Chapter 5


I was far from meriting all the graces which Our Lord showered on me. I
had a constant and ardent desire to advance in virtue, but often my
actions were spoilt by imperfections. My extreme sensitiveness made me
almost unbearable. All arguments were useless. I simply could not
correct myself of this miserable fault. How, then, could I hope soon to
be admitted to the Carmel? A miracle on a small scale was needed to
give me strength of character all at once, and God worked this
long-desired miracle on Christmas Day, 1886.

On that blessed night the sweet Infant Jesus, scarce an hour old,
filled the darkness of my soul with floods of light. By becoming weak
and little, for love of me, He made me strong and brave; He put His own
weapons into my hands, so that I went from victory to victory,
beginning, if I may say so, ”to run as a giant.” [37] The fountain of
my tears was dried up, and from that time they flowed neither easily
nor often.

Now I will tell you, dear Mother, how I received this inestimable grace
of complete conversion. I knew that when we reached home after Midnight
Mass I should find my shoes in the chimney-corner, filled with
presents, just as when I was a little child, which proves that my
sisters still treated me as a baby. Papa, too, liked to watch my
enjoyment and hear my cries of delight at each fresh surprise that came
from the magic shoes, and his pleasure added to mine. But the time had
come when Our Lord wished to free me from childhood’s failings, and
even withdraw me from its innocent pleasures. On this occasion, instead
of indulging me as he generally did, Papa seemed vexed, and on my way
upstairs I heard him say: ”Really all this is too babyish for a big
girl like Therese, and I hope it is the last year it will happen.” His
words cut me to the quick. Celine, knowing how sensitive I was,
whispered: ”Don’t go downstairs just yet–wait a little, you would cry
too much if you looked at your presents before Papa.” But Therese was
no longer the same–Jesus had changed her heart.

Choking back my tears, I ran down to the dining-room, and, though my
heart beat fast, I picked up my shoes, and gaily pulled out all the
things, looking as happy as a queen. Papa laughed, and did not show any
trace of displeasure, and Celine thought she must be dreaming. But
happily it was a reality; little Therese had regained, once for all,
the strength of mind which she had lost at the age of four and a half.

On this night of grace, the third period of my life began–the most
beautiful of all, the one most filled with heavenly favours. In an
instant Our Lord, satisfied with my good will, accomplished the work I
had not been able to do during all these years. Like the Apostle I
could say: ”Master, we have laboured all night, and have taken
nothing.” [38]

More merciful to me even than to His beloved disciples, Our Lord
Himself took the net, cast it, and drew it out full of fishes. He made
me a fisher of men. Love and a spirit of self-forgetfulness took
possession of me, and from that time I was perfectly happy.

One Sunday, closing my book at the end of Mass, a picture of Our Lord
on the Cross half slipped out, showing only one of His Divine Hands,
pierced and bleeding. I felt an indescribable thrill such as I had
never felt before. My heart was torn with grief to see that Precious
Blood falling to the ground, and no one caring to treasure It as It
fell, and I resolved to remain continually in spirit at the foot of the
Cross, that I might receive the Divine Dew of Salvation and pour it
forth upon souls. From that day the cry of my dying Saviour–”I
thirst!”–sounded incessantly in my heart, and kindled therein a
burning zeal hitherto unknown to me. My one desire was to give my
Beloved to drink; I felt myself consumed with thirst for souls, and I
longed at any cost to snatch sinners from the everlasting flames of

In order still further to enkindle my ardour, Our Divine Master soon
proved to me how pleasing to him was my desire. Just then I heard much
talk of a notorious criminal, Pranzini, who was sentenced to death for
several shocking murders, and, as he was quite impenitent, everyone
feared he would be eternally lost. How I longed to avert this
irreparable calamity! In order to do so I employed all the spiritual
means I could think of, and, knowing that my own efforts were
unavailing, I offered for his pardon the infinite merits of Our Saviour
and the treasures of Holy Church.

Need I say that in the depths of my heart I felt certain my request
would be granted? But, that I might gain courage to persevere in the
quest for souls, I said in all simplicity: ”My God, I am quite sure
that Thou wilt pardon this unhappy Pranzini. I should still think so if
he did not confess his sins or give any sign of sorrow, because I have
such confidence in Thy unbounded Mercy; but this is my first sinner,
and therefore I beg for just one sign of repentance to reassure me.” My
prayer was granted to the letter. My Father never allowed us to read
the papers, but I did not think there was any disobedience in looking
at the part about Pranzini. The day after his execution I hastily
opened the paper, La Croix, and what did I see? Tears betrayed my
emotion; I was obliged to run out of the room. Pranzini had mounted the
scaffold without confessing or receiving absolution, and the
executioners were already dragging him towards the fatal block, when
all at once, apparently in answer to a sudden inspiration, he turned
round, seized the crucifix which the Priest was offering to him, and
kissed Our Lord’s Sacred Wounds three times. . . . I had obtained the
sign I asked for, and to me it was especially sweet. Was it not when I
saw the Precious Blood flowing from the Wounds of Jesus that the thirst
for souls first took possession of me? I wished to give them to drink
of the Blood of the Immaculate Lamb that It might wash away their
stains, and the lips of ”my first born” had been pressed to these
Divine Wounds. What a wonderful answer!

After receiving this grace my desire for the salvation of souls
increased day by day. I seemed to hear Our Lord whispering to me, as He
did to the Samaritan woman: ”Give me to drink!” [39] It was indeed an
exchange of love: upon souls I poured forth the Precious Blood of
Jesus, and to Jesus I offered these souls refreshed with the Dew of
Calvary. In this way I thought to quench His Thirst; but the more I
gave Him to drink, so much the more did the thirst of my own poor soul
increase, and I accepted it as the most delightful recompense.

In a short time God, in His goodness, had lifted me out of the narrow
sphere in which I lived. The great step was taken; but, alas! I had
still a long road to travel. Now that I was free from scruples and
morbid sensitiveness, my mind developed. I had always loved what was
noble and beautiful, and about this time I was seized with a passionate
desire for learning. Not content with lessons from my teachers, I took
up certain subjects by myself, and learnt more in a few months than I
had in my whole school life. Was not this ardour–”vanity and vexation
of spirit”? [40] For me, with my impetuous nature, this was one of the
most dangerous times of my life, but Our Lord fulfilled in me those
words of Ezechiel’s prophecy: ”Behold thy time was the time of lovers:
and I spread my garment over thee. And I swore to thee, and I entered
into a covenant with thee, saith the Lord God, and thou becamest Mine.
And I washed thee with water, and I anointed thee with oil. I clothed
thee with fine garments, and put a chain about thy neck. Thou didst eat
fine flour and honey and oil, and wast made exceedingly beautiful, and
wast advanced to be a queen.” [41]

Yes, Our Lord has done all this for me. I might take each word of that
striking passage and show how it has been completely realised in me,
but the graces of which I have already told you are sufficient proof.
So I will only speak now of the food with which my Divine Master
abundantly provided me. For a long time I had nourished my spiritual
life with the ”fine flour” contained in the Imitation of Christ. It was
the only book which did me good, for I had not yet found the treasures
hidden in the Holy Gospels. I always had it with me, to the amusement
of my people at home. My aunt used often to open it, and make me repeat
by heart the first chapter she chanced to light upon.

Seeing my great thirst for knowledge, God was pleased, when I was
fourteen, to add to the ”fine flour,” ”honey” and ”oil” in abundance.

This ”honey” and ”oil” I found in the conferences of Father Arminjon on
The End of this World and the Mysteries of the World to Come. While
reading this book my soul was flooded with a happiness quite
supernatural. I experienced a foretaste of what God has prepared for
those who love Him; and, seeing that eternal rewards are so much in
excess of the petty sacrifices of this life, I yearned to love Our
Lord, to love Him passionately, and to give Him countless proofs of
affection while this was still in my power.

Celine had become the most intimate sharer of my thoughts, especially
since Christmas. Our Lord, Who wished to make us advance in virtue
together, drew us to one another by ties stronger than blood. He made
us sisters in spirit as well as in the flesh. The words of our Holy
Father, St. John of the Cross, were realised in us:

Treading within Thy Footsteps

Young maidens lightly run upon the way.

From the spark’s contact,

And the spiced wine,

They give forth aspirations of a balm divine.

It was lightly indeed that we followed in the footsteps of Our Saviour.
The burning sparks which He cast into our souls, the strong wine which
He gave us to drink, made us lose sight of all earthly things, and we
breathed forth sighs of love.

Very sweet is the memory of our intercourse. Every evening we went up
to our attic window together and gazed at the starry depths of the sky,
and I think very precious graces were bestowed on us then. As the
Imitation says: ”God communicates Himself sometimes amid great light,
at other times sweetly in signs and figures.” [42]

In this way He deigned to manifest Himself to our hearts; but how
slight and transparent was the veil! Doubt was no longer possible;
already Faith and Hope had given place to Love, which made us find Him
whom we sought, even on this earth. When He found us alone–”He gave us
His kiss, and now no one may despise us.” [43]

These divine impressions could not but bear fruit. The practice of
virtue gradually became sweet and natural to me. At first my looks
betrayed the effort, but, little by little, self-sacrifice seemed to
come more easily and without hesitation. Our Lord has said: ”To
everyone that hath shall be given, and he shall abound.” [44]

Each grace faithfully received brought many others. He gave Himself to
me in Holy Communion oftener than I should have dared to hope. I had
made it my practice to go to Communion as often as my confessor allowed
me, but never to ask for leave to go more frequently. Now, however, I
should act differently, for I am convinced that a soul ought to
disclose to her director the longing she has to receive her God. He
does not come down from Heaven each day in order to remain in a golden
ciborium, but to find another Heaven–the Heaven of our souls in which
He takes such delight.

Our Lord, Who knew my desire, inspired my confessor to allow me to go
to Communion several times a week, and this permission, coming as it
did straight from Him, filled me with joy.

In those days I did not dare to speak of my inner feelings; the road
which I trod was so direct, so clear, that I did not feel the need of
any guide but Jesus. I compared directors to mirrors who faithfully
reflect Our Saviour to the souls under their care, and I thought that
in my case He did not use an intermediary but acted directly.

When a gardener gives special attention to a fruit which he wishes to
ripen early, he does so, not with a view to leaving it on the tree, but
in order to place it on a well-spread table. Our Lord lavished His
favours on His Little Flower in the same way. He wishes His Mercies to
shine forth in me–He Who, while on earth, cried out in a transport of
joy: ”I bless Thee, O Father, because Thou hast hidden these things
from the wise and prudent and hast revealed them to little ones.” [45]

And because I was small and frail, He bent down to me and instructed me
sweetly in the secrets of His love. As St. John of the Cross says in
his ”Canticle of the Soul”:

On that happy night

In secret I went forth, beheld by none,

And seeing naught;

Having no light nor guide

Excepting that which burned within my heart,

Which lit my way

More safely than the glare of noon-day sun

To where, expectant,

He waited for me Who doth know me well,

Where none appeared but He.

This place was Carmel, but before I could ”sit down under His Shadow
Whom I desired,” [46] I had to pass through many trials. And yet the
Divine Call was becoming so insistent that, had it been necessary for
me to go through fire, I would have thrown myself into it to follow my
Divine Master.

Pauline [47] was the only one who encouraged me in my vocation; Marie
thought I was too young, and you, dear Mother, no doubt to prove me,
tried to restrain my ardour. From the start I encountered nothing but
difficulties. Then, too, I dared not speak of it to Celine, and this
silence pained me deeply; it was so hard to have a secret she did not

However, this dear sister soon found out my intention, and, far from
wishing to keep me back, she accepted the sacrifice with wonderful
courage. As she also wished to be a nun, she ought to have been given
the first opportunity; but, imitating the martyrs of old, who used
joyfully to embrace those chosen to go before them into the arena, she
allowed me to leave her, and took my troubles as much to heart as if it
were a question of her own vocation. From Celine, then, I had nothing
to fear, but I did not know how to set about telling Papa. How could
his little Queen talk of leaving him when he had already parted with
his two eldest daughters? Moreover, this year he had been stricken with
a serious attack of paralysis, and though he recovered quickly we were
full of anxiety for the future.

What struggles I went through before I could make up my mind to speak!
But I had to act decisively; I was now fourteen and a half, and in six
months’ time the blessed feast of Christmas would be here. I had
resolved to enter the Carmel at the same hour at which a year before I
had received the grace of conversion.

I chose the feast of Pentecost on which to make my great disclosure.
All day I was praying for light from the Holy Ghost, and begging the
Apostles to pray for me, to inspire me with the words I ought to use.
Were they not the very ones to help a timid child whom God destines to
become an apostle of apostles by prayer and sacrifice?

In the afternoon, when Vespers were over, I found the opportunity I
wanted. My Father was sitting in the garden, his hands clasped,
admiring the wonders of nature. The rays of the setting sun gilded the
tops of the tall trees, and the birds chanted their evening prayer.

His beautiful face wore a heavenly expression–I could feel that his
soul was full of peace. Without a word, I sat down by his side, my eyes
already wet with tears. He looked at me with indescribable tenderness,
and, pressing me to his heart, said: ”What is it, little Queen? Tell me
everything.” Then, in order to hide his own emotion, he rose and walked
slowly up and down, still holding me close to him.

Through my tears I spoke of the Carmel and of my great wish to enter
soon. He, too, wept, but did not say a word to turn me from my
vocation; he only told me that I was very young to make such a grave
decision, and as I insisted, and fully explained my reasons, my noble
and generous Father was soon convinced. We walked about for a long
time; my heart was lightened, and Papa no longer shed tears. He spoke
to me as Saints speak, and showed me some flowers growing in the low
stone wall. Picking one of them, he gave it to me, and explained the
loving care with which God had made it spring up and grow till now.

I fancied myself listening to my own story, so close was the
resemblance between the little flower and little Therese. I received
this floweret as a relic, and noticed that in gathering it my Father
had pulled it up by the roots without breaking them; it seemed destined
to live on, but in other and more fertile soil. Papa had just done the
same for me. He allowed me to leave the sweet valley, where I had
passed the first years of my life, for the mountain of Carmel. I
fastened my little white flower to a picture of Our Lady of
Victories–the Blessed Virgin smiles on it, and the Infant Jesus seems
to hold it in His Hand. It is there still, but the stalk is broken
close to the root. God doubtless wishes me to understand that He will
soon break all the earthly ties of His Little Flower and will not leave
her to wither on this earth.

Having obtained my Father’s consent, I thought I could now fly to the
Carmel without hindrance. Far from it! When I told my uncle of my
project, he declared that to enter such a severe Order at the age of
fifteen seemed to him against all common sense, and that it would be
doing a wrong to religion to let a child embrace such a life. He added
that he should oppose it in every way possible, and that nothing short
of a miracle would make him change his mind.

I could see that all arguments were useless, so I left him, my heart
weighed down by profound sadness. My only consolation was prayer. I
entreated Our Lord to work this miracle for me because thus only could
I respond to His appeal. Some time went by, and my uncle did not seem
even to remember our conversation, though I learnt later that it had
been constantly in his thoughts.

Before allowing a ray of hope to shine on my soul, Our Lord deigned to
send me another most painful trial which lasted for three days. Never
had I understood so well the bitter grief of Our Lady and St. Joseph
when they were searching the streets of Jerusalem for the Divine Child.
I seemed to be in a frightful desert, or rather, my soul was like a
frail skiff, without a pilot, at the mercy of the stormy waves. I knew
that Jesus was there asleep in my little boat, but how could I see Him
while the night was so dark? If the storm had really broken, a flash of
lightning would perhaps have pierced the clouds that hung over me: even
though it were but a passing ray, it would have enabled me to catch a
momentary glimpse of the Beloved of my heart–but this was denied me.
Instead, it was night, dark night, utter desolation, death! Like my
Divine Master in the Agony in the Garden, I felt that I was alone, and
found no comfort on earth or in Heaven.

Nature itself seemed to share my bitter sadness, for during these three
days there was not a ray of sunshine and the rain fell in torrents. I
have noticed again and again that in all the important events of my
life nature has reflected my feelings. When I wept, the skies wept with
me; when I rejoiced, no cloud darkened the blue of the heavens. On the
fourth day, a Saturday, I went to see my uncle. What was my surprise
when I found his attitude towards me entirely changed! He invited me
into his study, a privilege I had not asked for; then, after gently
reproaching me for being a little constrained with him, he told me that
the miracle of which he had spoken was no longer needed. He had prayed
God to guide his heart aright, and his prayer had been heard. I felt as
if I hardly knew him, he seemed so different. He embraced me with
fatherly affection, saying with much feeling: ”Go in peace, my dear
child, you are a privileged little flower which Our Lord wishes to
gather. I will put no obstacle in the way.”

Joyfully I went home. . . . The clouds had quite disappeared from the
sky, and in my soul also dark night was over. Jesus had awakened to
gladden my heart. I no longer heard the roar of the waves. Instead of
the bitter wind of trial, a light breeze swelled my sail, and I fancied
myself safe in port. Alas! more than one storm was yet to rise,
sometimes even making me fear that I should be driven, without hope of
return, from the shore which I longed to reach.

I had obtained my uncle’s consent, only to be told by you, dear Mother,
that the Superior of the Carmelites would not allow me to enter till I
was twenty-one. No one had dreamt of this serious opposition, the
hardest of all to overcome. And yet, without losing courage, I went
with Papa to lay my request before him. He received me very coldly, and
could not be induced to change his mind. We left him at last with a
very decided ”No.” ”Of course,” he added, ”I am only the Bishop’s
delegate; if he allows you to enter, I shall have nothing more to say.”

When we came out of the Presbytery again, it was raining in torrents,
and my soul, too, was overcast with heavy clouds. Papa did not know how
to console me, but he promised, if I wished, to take me to Bayeux to
see the Bishop, and to this I eagerly consented.

Many things happened, however, before we were able to go. To all
appearances my life seemed to continue as formerly. I went on studying,
and, what is more important, I went on growing in the love of God. Now
and then I experienced what were indeed raptures of love.

One evening, not knowing in what words to tell Our Lord how much I
loved him, and how much I wished that He was served and honoured
everywhere, I thought sorrowfully that from the depths of hell there
does not go up to Him one single act of love. Then, from my inmost
heart, I cried out that I would gladly be cast into that place of
torment and blasphemy so that He might be eternally loved even there.
This could not be for His Glory, since He only wishes our happiness,
but love feels the need of saying foolish things. If I spoke in this
way, it was not that I did not long to go to Heaven, but for me Heaven
was nothing else than Love, and in my ardour I felt that nothing could
separate me from the Divine Being Who held me captive.

About this time Our Lord gave me the consolation of an intimate
knowledge of the souls of children. I gained it in this way. During the
illness of a poor woman, I interested myself in her two little girls,
the elder of whom was not yet six. It was a real pleasure to see how
simply they believed all that I told them. Baptism does indeed plant
deeply in our souls the theological virtues, since from early childhood
the hope of heavenly reward is strong enough to make us practise
self-denial. When I wanted my two little girls to be specially kind to
one another, instead of promising them toys and sweets, I talked to
them about the eternal recompense the Holy Child Jesus would give to
good children. The elder one, who was coming to the use of reason, used
to look quite pleased and asked me charming questions about the little
Jesus and His beautiful Heaven. She promised me faithfully always to
give in to her little sister, adding that all through her life she
would never forget what I had taught her. I used to compare these
innocent souls to soft wax, ready to receive any impression–evil,
alas! as well as good, and I understood the words of Our Lord: ”It were
better to be thrown into the sea than to scandalise one of these little
ones.” [48]

How many souls might attain to great sanctity if only they were
directed aright from the first! I know God has not need of anyone to
help Him in His work of sanctification, but as He allows a clever
gardener to cultivate rare and delicate plants, giving him the skill to
accomplish it, while reserving to Himself the right of making them
grow, so does He wish to be helped in the cultivation of souls. What
would happen if an ignorant gardener did not graft his trees in the
right way? if he did not understand the nature of each, and wished, for
instance, to make roses grow on peach trees?

This reminds me that I used to have among my birds a canary which sang
beautifully, and also a little linnet taken from the nest, of which I
was very fond. This poor little prisoner, deprived of the teaching it
should have received from its parents, and hearing the joyous trills of
the canary from morning to night, tried hard to imitate them. A
difficult task indeed for a linnet! It was delightful to follow the
efforts of the poor little thing; his sweet voice found great
difficulty in accommodating itself to the vibrant notes of his master,
but he succeeded in time, and, to my great surprise, his song became
exactly like the song of the canary.

Oh, dear Mother, you know who taught me to sing from the days of my
earliest childhood! You know the voices which drew me on. And now I
trust that one day, in spite of my weakness, I may sing for ever the
Canticle of Love, the harmonious notes of which I have often heard
sweetly sounding here below.

But where am I? These thoughts have carried me too far, and I must
resume the history of my vocation.

On October 31, 1887, alone with Papa, I started for Bayeux, my heart
full of hope, but also excited at the idea of presenting myself at the
Bishop’s house. For the first time in my life, I was going to pay a
visit without any of my sisters, and this to a Bishop. I, who had never
yet had to speak except to answer questions addressed to me, would have
to explain and enlarge on my reasons for begging to enter the Carmel,
and so give proofs of the genuineness of my vocation.

It cost me a great effort to overcome my shyness sufficiently to do
this. But it is true that Love knows no such word as ”impossible,” for
it deems ”all things possible, all things allowed.” Nothing whatsoever
but the love of Jesus could have made me face these difficulties and
others which followed, for I had to purchase my happiness by heavy
trials. Now, it is true, I think I bought it very cheaply, and I would
willingly bear a thousand times more bitter suffering to gain it, if it
were not already mine.

When we reached the Bishop’s house, the floodgates of Heaven seemed
open once more. The Vicar-General, Father Reverony, who had settled the
date of our coming, received us very kindly, though he looked a little
surprised, and seeing tears in my eyes said: ”Those diamonds must not
be shown to His Lordship!” We were led through large reception-rooms
which made me feel how small I was, and I wondered what I should dare
say. The Bishop was walking in a corridor with two Priests. I saw the
Vicar-General speak a few words to him, then they came into the room
where we were waiting. There were three large armchairs in front of the
fireplace, where a bright fire blazed.

As his Lordship entered, my Father and I knelt for his blessing; then
he made us sit down. Father Reverony offered me the armchair in the
middle. I excused myself politely, but he insisted, telling me to show
if I knew how to obey. I did so without any more hesitation, and was
mortified to see him take an ordinary chair while I was buried in an
enormous seat that would comfortably have held four children like
me–more comfortably in fact, for I was far from being at ease. I hoped
that Papa was going to do all the talking, but he told me to explain
the reason of our visit. I did so as eloquently as I could, though I
knew well that one word from the Superior would have carried more
weight than all my reasons, while his opposition told strongly against
me. The Bishop asked how long I had wanted to enter the Carmel. ”A very
long time, my Lord!” ”Come!” said the Vicar-General, laughing, ”it
cannot be as long as fifteen years.” ”That is true,” I answered, ”but
it is not much less, for I have wished to give myself to God from the
time I was three.” The Bishop, no doubt to please Papa, tried to
explain that I ought to remain some time longer with him; but, to his
great surprise and edification, my Father took my part, adding
respectfully that we were going to Rome with the diocesan pilgrimage,
and that I should not hesitate to speak to the Holy Father if I could
not obtain permission before then. However, it was decided that,
previous to giving an answer, an interview with the Superior was
absolutely necessary. This was particularly unpleasant hearing, for I
knew his declared and determined opposition; and, in spite of the
advice not to allow the Bishop to see any diamonds, I not only showed
them but let them fall. He seemed touched, and caressed me fondly. I
was afterwards told he had never treated any child so kindly.

”All is not lost, little one,” he said, ”but I am very glad that you
are going to Rome with your good Father; you will thus strengthen your
vocation. Instead of weeping, you ought to rejoice. I am going to
Lisieux next week, and I will talk to the Superior about you. You shall
certainly have my answer when you are in Italy.” His Lordship then took
us to the garden, and was much interested when Papa told him that, to
make myself look older, I had put up my hair for the first time that
very morning. This was not forgotten, for I know that even now,
whenever the Bishop tells anyone about his ”little daughter,” he always
repeats the story about her hair. I must say I should prefer my little
secret to have been kept. As he took us to the door, the Vicar-General
remarked that such a thing had never been seen–a father as anxious to
give his child to God as the child was to offer herself.

We had to return to Lisieux without a favourable answer. It seemed to
me as though my future were shattered for ever; the nearer I drew to
the goal, the greater my difficulties became. But all the time I felt
deep down in my heart a wondrous peace, because I knew that I was only
seeking the Will of my Lord.

[37] Cf. Psalm 18[19]:5.

[38] Luke 5:5.

[39] John 4:7.

[40] Eccl. 1:14.

[41] Ezechiel 16:8, 9, 13.

[42] Cf. Imit., III, ch. xliii. 4.

[43] Cf. Cant. 8:1.

[44] Luke 19:26.

[45] Cf. Luke 10:21.

[46] Cant. 2:3.

[47] Sister Agnes of Jesus.

[48] Cf. Matt. 18:6.