What consolations you give me! You see I am weak, unable to bear suffering, so you reveal Yourself to me again and again. You see I am oppressed, unable to live with my guilt, and you wash me clean, granting me a new start, day after day. How I love you! Jesus, I trust you. In the midst of my fears and my doubts, I hear your words to St. Faustina echo in my ears “My love deceives no one.” Indeed to me you are no phantom, but my Lover. You do not hover in lands above the skies, but your embrace is real and close. You words in my heart are not figments of my mind, but speak with your own Divine voice of the things of God. By your own promise you will not allow me to be deceived, and as a trusting child I look to you for everything. In you I find a stable truth, worthy of all my trust.
My love, my life, could you hear the cry of love from one so weak as me and deny me yourself? Truly the greatest suffering is in separation from you, and the longing which you have placed within my heart is the only thing capable of breaking it. Could you, so full of love, remain distant from my longing heart? My small hands cannot reach you, so deign to come down to me my Jesus, else I shall die from the magnetism of your love. My soul swoons with joy, for you could not remain apart. The blessed lot given to me, though filled with sufferings and trials, is destined to live in you and with you. What joy, and how unworthy I am of you. If it were not for my love, and the fire of your love burning with me, I could not accept.
My heart burns with the desire to love you, but does not turn to ask. For your love inspires life, and thus my soul lives only to feed this flame. No matter where I look, or what I think, I cannot doubt for my heart beats too avidly to allow even a moment of uncertainty. Yes, if I thought you would deny love, I would die from my longing. As it is I live, and my heart breaks beneath the strain. Indeed, I die of a broken heart only to end up in the arms of He who broke it. I care not for myself, or for my life, I care only to be permitted to give this love to you and others. For is not the curse of the damned that of never seeing your face, or exchanging love with you? I could not bear this. Therefore I write, until the day my prayer conveys love better than my pen.
Ah, I see it clearly. Born on the wings of the dawn, treading the clouds, sleeping with the blanket of the trees… Clothed with all the glamor of the flowers, head bedecked with roses, cheeks blessed with oils. He stands looking upon the oceans, and in His right hand He holds them in a basin. The birds fly beneath His feet, and sing their songs in His ear. Blues, and pinks, and yellows fall like rain into the beds of the brightened abyss of sky, and He ascends on the wings of doves. His voice echos in caverns, and resonates smoothly as off of ice from the stone ceilings. The ripples in the ponds betray His footsteps, as the souls of His feet are moistened by the coolness of the springs. Many eyes twinkle within His eyes, the winds blow in His hair, and through His gaze the striking depth of eternity is enigmatically revealed. The strength of His touch firmly holds the earth in place, but gently caresses the living sun. What marvel is it that I should love this King of magnificence and gentle beauty