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When, without our willing it, the mind turns inward, rises above the diurnal, forgets the self, a different kind of strength makes us see Christ's endurance on the cross, we strain to cling to him so intently, we don't just believe His limbs ours, we feel the cut of thorns, the agony of nails, the presence of felons, something of His inner fire. This is God's grace, not ours, this is how we know and have His Spirit rule, guide us, in us where He likes to dwell. If there's anyone who relies on weak mortal deeds, like Adam he's deluded, what he presumes on, receives are new lies. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V LXIX:229. See also B S1:41:105; no MS; Valgrisi 41. Militant Valdesian. The eighth in the series meditating Christ. Key |
