord, even so. Whither do I call Thee, since I am in Thee? or whence canst Thou enter into me? for whither can I go beyond heaven and earth, that thence my God should come into me, who hath said, I fill the heaven and the earth.
How can I call upon my God and Lord, when doing so means calling Him into myself? What space exists within me for God to enter? How can God—creator of heaven and earth—fit inside me? Lord, my God, is there anything in me that could contain You? Can even heaven and earth, which You created and where You placed me, contain You? Or does everything that exists contain You, since nothing can exist without You? Since I exist, why do I ask You to enter me when You must already be in me? Even in hell You are present—if I were to descend there, I would find You. I couldn't exist at all, my God, if You weren't in me—or rather, if I weren't in You, from whom, through whom, and in whom all things exist. Yes, Lord, this is true. So where am I calling You to, when I'm already in You? How can You enter me? Where could I go beyond heaven and earth for my God to come into me, when You have said, "I fill heaven and earth"?
Do the heaven and earth then contain Thee, since Thou fillest them? or dost Thou fill them and yet overflow, since they do not contain Thee? And whither, when the heaven and the earth are filled, pourest Thou forth the remainder of Thyself? or hast Thou no need that aught contain Thee, who containest all things, since what Thou fillest Thou fillest by containing it? for the vessels which Thou fillest uphold Thee not, since, though they were broken, Thou wert not poured out. And when Thou art poured out on us, Thou art not cast down, but Thou upliftest us; Thou art not dissipated, but Thou gatherest us. But Thou who fillest all things, fillest Thou them with Thy whole self? or, since all things cannot contain Thee wholly, do they contain part of Thee? and all at once the same part? or each its own part, the greater more, the smaller less? And is, then one part of Thee greater, another less? or, art Thou wholly every where, while nothing contains Thee wholly?
Do heaven and earth contain You when You fill them? Or do You fill them and still overflow since they cannot contain You? When heaven and earth are full, where does the rest of You go? Or perhaps You need nothing to contain You, since You contain all things, filling them through Your very containment? The vessels You fill don't support You—if they broke, You wouldn't spill out. When You pour Yourself into us, You don't fall down but lift us up. You don't scatter but gather us together. Yet You who fill all things—do You fill them completely with Your whole self? Since nothing can fully contain You, does each thing hold just a part of You? Do all things hold the same part, or does each hold its own—larger things more, smaller things less? Is one part of You greater than another? Or are You completely present everywhere, while nothing can contain You completely?
What art Thou then, my God? what, but the Lord God? For who is Lord but the Lord? or who is God save our God? Most highest, most good, most potent, most omnipotent; most merciful, yet most just; most hidden, yet most present; most beautiful, yet most strong, stable, yet incomprehensible; unchangeable, yet all-changing; never new, never old; all-renewing, and bringing age upon the proud, and they know it not; ever working, ever at rest; still gathering, yet nothing lacking; supporting, filling, and overspreading; creating, nourishing, and maturing; seeking, yet having all things. Thou lovest, without passion; art jealous, without anxiety; repentest, yet grievest not; art angry, yet serene; changest Thy works, Thy purpose unchanged; receivest again what Thou findest, yet didst never lose; never in need, yet rejoicing in gains; never covetous, yet exacting usury. Thou receivest over and above, that Thou mayest owe; and who hath aught that is not Thine? Thou payest debts, owing nothing; remittest debts, losing nothing. And what had I now said, my God, my life, my holy joy? or what saith any man when he speaks of Thee? Yet woe to him that speaketh not, since mute are even the most eloquent.
What are you, then, my God? What, but the Lord God? For who is Lord but the Lord? Or who is God except our God? You are most high, most good, most powerful, most all-powerful. You are most merciful, yet most just. You are most hidden, yet most present. You are most beautiful, yet most strong. You are stable, yet beyond grasp. You are unchangeable, yet you change all things. You are never new, never old. You renew all things, and you bring old age upon the proud, and they do not know it. You are always working, always at rest. You are still gathering, yet you lack nothing. You support, fill, and spread over all things. You create, nourish, and bring to maturity. You seek, yet you have all things. You love, without passion. You are jealous, without anxiety. You repent, yet you do not grieve. You are angry, yet calm. You change your works, yet your purpose does not change. You take back what you find, yet you never lost it. You are never in need, yet you rejoice in gains. You are never greedy, yet you demand interest. You receive more than is due, so that you may become a debtor. Yet who has anything that is not yours? You pay debts, though you owe nothing. You cancel debts, and you lose nothing. And what have I now said, my God, my life, my holy joy? Or what does anyone say when he speaks of you? Yet woe to the one who does not speak of you, since even the most eloquent are mute.
Oh! that I might repose on Thee! Oh! that Thou wouldest enter into my heart, and inebriate it, that I may forget my ills, and embrace Thee, my sole good! What art Thou to me? In Thy pity, teach me to utter it. Or what am I to Thee that Thou demandest my love, and, if I give it not, art wroth with me, and threatenest me with grievous woes? Is it then a slight woe to love Thee not? Oh! for Thy mercies' sake, tell me, O Lord my God, what Thou art unto me. Say unto my soul, I am thy salvation. So speak, that I may hear. Behold, Lord, my heart is before Thee; open Thou the ears thereof, and say unto my soul, I am thy salvation. After this voice let me haste, and take hold on Thee. Hide not Thy face from me. Let me die—lest I die—only let me see Thy face.
Oh, that I might rest in you! Oh, that you would enter my heart and intoxicate it, so that I may forget my troubles and embrace you, my only good! What are you to me? In your pity, teach me to say it. Or what am I to you, that you demand my love? And if I do not give it, you are angry with me and threaten me with terrible woes. Is it, then, a small woe not to love you? Oh, for your mercies' sake, tell me, O Lord my God, what you are to me. Say to my soul, I am your salvation. Speak so that I may hear. See, Lord, my heart is before you. Open its ears, and say to my soul, I am your salvation. Let me run after this voice and take hold of you. Do not hide your face from me. Let me die, so that I may not die. Only let me see your face.
Narrow is the mansion of my soul; enlarge Thou it, that Thou mayest enter in. It is ruinous; repair Thou it. It has that within which must offend Thine eyes; I confess and know it. But who shall cleanse it? or to whom should I cry, save Thee? Lord, cleanse me from my secret faults, and spare Thy servant from the power of the enemy. I believe, and therefore do I speak. Lord, Thou knowest. Have I not confessed against myself my transgressions unto Thee, and Thou, my God, hast forgiven the iniquity of my heart? I contend not in judgment with Thee, who art the truth; I fear to deceive myself; lest mine iniquity lie unto itself. Therefore I contend not in judgment with Thee; for if Thou, Lord, shouldest mark iniquities, O Lord, who shall abide it?
The house of my soul is narrow. Enlarge it, so that you may enter. It is falling into ruin. Repair it. It holds things inside that must offend your eyes. I confess this, and I know it. But who will cleanse it? Or to whom should I cry, but to you? Lord, cleanse me from my secret faults, and spare your servant from the power of the enemy. I believe, and therefore I speak. Lord, you know. Have I not confessed my sins to you, testifying against myself, and have you not, my God, forgiven the wickedness of my heart? I do not argue my case against you, for you are the truth. I fear to deceive myself, so that my wickedness does not lie to itself. So I do not argue my case against you. For if you, Lord, should keep a record of sins, O Lord, who could stand?
Yet suffer me to speak unto Thy mercy, me, dust and ashes. Yet suffer me to speak, since I speak to Thy mercy, and not to scornful man. Thou too, perhaps, despisest me, yet wilt Thou return and have compassion upon me. For what would I say, O Lord my God, but that I know not whence I came into this dying life (shall I call it?) or living death. Then immediately did the comforts of Thy compassion take me up, as I heard (for I remember it not) from the parents of my flesh, out of whose substance Thou didst sometime fashion me. Thus there received me the comforts of woman's milk. For neither my mother nor my nurses stored their own breasts for me; but Thou didst bestow the food of my infancy through them, according to Thine ordinance, whereby Thou distributest Thy riches through the hidden springs of all things. Thou also gavest me to desire no more than Thou gavest; and to my nurses willingly to give me what Thou gavest them. For they, with a heaven-taught affection, willingly gave me what they abounded with from Thee. For this my good from them, was good for them. Nor, indeed, from them was it, but through them; for from Thee, O God, are all good things, and from my God is all my health. This I since learned, Thou, through these Thy gifts, within me and without, proclaiming Thyself unto me. For then I knew but to suck; to repose in what pleased, and cry at what offended my flesh; nothing more.
Let me speak to Your mercy, I who am merely dust and ashes. Let me speak, as I address Your mercy rather than judgmental humans. Though You may look down on me now, I trust You will return with compassion. What can I say, Lord my God, except that I don't know how I entered this dying life—or should I call it a living death? From my earliest moments, Your compassion comforted me. Though I can't remember it myself, I'm told by my birth parents—from whose substance You created me—that You were there. You provided me with the comfort of mother's milk. Neither my mother nor my wet nurses produced milk through their own power; You provided my infant nourishment through them, according to Your design, just as You distribute Your abundance through all of creation's hidden channels. You gave me only the appetite I needed, and You moved my nurses to willingly share what You had given them. Through divinely-inspired affection, they freely shared their abundance, which came from You. Their generosity benefited both them and me. The goodness didn't originate with them but flowed through them, since all good things come from You, God, the source of my wellbeing. I came to understand this later, as You revealed Yourself through these gifts, both internal and external. Back then, I only knew how to nurse, to rest when comfortable, and to cry when distressed—nothing more.
Afterwards I began to smile; first in sleep, then waking: for so it was told me of myself, and I believed it; for we see the like in other infants, though of myself I remember it not. Thus, little by little, I became conscious where I was; and to have a wish to express my wishes to those who could content them, and I could not; for the wishes were within me, and they without; nor could they by any sense of theirs enter within my spirit. So I flung about at random limbs and voice, making the few signs I could, and such as I could, like, though in truth very little like, what I wished. And when I was not presently obeyed (my wishes being hurtful or unintelligible), then I was indignant with my elders for not submitting to me, with those owing me no service, for not serving me; and avenged myself on them by tears. Such have I learnt infants to be from observing them; and that I was myself such, they, all unconscious, have shown me better than my nurses who knew it.
Later, I started smiling—first while sleeping, then while awake. Others told me this about myself, and I believe them since we see the same in other babies, though I have no personal memory of it. Gradually, I became aware of my surroundings and developed desires that I wanted to communicate to those who could fulfill them. But I couldn't express myself; my wishes were trapped inside me while others remained outside, unable to access my thoughts through their senses. So I would randomly wave my limbs and make sounds, attempting to signal what I wanted, though these gestures barely resembled my actual desires. When people didn't immediately do what I wanted (either because my wishes were harmful or unclear), I would get angry at adults for not submitting to me, even those who owed me nothing. I would then seek revenge through tears. I've learned this is typical infant behavior from watching other babies, and though my nurses knew this about me firsthand, other babies have shown me more clearly what I must have been like.
And, lo! my infancy died long since, and I live. But Thou, Lord, who for ever livest, and in whom nothing dies: for before the foundation of the worlds, and before all that can be called "before," Thou art, and art God and Lord of all which Thou hast created: in Thee abide, fixed for ever, the first causes of all things unabiding; and of all things changeable, the springs abide in Thee unchangeable: and in Thee live the eternal reasons of all things unreasoning and temporal. Say, Lord, to me, Thy suppliant; say, all-pitying, to me, Thy pitiable one; say, did my infancy succeed another age of mine that died before it? was it that which I spent within my mother's womb? for of that I have heard somewhat, and have myself seen women with child? and what before that life again, O God my joy, was I any where or any body? For this have I none to tell me, neither father nor mother, nor experience of others, nor mine own memory. Dost Thou mock me for asking this, and bid me praise Thee and acknowledge Thee, for that I do know?
See, my infancy died long ago, and I live. But you, Lord, live forever, and nothing dies in you. For before the foundation of the worlds, and before all that can be called "before," you exist. You are God and Lord of all that you have created. In you, fixed forever, abide the first causes of all things that do not abide. The sources of all changeable things abide unchangeable in you. And in you live the eternal reasons of all things that are without reason and bound by time. Tell me, Lord, tell me, your suppliant. Tell me, all-pitying one, tell me, your pitiable one. Did my infancy follow some other age of mine that died before it? Was it the time I spent in my mother's womb? For I have heard something about that, and I have seen pregnant women myself. And before that life, O God my joy, was I anywhere, or anybody? I have no one to tell me this. Neither father nor mother can tell me, nor the experience of others, nor my own memory. Do you mock me for asking this? Do you tell me to praise you and acknowledge you for what I do know?
I acknowledge Thee, Lord of heaven and earth, and praise Thee for my first rudiments of being, and my infancy, whereof I remember nothing; for Thou hast appointed that man should from others guess much as to himself; and believe much on the strength of weak females. Even then I had being and life, and (at my infancy's close) I could seek for signs whereby to make known to others my sensations. Whence could such a being be, save from Thee, Lord? Shall any be his own artificer? or can there elsewhere be derived any vein, which may stream essence and life into us, save from thee, O Lord, in whom essence and life are one? for Thou Thyself art supremely Essence and Life. For Thou art most high, and art not changed, neither in Thee doth to-day come to a close; yet in Thee doth it come to a close; because all such things also are in Thee. For they had no way to pass away, unless Thou upheldest them. And since Thy years fail not, Thy years are one to-day. How many of ours and our fathers' years have flowed away through Thy "to-day," and from it received the measure and the mould of such being as they had; and still others shall flow away, and so receive the mould of their degree of being. But Thou art still the same, and all things of tomorrow, and all beyond, and all of yesterday, and all behind it, Thou hast done to-day. What is it to me, though any comprehend not this? Let him also rejoice and say, What thing is this? Let him rejoice even thus! and be content rather by not discovering to discover Thee, than by discovering not to discover Thee.
I acknowledge you, Lord of heaven and earth. I praise you for the first beginnings of my being and for my infancy, of which I remember nothing. For you have arranged that a person should guess much about himself from others, and believe much on the word of weak women. Even then I had being and life. And at the end of my infancy I could look for signs to make my feelings known to others. Where could such a creature come from, if not from you, Lord? Can anyone be his own maker? Or can any channel come from anywhere else to pour being and life into us, except from you, O Lord? In you, being and life are one, for you yourself are supremely Being and Life. For you are most high, and you do not change. Today does not come to an end in you. And yet it does come to an end in you, because all such things are also in you. For they would have no way to pass away unless you held them up. And since your years do not fail, your years are one today. How many of our years and our fathers' years have flowed away through your "today"! From it they received the measure and the form of whatever being they had. And still others will flow away and so receive the form of their own degree of being. But you are still the same. All things of tomorrow and all beyond, all things of yesterday and all behind it, you have done today. What does it matter to me if someone does not understand this? Let him rejoice too, and say, What is this? Let him rejoice even so! And let him be content to find you by failing to discover, rather than to discover and fail to find you.
Hear, O God. Alas, for man's sin! So saith man, and Thou pitiest him; for Thou madest him, but sin in him Thou madest not. Who remindeth me of the sins of my infancy? for in Thy sight none is pure from sin, not even the infant whose life is but a day upon the earth. Who remindeth me? doth not each little infant, in whom I see what of myself I remember not? What then was my sin? was it that I hung upon the breast and cried? for should I now so do for food suitable to my age, justly should I be laughed at and reproved. What I then did was worthy reproof; but since I could not understand reproof, custom and reason forbade me to be reproved. For those habits, when grown, we root out and cast away. Now no man, though he prunes, wittingly casts away what is good. Or was it then good, even for a while, to cry for what, if given, would hurt? bitterly to resent, that persons free, and its own elders, yea, the very authors of its birth, served it not? that many besides, wiser than it, obeyed not the nod of its good pleasure? to do its best to strike and hurt, because commands were not obeyed, which had been obeyed to its hurt? The weakness then of infant limbs, not its will, is its innocence. Myself have seen and known even a baby envious; it could not speak, yet it turned pale and looked bitterly on its foster-brother. Who knows not this? Mothers and nurses tell you that they allay these things by I know not what remedies. Is that too innocence, when the fountain of milk is flowing in rich abundance, not to endure one to share it, though in extremest need, and whose very life as yet depends thereon? We bear gently with all this, not as being no or slight evils, but because they will disappear as years increase; for, though tolerated now, the very same tempers are utterly intolerable when found in riper years.
Hear me, God. How terrible is human sin! So we say, and You show us mercy, for You created us, though You did not create the sin within us. Who can remind me of my sins as an infant? For in Your eyes, no one is free from sin—not even a day-old baby. Who can remind me? Don't I see in every infant what I cannot remember of myself? What was my sin back then? Was it that I clung to the breast and cried? If I were to do that now for age-appropriate food, I would rightfully be mocked and scolded. My behavior then deserved criticism, but since I couldn't understand correction, both custom and logic prevented it. As adults, we overcome and discard such habits. No one intentionally removes what is good. But was it good, even briefly, to cry for things that would harm me if given? To become bitter when free people, my elders, even my own parents, didn't serve my every whim? To resent that wiser people wouldn't bow to my demands? To try to hit and hurt others when my commands—which would have harmed me if followed—weren't obeyed? An infant's innocence lies in its physical weakness, not its intentions. I've witnessed a baby showing jealousy—unable to speak, yet turning pale with bitter looks toward its foster-sibling. Who hasn't seen this? Mothers and nurses claim they have various ways to handle such behavior. Is it really innocence when a baby, with plenty of milk available, refuses to share with another desperate infant whose very survival depends on it? We tolerate these behaviors, not because they're harmless, but because they'll fade with age. The same actions we accept in infants become completely unacceptable in older children.
Thou, then, O Lord my God, who gavest life to this my infancy, furnishing thus with senses (as we see) the frame Thou gavest, compacting its limbs, ornamenting its proportions, and, for its general good and safety, implanting in it all vital functions, Thou commandest me to praise Thee in these things, to confess unto Thee, and sing unto Thy name, Thou most Highest. For Thou art God, Almighty and Good, even hadst Thou done nought but only this, which none could do but Thou: whose Unity is the mould of all things; who out of Thy own fairness makest all things fair; and orderest all things by Thy law. This age then, Lord, whereof I have no remembrance, which I take on others' word, and guess from other infants that I have passed, true though the guess be, I am yet loth to count in this life of mine which I live in this world. For no less than that which I spent in my mother's womb, is it hid from me in the shadows of forgetfulness. But if I was shapen in iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me, where, I beseech Thee, O my God, where, Lord, or when, was I Thy servant guiltless? But, lo! that period I pass by; and what have I now to do with that, of which I can recall no vestige?
You, then, O Lord my God, gave life to me as an infant. You furnished the body you gave with senses, as we see. You joined its limbs and adorned its proportions. For its overall good and safety, you planted in it all the powers of life. You command me to praise you for these things, to confess to you, and to sing to your name, you Most High. For you are God, Almighty and Good, even if you had done nothing but this, which no one could do but you. Your Unity is the mold of all things. Out of your own beauty you make all things beautiful, and you order all things by your law. This age, then, Lord, I do not remember. I take it on others' word, and I guess from other infants that I passed through it. Though the guess is true, I am still reluctant to count it as part of this life I live in this world. For it is hidden from me in the shadows of forgetfulness, no less than the time I spent in my mother's womb. But if I was shaped in iniquity, and my mother conceived me in sin, where, I beg you, O my God, where, Lord, or when was I, your servant, ever guiltless? But look, I pass that period by. What have I to do now with a time of which I can recall no trace?
Passing hence from infancy, I came to boyhood, or rather it came to me, displacing infancy. Nor did that depart,—(for whither went it?)—and yet it was no more. For I was no longer a speechless infant, but a speaking boy. This I remember; and have since observed how I learned to speak. It was not that my elders taught me words (as, soon after, other learning) in any set method; but I, longing by cries and broken accents and various motions of my limbs to express my thoughts, that so I might have my will, and yet unable to express all I willed, or to whom I willed, did myself, by the understanding which Thou, my God, gavest me, practise the sounds in my memory. When they named any thing, and as they spoke turned towards it, I saw and remembered that they called what they would point out by the name they uttered. And that they meant this thing and no other was plain from the motion of their body, the natural language, as it were, of all nations, expressed by the countenance, glances of the eye, gestures of the limbs, and tones of the voice, indicating the affections of the mind, as it pursues, possesses, rejects, or shuns. And thus by constantly hearing words, as they occurred in various sentences, I collected gradually for what they stood; and having broken in my mouth to these signs, I thereby gave utterance to my will. Thus I exchanged with those about me these current signs of our wills, and so launched deeper into the stormy intercourse of human life, yet depending on parental authority and the beck of elders.
Passing on from infancy, I came to boyhood. Or rather, boyhood came to me and took the place of infancy. Yet infancy did not go away (for where would it go?), and yet it was no more. For I was no longer a speechless infant, but a speaking boy. This I remember, and I have since noticed how I learned to speak. My elders did not teach me words by any set method, as they soon taught me other learning. Instead, I wanted to express my thoughts by cries, broken sounds, and all sorts of movements of my limbs, so that I might get my way. Yet I could not express all I wanted, or to everyone I wanted. So, by the understanding you gave me, my God, I myself practiced the sounds in my memory. When they named anything and turned toward it as they spoke, I saw it and remembered. I learned that they called the thing they meant to point out by the name they spoke. That they meant this thing and no other was clear from the movement of their bodies. This is the natural language, so to speak, of all nations. It is expressed by the face, the glances of the eyes, the gestures of the limbs, and the tones of the voice. It shows the feelings of the mind as it seeks, possesses, rejects, or avoids things. So by hearing words again and again, as they came in various sentences, I gradually gathered what they stood for. Once I had trained my mouth to form these signs, I used them to express my will. In this way I exchanged these common signs of our wishes with those around me. And so I launched deeper into the stormy society of human life, though I still depended on my parents' authority and my elders' commands.
O God my God, what miseries and mockeries did I now experience, when obedience to my teachers was proposed to me, as proper in a boy, in order that in this world I might prosper, and excel in tongue-science, which should serve to the "praise of men," and to deceitful riches. Next I was put to school to get learning, in which I (poor wretch) knew not what use there was; and yet, if idle in learning, I was beaten. For this was judged right by our forefathers; and many, passing the same course before us, framed for us weary paths, through which we were fain to pass; multiplying toil and grief upon the sons of Adam. But, Lord, we found that men called upon Thee, and we learnt from them to think of Thee (according to our powers) as of some great One, who, though hidden from our senses, couldest hear and help us. For so I began, as a boy, to pray to Thee, my aid and refuge; and broke the fetters of my tongue to call on Thee, praying Thee, though small, yet with no small earnestness, that I might not be beaten at school. And when Thou heardest me not (not thereby giving me over to folly), my elders, yea my very parents, who yet wished me no ill, mocked my stripes, my then great and grievous ill.
Oh God, what miseries and mockeries I experienced when, as a boy, I was told to obey my teachers. This obedience was meant to help me prosper in the world and excel in the art of language, which would earn men's praise and hollow wealth. I was sent to school to learn, though I, poor wretch, didn't understand its purpose. Yet if I slacked in my studies, I was beaten. Our ancestors deemed this appropriate, and many who walked this path before us created these burdensome routes we were forced to follow, adding to the struggles of humanity. But Lord, we discovered that others prayed to You, and from them we learned to think of You (as best we could) as someone great who, though invisible, could hear and help us. So as a boy, I began to pray to You, my help and refuge. I found my voice to call upon You, and though I was small, I prayed with great intensity that I might be spared beatings at school. When You didn't answer (though not abandoning me to foolishness), my elders, even my parents who meant me no harm, made light of my punishments, which were then my greatest source of suffering.
Is there, Lord, any of soul so great, and cleaving to Thee with so intense affection (for a sort of stupidity will in a way do it); but is there any one who, from cleaving devoutly to Thee, is endued with so great a spirit, that he can think as lightly of the racks and hooks and other torments (against which, throughout all lands, men call on Thee with extreme dread), mocking at those by whom they are feared most bitterly, as our parents mocked the torments which we suffered in boyhood from our masters? For we feared not our torments less; nor prayed we less to Thee to escape them. And yet we sinned, in writing or reading or studying less than was exacted of us. For we wanted not, O Lord, memory or capacity, whereof Thy will gave enough for our age; but our sole delight was play; and for this we were punished by those who yet themselves were doing the like. But elder folks' idleness is called "business"; that of boys, being really the same, is punished by those elders; and none commiserates either boys or men. For will any of sound discretion approve of my being beaten as a boy, because, by playing a ball, I made less progress in studies which I was to learn, only that, as a man, I might play more unbeseemingly? and what else did he who beat me? who, if worsted in some trifling discussion with his fellow-tutor, was more embittered and jealous than I when beaten at ball by a play-fellow?
Lord, is there anyone with a soul so great, who clings to you with such intense love? (For a kind of stupidity can, in a way, do the same.) Is there anyone who, by clinging devoutly to you, gains so great a spirit that he thinks lightly of the racks, the hooks, and other tortures? People in every land call on you in extreme dread to be spared these. Could such a person mock those who fear them most bitterly, as our parents mocked the torments our teachers inflicted on us as boys? For we feared our torments no less, and we prayed to you no less to escape them. And yet we sinned, by writing, reading, or studying less than was required of us. For we did not lack memory or ability, O Lord. By your will we had enough for our age. But our only delight was play. And for this we were punished by men who were doing the same things themselves. But the idleness of grown men is called "business," while the idleness of boys, which is really the same, is punished by those same men. And no one pities either the boys or the men. Would anyone of sound judgment approve of my being beaten as a boy for playing ball? It slowed my progress in studies I was to learn only so that, as a man, I might play at something more unseemly. And what else was the man who beat me doing? If a fellow teacher beat him in some trivial debate, he was more bitter and jealous than I was when a playmate beat me at ball.
And yet, I sinned herein, O Lord God, the Creator and Disposer of all things in nature, of sin the Disposer only, O Lord my God, I sinned in transgressing the commands of my parents and those of my masters. For what they, with whatever motive, would have me learn, I might afterwards have put to good use. For I disobeyed, not from a better choice, but from love of play, loving the pride of victory in my contests, and to have my ears tickled with lying fables, that they might itch the more; the same curiosity flashing from my eyes more and more, for the shows and games of my elders. Yet those who give these shows are in such esteem, that almost all wish the same for their children, and yet are very willing that they should be beaten, if those very games detain them from the studies, whereby they would have them attain to be the givers of them. Look with pity, Lord, on these things, and deliver us who call upon Thee now; deliver those too who call not on Thee yet, that they may call on Thee, and Thou mayest deliver them.
I sinned against you, Lord God, Creator and Ruler of nature—though you rule over sin without causing it. I sinned by disobeying my parents and teachers. What they wanted me to learn, regardless of their reasons, could have benefited me later. I didn't disobey because I had better alternatives—I simply loved to play. I loved winning competitions and hearing exciting but false stories that only made me crave more. My curiosity grew as I watched the entertainment and games of my elders. Yet those who produce such entertainment are so respected that nearly everyone wants their children to follow that path. Still, these same parents willingly let their children be punished when games distract them from the studies that could one day help them create such entertainment themselves. Lord, look with mercy on these contradictions. Rescue us who call to you now, and also those who don't yet call to you, so that they may learn to seek your deliverance.
As a boy, then, I had already heard of an eternal life, promised us through the humility of the Lord our God stooping to our pride; and even from the womb of my mother, who greatly hoped in Thee, I was sealed with the mark of His cross and salted with His salt. Thou sawest, Lord, how while yet a boy, being seized on a time with sudden oppression of the stomach, and like near to death—Thou sawest, my God (for Thou wert my keeper), with what eagerness and what faith I sought, from the pious care of my mother and Thy Church, the mother of us all, the baptism of Thy Christ, my God and Lord. Whereupon the mother of my flesh, being much troubled (since, with a heart pure in Thy faith, she even more lovingly travailed in birth of my salvation), would in eager haste have provided for my consecration and cleansing by the health-giving sacraments, confessing Thee, Lord Jesus, for the remission of sins, unless I had suddenly recovered. And so, as if I must needs be again polluted should I live, my cleansing was deferred, because the defilements of sin would, after that washing, bring greater and more perilous guilt. I then already believed: and my mother, and the whole household, except my father: yet did not he prevail over the power of my mother's piety in me, that as he did not yet believe, so neither should I. For it was her earnest care that Thou my God, rather than he, shouldest be my father; and in this Thou didst aid her to prevail over her husband, whom she, the better, obeyed, therein also obeying Thee, who hast so commanded.
As a child, I had learned of eternal life, promised through God's humble descent to counter our pride. From my mother's womb—she who placed great hope in You—I was marked with Christ's cross and blessed with His salt. Lord, You saw how as a young boy, when struck with severe stomach pains and near death, I desperately sought baptism in Christ's name. You were my guardian then, and You saw the earnest faith with which I appealed to my mother and Your Church, the universal mother of believers. My biological mother, though deeply troubled, labored even more lovingly for my salvation with pure faith in You. She would have quickly arranged my consecration and cleansing through the sacred rituals, confessing You, Lord Jesus, for sin's forgiveness, had I not suddenly recovered. Yet my baptism was postponed, thinking that if I lived, I would only be tainted again—since sins committed after baptism would carry greater, more dangerous guilt. I was already a believer then, as was my mother and our entire household, except my father. Yet his unbelief couldn't overcome my mother's religious influence on me—she ensured that You, my God, rather than he, would be my true father. In this, You helped her prevail over her husband, whom she dutifully obeyed as the better spouse, thereby also obeying Your commandments.
I beseech Thee, my God, I would fain know, if so Thou willest, for what purpose my baptism was then deferred? was it for my good that the rein was laid loose, as it were, upon me, for me to sin? or was it not laid loose? If not, why does it still echo in our ears on all sides, "Let him alone, let him do as he will, for he is not yet baptised?" but as to bodily health, no one says, "Let him be worse wounded, for he is not yet healed." How much better then, had I been at once healed; and then, by my friends' and my own, my soul's recovered health had been kept safe in Thy keeping who gavest it. Better truly. But how many and great waves of temptation seemed to hang over me after my boyhood! These my mother foresaw; and preferred to expose to them the clay whence I might afterwards be moulded, than the very cast, when made.
I want to know, my God, if You'd tell me why my baptism was delayed. Was it beneficial to give me free rein to sin? Or was I not actually given such freedom? If not, why do I keep hearing people say, "Let him be, let him do what he wants—he's not baptized yet"? No one would say about physical health, "Let his wounds get worse—he's not healed yet." How much better it would have been if I'd been healed immediately. Then my soul's health, once restored, could have been protected by my friends, my family, and myself under Your care. That would have been far better. But after my childhood, I faced so many powerful temptations! My mother saw these coming, and chose to expose the raw clay of my character to these forces, rather than risk damage to the finished sculpture I might become.
In boyhood itself, however (so much less dreaded for me than youth), I loved not study, and hated to be forced to it. Yet I was forced; and this was well done towards me, but I did not well; for, unless forced, I had not learnt. But no one doth well against his will, even though what he doth, be well. Yet neither did they well who forced me, but what was well came to me from Thee, my God. For they were regardless how I should employ what they forced me to learn, except to satiate the insatiate desires of a wealthy beggary, and a shameful glory. But Thou, by whom the very hairs of our head are numbered, didst use for my good the error of all who urged me to learn; and my own, who would not learn, Thou didst use for my punishment—a fit penalty for one, so small a boy and so great a sinner. So by those who did not well, Thou didst well for me; and by my own sin Thou didst justly punish me. For Thou hast commanded, and so it is, that every inordinate affection should be its own punishment.
Yet in boyhood itself, which was feared for me far less than youth, I did not love study, and I hated being forced to it. Still, I was forced. This was done well toward me, but I did not do well. For unless I had been forced, I would not have learned. But no one does well against his will, even if what he does is good. Nor did those who forced me do well. The good that came to me came from you, my God. For they did not care how I would use what they forced me to learn, except to satisfy the insatiable desires of a wealthy beggary and a shameful glory. But you, by whom the very hairs of our head are numbered, used for my good the error of all who pressed me to learn. And my own error, in refusing to learn, you used for my punishment. It was a fitting penalty for one so small a boy and so great a sinner. So through those who did not do well, you did well for me. And through my own sin you justly punished me. For you have commanded, and so it is, that every disordered desire should be its own punishment.
But why did I so much hate the Greek, which I studied as a boy? I do not yet fully know. For the Latin I loved; not what my first masters, but what the so-called grammarians taught me. For those first lessons, reading, writing and arithmetic, I thought as great a burden and penalty as any Greek. And yet whence was this too, but from the sin and vanity of this life, because I was flesh, and a breath that passeth away and cometh not again? For those first lessons were better certainly, because more certain; by them I obtained, and still retain, the power of reading what I find written, and myself writing what I will; whereas in the others, I was forced to learn the wanderings of one Æneas, forgetful of my own, and to weep for dead Dido, because she killed herself for love; the while, with dry eyes, I endured my miserable self dying among these things, far from Thee, O God my life.
But why did I hate Greek so much, which I studied as a boy? I still do not fully know. For I loved Latin. I do not mean what my first teachers taught me, but what the so-called grammarians taught me. Those first lessons, reading, writing, and arithmetic, I found as great a burden and punishment as any Greek. Yet where did this come from too, but from the sin and vanity of this life? For I was flesh, a breath that passes away and does not come back. Those first lessons were certainly better, because they were more certain. Through them I gained, and still keep, the power to read whatever I find written and to write whatever I wish. But in the other studies I was forced to learn the wanderings of a certain Æneas, while forgetting my own. I was made to weep for dead Dido, because she killed herself for love. Meanwhile, with dry eyes, I endured my own miserable self dying among these things, far from you, O God my life.
For what more miserable than a miserable being who commiserates not himself; weeping the death of Dido for love to Æneas, but weeping not his own death for want of love to Thee, O God. Thou light of my heart, Thou bread of my inmost soul, Thou Power who givest vigour to my mind, who quickenest my thoughts, I loved Thee not. I committed fornication against Thee, and all around me thus fornicating there echoed "Well done! well done!" for the friendship of this world is fornication against Thee; and "Well done! well done!" echoes on till one is ashamed not to be thus a man. And for all this I wept not, I who wept for Dido slain, and "seeking by the sword a stroke and wound extreme," myself seeking the while a worse extreme, the extremest and lowest of Thy creatures, having forsaken Thee, earth passing into the earth. And if forbid to read all this, I was grieved that I might not read what grieved me. Madness like this is thought a higher and a richer learning, than that by which I learned to read and write.
How wretched I was—pitying a fictional character's death while blind to my own spiritual death. I shed tears for Dido dying for love of Aeneas, yet shed none for my own lack of love for You, God. You were the light of my heart, the sustenance of my soul, the force energizing my mind and thoughts, yet I did not love You. I was unfaithful to You, surrounded by others doing the same, all of us praising each other: "Well done! Well done!" For worldly friendship is betrayal of You, and this chorus of praise continues until one feels ashamed not to join in. I didn't weep for any of this, yet I wept for Dido's fictional death "seeking through the sword the final stroke"—while I sought something far worse, falling to the lowest depths by abandoning You, becoming nothing but dust returning to dust. When they forbade me from reading these stories, I grieved at not being able to read what caused me grief. Such madness was considered higher learning than the basic skills of reading and writing.
But now, my God, cry Thou aloud in my soul; and let Thy truth tell me, "Not so, not so. Far better was that first study." For, lo, I would readily forget the wanderings of Æneas and all the rest, rather than how to read and write. But over the entrance of the Grammar School is a vail drawn! true; yet is this not so much an emblem of aught recondite, as a cloak of error. Let not those, whom I no longer fear, cry out against me, while I confess to Thee, my God, whatever my soul will, and acquiesce in the condemnation of my evil ways, that I may love Thy good ways. Let not either buyers or sellers of grammar-learning cry out against me. For if I question them whether it be true that Æneas came on a time to Carthage, as the poet tells, the less learned will reply that they know not, the more learned that he never did. But should I ask with what letters the name "Æneas" is written, every one who has learnt this will answer me aright, as to the signs which men have conventionally settled. If, again, I should ask which might be forgotten with least detriment to the concerns of life, reading and writing or these poetic fictions? who does not foresee what all must answer who have not wholly forgotten themselves? I sinned, then, when as a boy I preferred those empty to those more profitable studies, or rather loved the one and hated the other. "One and one, two"; "two and two, four"; this was to me a hateful singsong: "the wooden horse lined with armed men," and "the burning of Troy," and "Creusa's shade and sad similitude," were the choice spectacle of my vanity.
But now, my God, cry out in my soul, and let your truth tell me, "Not so, not so. That first study was far better." For look, I would sooner forget the wanderings of Æneas and all the rest than how to read and write. But a curtain hangs over the entrance of the grammar school! True, but it is less a sign of some hidden mystery than a cover for error. Do not let those I no longer fear cry out against me while I confess to you, my God, whatever my soul wishes. Let me accept the condemnation of my evil ways, so that I may love your good ways. Let neither the buyers nor the sellers of grammar learning cry out against me. For suppose I ask them whether it is true that Æneas once came to Carthage, as the poet says. The less learned will answer that they do not know. The more learned will say that he never did. But suppose I ask what letters spell the name "Æneas." Everyone who has learned this will answer me correctly, according to the signs people have agreed on. Again, suppose I ask which could be forgotten with less harm to the business of life, reading and writing or these poetic fictions. Who cannot foresee what all must answer, unless they have wholly forgotten themselves? I sinned, then, when as a boy I preferred those empty studies to the more useful ones. Or rather, I loved the one and hated the other. "One and one, two," "two and two, four," this was a hateful singsong to me. But "the wooden horse lined with armed men," and "the burning of Troy," and "Creusa's shade and sad similitude," were the favorite spectacle of my vanity.
Why then did I hate the Greek classics, which have the like tales? For Homer also curiously wove the like fictions, and is most sweetly-vain, yet was he bitter to my boyish taste. And so I suppose would Virgil be to Grecian children, when forced to learn him as I was Homer. Difficulty, in truth, the difficulty of a foreign tongue, dashed, as it were, with gall all the sweetness of Grecian fable. For not one word of it did I understand, and to make me understand I was urged vehemently with cruel threats and punishments. Time was also (as an infant) I knew no Latin; but this I learned without fear or suffering, by mere observation, amid the caresses of my nursery and jests of friends, smiling and sportively encouraging me. This I learned without any pressure of punishment to urge me on, for my heart urged me to give birth to its conceptions, which I could only do by learning words not of those who taught, but of those who talked with me; in whose ears also I gave birth to the thoughts, whatever I conceived. No doubt, then, that a free curiosity has more force in our learning these things, than a frightful enforcement. Only this enforcement restrains the rovings of that freedom, through Thy laws, O my God, Thy laws, from the master's cane to the martyr's trials, being able to temper for us a wholesome bitter, recalling us to Thyself from that deadly pleasure which lures us from Thee.
Why, then, did I hate the Greek classics, which have similar tales? For Homer also skillfully wove such fictions, and he is most sweetly vain. Yet he was bitter to my boyish taste. And I suppose Virgil would be the same to Greek children, if they were forced to learn him as I was forced to learn Homer. The difficulty, in truth, the difficulty of a foreign language, sprinkled all the sweetness of the Greek fables with gall, so to speak. For I did not understand a single word. And to make me understand, I was pressed hard with cruel threats and punishments. There was also a time, as an infant, when I knew no Latin. But I learned it without fear or suffering, simply by paying attention, among the caresses of my nurses and the jokes of friends, who smiled and playfully encouraged me. I learned it with no pressure of punishment to drive me on. For my heart drove me to bring its thoughts to birth. I could do this only by learning words, not from those who taught me, but from those who talked with me. Into their ears, too, I brought to birth whatever I had thought. There is no doubt, then, that free curiosity has more power to help us learn these things than fearful compulsion. Yet this compulsion restrains the wanderings of that freedom, by your laws, O my God. Your laws, from the teacher's cane to the martyr's trials, are able to mix for us a healthy bitterness. It calls us back to you from the deadly pleasure that lures us away from you.
Hear, Lord, my prayer; let not my soul faint under Thy discipline, nor let me faint in confessing unto Thee all Thy mercies, whereby Thou hast drawn me out of all my most evil ways, that Thou mightest become a delight to me above all the allurements which I once pursued; that I may most entirely love Thee, and clasp Thy hand with all my affections, and Thou mayest yet rescue me from every temptation, even unto the end. For lo, O Lord, my King and my God, for Thy service be whatever useful thing my childhood learned; for Thy service, that I speak, write, read, reckon. For Thou didst grant me Thy discipline, while I was learning vanities; and my sin of delighting in those vanities Thou hast forgiven. In them, indeed, I learnt many a useful word, but these may as well be learned in things not vain; and that is the safe path for the steps of youth.
Hear my prayer, Lord. Don't let my spirit weaken under your guidance, nor let me falter in acknowledging all your mercies. You have led me away from my darkest paths, making yourself more appealing than all the temptations I once chased. Let me love you completely, embrace you with all my heart, and may you continue to protect me from temptation until the end. Look, Lord, my King and my God, I dedicate to your service all the useful knowledge from my childhood. For you, I speak, write, read, and calculate. You taught me discipline even as I pursued meaningless things, and you forgave my sin of finding joy in those empty pursuits. Through them, I learned many valuable words, but these could have been learned through worthier subjects. That is the safer path for young people to follow.
But woe is thee, thou torrent of human custom! Who shall stand against thee? how long shalt thou not be dried up? how long roll the sons of Eve into that huge and hideous ocean, which even they scarcely overpass who climb the cross? Did not I read in thee of Jove the thunderer and the adulterer? both, doubtless, he could not be; but so the feigned thunder might countenance and pander to real adultery. And now which of our gowned masters lends a sober ear to one who from their own school cries out, "These were Homer's fictions, transferring things human to the gods; would he had brought down things divine to us!" Yet more truly had he said, "These are indeed his fictions; but attributing a divine nature to wicked men, that crimes might be no longer crimes, and whoso commits them might seem to imitate not abandoned men, but the celestial gods."
Alas for the overwhelming force of human tradition! Who can resist its power? When will it release its grip? How long will it sweep Eve's children into that vast and terrible sea, which even those who cling to the cross barely manage to escape? I read about Jupiter, portrayed as both thunderer and adulterer. Clearly, he couldn't be both – the thunder was simply invented to legitimize the adultery. And now, which of our esteemed professors would seriously listen to someone from their own ranks who protests, "These were merely Homer's inventions, making gods behave like humans. If only he had instead taught us about divine truths!" Yet it would have been more accurate to say, "Yes, these are his inventions, but by giving divine status to immoral men, he made their crimes seem acceptable. Anyone committing such acts could claim to be imitating not depraved humans, but the gods themselves."
And yet, thou hellish torrent, into thee are cast the sons of men with rich rewards, for compassing such learning; and a great solemnity is made of it, when this is going on in the forum, within sight of laws appointing a salary beside the scholar's payments; and thou lashest thy rocks and roarest, "Hence words are learnt; hence eloquence; most necessary to gain your ends, or maintain opinions." As if we should have never known such words as "golden shower," "lap," "beguile," "temples of the heavens," or others in that passage, unless Terence had brought a lewd youth upon the stage, setting up Jupiter as his example of seduction.
And yet, you hellish torrent, the sons of men are thrown into you, with large fees paid for them to acquire such learning. And a great ceremony is made of it when this goes on in the forum, in sight of laws that grant a salary on top of the pupils' fees. And you beat against your rocks and roar, "Here words are learned. Here eloquence is learned, most necessary to gain your ends or defend your opinions." As if we would never have known such words as "golden shower," "lap," "beguile," "temples of the heavens," or others in that passage, unless Terence had brought a lewd youth on stage, holding up Jupiter as his model for seduction.
"Viewing a picture, where the tale was drawn, Of Jove's descending in a golden shower To Danae's lap a woman to beguile."
"Looking at a picture where the tale was drawn, Of Jove coming down in a golden shower Into Danae's lap, to beguile a woman."
And then mark how he excites himself to lust as by celestial authority:
Then notice how he justifies his lust by claiming divine approval.
"And what God? Great Jove, Who shakes heaven's highest temples with his thunder, And I, poor mortal man, not do the same! I did it, and with all my heart I did it."
"And which god? Mighty Zeus, Who rattles heaven's tallest towers with thunder, While I, a mere mortal, shouldn't do the same? I did it, and I did it without regret."
Not one whit more easily are the words learnt for all this vileness; but by their means the vileness is committed with less shame. Not that I blame the words, being, as it were, choice and precious vessels; but that wine of error which is drunk to us in them by intoxicated teachers; and if we, too, drink not, we are beaten, and have no sober judge to whom we may appeal. Yet, O my God (in whose presence I now without hurt may remember this), all this unhappily I learnt willingly with great delight, and for this was pronounced a hopeful boy.
These words are not learned one bit more easily because of all this vileness. But through them the vileness is committed with less shame. I do not blame the words, which are like choice and precious vessels. I blame the wine of error that drunken teachers pour out for us in them. And if we do not drink it too, we are beaten, and we have no sober judge to appeal to. Yet, O my God, in whose presence I can now remember this without harm, I unhappily learned all this willingly and with great delight. And for this I was called a promising boy.
Bear with me, my God, while I say somewhat of my wit, Thy gift, and on what dotages I wasted it. For a task was set me, troublesome enough to my soul, upon terms of praise or shame, and fear of stripes, to speak the words of Juno, as she raged and mourned that she could not
Let me tell you about my mind, God-given as it is, and how I squandered it. I was given an assignment that weighed heavily on my soul—with praise or humiliation at stake, and the threat of punishment looming. The task was to recite Juno's words, capturing her rage and sorrow at her powerlessness.
"This Trojan prince from Latinum turn."
"Force this Trojan prince away from Latium."
Which words I had heard that Juno never uttered; but we were forced to go astray in the footsteps of these poetic fictions, and to say in prose much what he expressed in verse. And his speaking was most applauded, in whom the passions of rage and grief were most preeminent, and clothed in the most fitting language, maintaining the dignity of the character. What is it to me, O my true life, my God, that my declamation was applauded above so many of my own age and class? is not all this smoke and wind? and was there nothing else whereon to exercise my wit and tongue? Thy praises, Lord, Thy praises might have stayed the yet tender shoot of my heart by the prop of Thy Scriptures; so had it not trailed away amid these empty trifles, a defiled prey for the fowls of the air. For in more ways than one do men sacrifice to the rebellious angels.
I had heard words that Juno never actually spoke, yet we felt compelled to follow these poetic inventions, expressing in prose what others had written in verse. The speakers who received the most praise were those who best portrayed rage and grief, using language that maintained the character's dignity. But what does it matter to me now, my God, my true life, that my speeches were praised above those of my peers? Wasn't it all just empty glory? Couldn't my wit and tongue have been put to better use? Your praises, Lord, could have supported my young heart through Your Scriptures. Then it wouldn't have wandered away into these meaningless distractions, becoming corrupted prey for evil influences. For there are many ways in which people pay tribute to fallen angels.
But what marvel that I was thus carried away to vanities, and went out from Thy presence, O my God, when men were set before me as models, who, if in relating some action of theirs, in itself not ill, they committed some barbarism or solecism, being censured, were abashed; but when in rich and adorned and well-ordered discourse they related their own disordered life, being bepraised, they gloried? These things Thou seest, Lord, and holdest Thy peace; long-suffering, and plenteous in mercy and truth. Wilt Thou hold Thy peace for ever? and even now Thou drawest out of this horrible gulf the soul that seeketh Thee, that thirsteth for Thy pleasures, whose heart saith unto Thee, I have sought Thy face; Thy face, Lord, will I seek. For darkened affections is removal from Thee. For it is not by our feet, or change of place, that men leave Thee, or return unto Thee. Or did that Thy younger son look out for horses or chariots, or ships, fly with visible wings, or journey by the motion of his limbs, that he might in a far country waste in riotous living all Thou gavest at his departure? a loving Father, when Thou gavest, and more loving unto him, when he returned empty. So then in lustful, that is, in darkened affections, is the true distance from Thy face.
No wonder I was drawn to such vanities and strayed from Your presence, my God, when society held up as role models those who cared more about proper grammar than proper living. These men would blush with shame if they made a grammatical error while speaking, yet would proudly boast of their misdeeds when describing them in elegant, flowing prose. You see all this, Lord, and remain patient, abundant in mercy and truth. But will You stay silent forever? Even now, You rescue from this terrible void the soul that seeks You, that thirsts for Your joy, whose heart says, "I have sought Your face; Your face, Lord, I will seek." To be ruled by dark desires is to be separated from You. We don't leave or return to You by physical movement—it's not about walking, riding, sailing, or flying. Your prodigal son didn't need vehicles or wings to reach that distant land where he squandered Your gifts. You were loving when You gave them, and even more loving when he returned with nothing. So it is our darkened desires, not physical distance, that truly separate us from Your presence.
Behold, O Lord God, yea, behold patiently as Thou art wont how carefully the sons of men observe the covenanted rules of letters and syllables received from those who spake before them, neglecting the eternal covenant of everlasting salvation received from Thee. Insomuch, that a teacher or learner of the hereditary laws of pronunciation will more offend men by speaking without the aspirate, of a "uman being," in despite of the laws of grammar, than if he, a "human being," hate a "human being" in despite of Thine. As if any enemy could be more hurtful than the hatred with which he is incensed against him; or could wound more deeply him whom he persecutes, than he wounds his own soul by his enmity. Assuredly no science of letters can be so innate as the record of conscience, "that he is doing to another what from another he would be loth to suffer." How deep are Thy ways, O God, Thou only great, that sittest silent on high and by an unwearied law dispensing penal blindness to lawless desires. In quest of the fame of eloquence, a man standing before a human judge, surrounded by a human throng, declaiming against his enemy with fiercest hatred, will take heed most watchfully, lest, by an error of the tongue, he murder the word "human being"; but takes no heed, lest, through the fury of his spirit, he murder the real human being.
Look, O Lord God, look patiently, as you always do. See how carefully the sons of men keep the agreed rules of letters and syllables they received from those who spoke before them. Yet they neglect the eternal covenant of everlasting salvation they received from you. So much so that a teacher or student of the inherited rules of pronunciation will offend people more by dropping the h and saying "uman being," against the laws of grammar, than if he, a "human being," hates a "human being" against your laws. As if any enemy could do him more harm than the hatred with which he rages against that enemy. Or as if he could wound the one he persecutes more deeply than he wounds his own soul by his hostility. Surely no knowledge of letters is as deeply rooted in us as the record of conscience, "that he is doing to another what he would hate to suffer from another." How deep are your ways, O God, you who alone are great! You sit silent on high, and by an unwearied law you deal out the punishment of blindness to lawless desires. A man seeks a reputation for eloquence. He stands before a human judge, surrounded by a human crowd, and attacks his enemy with the fiercest hatred. He will watch most carefully that no slip of the tongue makes him murder the word "human being." But he takes no care that the fury of his spirit does not make him murder a real human being.
This was the world at whose gate unhappy I lay in my boyhood; this the stage where I had feared more to commit a barbarism, than having committed one, to envy those who had not. These things I speak and confess to Thee, my God; for which I had praise from them, whom I then thought it all virtue to please. For I saw not the abyss of vileness, wherein I was cast away from Thine eyes. Before them what more foul than I was already, displeasing even such as myself? with innumerable lies deceiving my tutor, my masters, my parents, from love of play, eagerness to see vain shows and restlessness to imitate them! Thefts also I committed, from my parents' cellar and table, enslaved by greediness, or that I might have to give to boys, who sold me their play, which all the while they liked no less than I. In this play, too, I often sought unfair conquests, conquered myself meanwhile by vain desire of preeminence. And what could I so ill endure, or, when I detected it, upbraided I so fiercely, as that I was doing to others? and for which if, detected, I was upbraided, I chose rather to quarrel than to yield. And is this the innocence of boyhood? Not so, Lord, not so; I cry Thy mercy, my God. For these very sins, as riper years succeed, these very sins are transferred from tutors and masters, from nuts and balls and sparrows, to magistrates and kings, to gold and manors and slaves, just as severer punishments displace the cane. It was the low stature then of childhood which Thou our King didst commend as an emblem of lowliness, when Thou saidst, Of such is the kingdom of heaven.
This was the world at whose gate I lay, unhappy, in my boyhood. This was the arena where I was more afraid of making a grammatical slip than, having made one, of envying those who had not. These things I tell and confess to you, my God. For them I won praise from people whom I then thought it was all virtue to please. For I did not see the pit of vileness into which I had been cast, away from your eyes. In their eyes, what could have been fouler than I already was, since I displeased even people like myself? With countless lies I deceived my tutor, my teachers, and my parents, out of love of play, eagerness to see empty shows, and restless desire to imitate them. I also stole from my parents' cellar and table. Sometimes greed ruled me. Sometimes I stole to have something to give other boys, who sold me their play, though they enjoyed it just as much as I did. In this play, too, I often sought unfair victories, while I myself was conquered by a vain desire to be first. And what could I endure less, or what did I scold more fiercely when I caught it, than the very thing I was doing to others? Yet if I was caught and scolded for it, I chose to quarrel rather than give in. Is this the innocence of boyhood? Not so, Lord, not so. I beg your mercy, my God. For as the years advance, these very sins pass from tutors and teachers, from nuts and balls and sparrows, to magistrates and kings, to gold and estates and slaves. In the same way, harsher punishments replace the cane. So it was only the small stature of childhood that you, our King, praised as a sign of humility, when you said, Of such is the kingdom of heaven.
Yet, Lord, to Thee, the Creator and Governor of the universe, most excellent and most good, thanks were due to Thee our God, even hadst Thou destined for me boyhood only. For even then I was, I lived, and felt; and had an implanted providence over my well-being—a trace of that mysterious Unity whence I was derived; I guarded by the inward sense the entireness of my senses, and in these minute pursuits, and in my thoughts on things minute, I learnt to delight in truth, I hated to be deceived, had a vigorous memory, was gifted with speech, was soothed by friendship, avoided pain, baseness, ignorance. In so small a creature, what was not wonderful, not admirable? But all are gifts of my God: it was not I who gave them me; and good these are, and these together are myself. Good, then, is He that made me, and He is my good; and before Him will I exult for every good which of a boy I had. For it was my sin, that not in Him, but in His creatures—myself and others—I sought for pleasures, sublimities, truths, and so fell headlong into sorrows, confusions, errors. Thanks be to Thee, my joy and my glory and my confidence, my God, thanks be to Thee for Thy gifts; but do Thou preserve them to me. For so wilt Thou preserve me, and those things shall be enlarged and perfected which Thou hast given me, and I myself shall be with Thee, since even to be Thou hast given me.
Lord, as Creator and Governor of the universe, most excellent and good, I owe You thanks even if You had only given me my childhood. For even then I existed, lived, and felt. I had an innate sense of self-preservation—a glimpse of that mysterious Unity from which I came. I protected my senses through instinct, and in life's small pursuits and minor thoughts, I learned to love truth. I despised deception, possessed a sharp memory, had the gift of speech, found comfort in friendship, and avoided pain, dishonor, and ignorance. In such a small being, what part was not marvelous or admirable? Yet all these are gifts from God—I did not give them to myself. These gifts are good, and together they make me who I am. Good, then, is He who created me, and He is my source of goodness. I rejoice before Him for every blessing I had as a boy. My sin was that I searched for pleasure, grandeur, and truth not in Him, but in His creation—in myself and others—and so I tumbled into sorrow, chaos, and mistakes. Thank You, my joy, my glory, and my confidence, my God, for Your gifts. Please preserve them in me. For in doing so, You preserve me, and these gifts You've given will grow and become complete. Then I shall be with You, since even my very existence is Your gift.