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Stone · 09-03-2026, 01:49 PM

The Book of Divine Consolation of the Blessed Angela of Foligno
by Angela, of Foligno (1248?–1309);
translated by Mary G. Steegmann; with an introduction by Algar Labouchere Thorold (1866–1936)
Published 1909
Taken from here.
[All reformatting done by The Catacombs]

Introduction

What is the secret and so potent attraction of the Saints? Renan says somewhere that he would have given everything he had to have seen St. Mary of Egypt pacing the desert in ecstasy, half-starved and turned to the semblance of Nebuchadnezzar. And Renan liberally discounted the value, not only of Theology, but also of the particular virtue, the loss of which had driven that Saint to such an unusual mode of life. The interest in sanctity evidently survives theological and ethical pre-occupations. Indeed, to-day, the Saint is perhaps an object of higher intrinsic interest to "unbelievers" than to the faithful. For to the faithful he is primarily useful, either as being efficacious in various troubles of life or, on a higher plane, as a sort of spiritual agent, obtaining graces for his clients. O admirabile commercium! But, like everything else, this celestial intercourse suffers from the defects of its qualities. I do not wish to be understood as making light of superstition. The humblest blossom of that luxuriant garden is of infinite value, nor do the roots of our most highly rationalised opinions grow outside it. Nevertheless the important position of the Saint in the Catholic economy does tend to conceal his real personality from his worshippers. He inevitably tends to be considered more as a means to an end, than as an object intrinsically worthy of contemplation. In these circumstances the actual historical value of his personality is apt to be obscured by legend and fancy. Legend, of course, if at all contemporaneous, is of the highest value as illustrating his effect on those with whom he came in contact. We could ill spare in the life of St. Francis the Wolf of Gubbio. Modern devotional fancy is less illuminative. It throws no light upon the character of St. Anthony of Padua to learn that centuries after his death he recovered some papers lost by that devout man King Charles II. What then is it that constitutes the intrinsic interest of the Saint when his supernatural value has gone?

One reason, I think, for this interest is that the Saint represents, in a quite unique manner, the satisfaction of a desire which all men more or less obscurely feel. Ever since man emerged from amid the labyrinth of irrational forces, which, until his appearance, determined the evolution of life on the planet, he has sought for power. Power at first over the hostile or indifferent nature which surrounded him, over the stream, the spark of fire, the wild bear: then over his fellow-men, and, at length, when he began to turn his gaze inwards, over himself. It is noticeable that all the really primitive myths divinised various aspects of power, celebrated the triumph of force. As the social arts began to develop, and, among them, of sheer necessity, morality, men began to attribute moral qualities to the force which they felt around them, above them, and within them. "N'ayant pas pu faire que le juste soit fort, nous avons fait que le fort soit juste," says Pascal. This attribution, however, no less than morality itself, was an afterthought unconsciously conceived in the interest of his self-preservation — for, without morality of some sort, man would soon have disappeared before the wolf and the bear. And, by giving the ultimate sanction of force to his social rule of thumb, he naively betrayed his intuition that that ultimate force was the more fundamental reality. Now the Saint represents the achievement of this longing for power, carried to the highest and most difficult point, that of complete self-mastery. For while, to the primitive savage, the conquest of external foes of one sort and another is evidently the most pressing need of his position, a need recurring so constantly as to exhaust his store of energy, and veil from his attention other possible achievements, as life gets more secure and his attention is directed inwards, man becomes aware of those other dangerous foes of his own household, the appetites and caprices of his inherited brute nature. Turning to battle with these, he dimly but surely perceives one aspect of the ideal of sainthood. For the Saints of all religions, from the most elementary to the most highly developed, are ascetics. They live sparely and chastely, and the mortification of the twin appetites of hunger and love represent to the ordinary man the acme of self-control.

The Saint is also more than the ascetic. Asceticism is a refusal, a limitation, a constraint — in a word, a negation; and the Saint is eminently positive. Moreover, although negative qualities might impose on the imagination and create interest, they would not inspire the personal devotion that is invariably felt for him. The positive quality of the Saint is love, expressing itself in joy. Thus he is a fascinating combination of the familiar and the unfamiliar, for, if few of us are ascetics, we have most of us some experience of love. But the Saint drinks from the Castalian spring of his interior life while we hand about the Divinity to each other in treacherous and remarkably "earthen vessels." His love is not as ours at the mercy of circumstances, it is not susceptible of betrayal or death, for he has found his treasure beyond time and space, where neither satiety nor caprice can corrupt, nor can rivals break through and steal.

There have been all kinds of Saints, from St. Paul, the first hermit, to Father Damian, but the "active" Saints seem less interesting than the "contemplative." Certainly the Fathers of the Desert are very seductive. They lived in caves or on the tops of pillars, supporting their existences on roots and brackish water, while they exhaled their souls in a hymn of timeless ecstasy like Shelley's skylark. Solitude was to them as water to the fish, and they preferred the society of beasts to that of men. St. Paul had his attendant lions, and St. Anthony Abbot spent twenty years in a tomb with serpents who turned into evil spirits by night, and, in these unusual circumstances, became one of the most important personalities of his generation. The external conditions of their existence were often grotesque, almost always terrible. Their inner spirit was the most precious thing humanity possesses. For when everything else has failed a man, he arrives, if his courage holds out, at the joys of the spirit. The forces manifested in his experience, which succeeded in the long run in eluding his dominating grasp, answer submissively to the call of his mind in contemplation. Like fabled Adam naming the docile beasts, he sits in their midst, assigning to each its post and due perspective in the panorama of life. For he has arrived, if without the help of metaphysical analysis, by experience, at the conviction that nothing is real but thought which is the first — and perhaps the last — word of philosophy. Mystics and contemplatives of East and West of all creeds and rites have borne substantial witness to this truth. This is no doubt the reason why alike to the popular imagination as in the treatises of theologians the contemplative life is extolled at the expense of active virtue. For, to all of us, there come moments when we are aware of a psychological need, more profound, more urgent, than the desire for action. Before certain works of art, or occasional aspects of nature, or it may be at the exquisite climax of some mood of intimate personal emotion, a delicious paralysis steals over the will: we feel that we have done enough. In the calm that follows the whirlwind and earthquake of volition now, it seems, definitely stilled, we are conscious only of the beauty of the situation on which we gaze, we have no desire to modify it, we only wish to gaze on for ever. The aesthetic sense has entirely replaced ethical striving.

Blessed Angela of Foligno was a true daughter of this ancient line. Born in 1248, she entered the family of St. Francis as a Tertiary Hermit, and became, through the spiritual autobiography, which she dedicated to her confessor Fra Arnaldo, one of its most striking illustrations. St. Francis and his "Knights of the Round Table"* seem from the first to have struck a new note in medieval religion. The Monastic Order, whether Benedictine or Cistercian, wrapped in the aloofness of its splendid cloisters, frequently governed by abbots who were great feudal lords, represented, it might be said, the aristocratic principle in spirituality. The aims of the monks were lofty, unintelligible no doubt to the villeins of the soil, who were their dependents; they fed and educated their humble neighbours, but their own life remained exclusive, a thing apart. St. Francis brought the spiritual life down to the people, the popolo minuto, and he did so — here was his splendid originality — without lowering the values of what he brought within their reach. The religious democracy that he created remained an aristocracy of the soul. His logic was amazing because so simple. In most men, thought and action move on different planes; with them action implies at least some degree of compromise; but when St. Francis, stripping himself of his father's cloak, and flying naked to the Bishop's arms, proclaimed the divine royalty of poverty, that most unusual phenomenon was seen — a man's thought and action in perfect harmony. Something of that divine simplicity, of that exquisite unison of thought and will, is what constitutes the Franciscan spirit, distinguishing all his authentic children and, not least of them, the simple woman who unfolds her wonderful experiences in this small volume.

We know little of her life. Born within thirty years of St. Francis' death, she entered on the life of penance after a youth passed in moral disorder. She lived in solitude with a religious companion in the neighbourhood of the Church of the Friars Minor at Foligno, until the year of her death in 1309. Her "Visions," which are of the most touching and beautiful description, appear to have been all of the kind described by mystical theologians as "intellectual," that is to say they were unaccompanied by any sensible manifestations. Some of them, indeed, as she notes herself, occurred during sleep. They are an extraordinary blend of naive candour and passion. They indicate, with an accuracy which I feel tempted to ascribe at times to the editing of the possibly more analytical Fra Arnaldo, the moments of what may be called the dialectical process of sanctification. The point of departure of her conversion was a purely self-regarding dread of the penalties of sin: the contemplative mood of the love of God, to which she ultimately attained, absorbed all the intervening emotional categories. This little book may in fact be called, in the Hegelian sense of the term, the Logic of sanctity. It is certainly one of the most important documents we have of medieval psychology, and illustrates in a very remarkable manner the completeness of that system of Mysticism which was at once the root and the blossom of the medieval intellect. Only in Angela the intellect is hidden under a succession of emotional moments, which develop by their own spontaneous dialectic out of the whole mood of which each of them is the passing but necessary expression. That Mysticism is the finest and, on the whole, perhaps the sanest there has ever been. It is far from being exclusively Christian. Deriving from the lecture halls of Alexandria, as well as from the hills of Galilee, it has come down to us through a series of great experimentalists, who have furnished to those of like mind with themselves its justification in their own experience. It is the classic Catholic Mysticism, as the Roman Church has always understood and still understands the term.

Few systems of thought have swayed the imagination more profoundly. Remaining a true Mysticism by nature of its goal, the "Beatific Vision," it has succeeded in incorporating in itself the ethical aspirations of Western energy. It thus mediates between the passive ecstasy of Hindu Pantheism and the restless volitional activity of the white race.

The dogma of the Incarnation has here been of the greatest service. The Unknown and Unknowable All is contemplated by the Catholic Saint in the person of Christ. The dogma gives him a lens with which he can focus the rays of Divinity and unite them in a shaft of light on which he can gaze without faltering. In this way he is provided with an inexhaustible object, adequate to his mind and will. On the one hand he can never know the tragedy of satiety, for, although he may faint with fatigue, his object is inexhaustible, and, on the other, his will is not ruled out as an illusion, but fortified by the prospect of an infinite perspective of effort and achievement. For Catholic Mysticism may perhaps be best summed up, in the phrase by which a great philosopher of our day has described life itself, as a creative evolution. The acts of Virtue, of Faith, Hope, and Charity of a Saint, are not waste of time or of merely negative use; they do not merely serve the purpose of withdrawing him from temptation, they actually constitute the spiritual life within him, like the words of consecration in the Mass, they create in his heart the Divinity which they assert. The mystic gradually passes beyond this mood into that profound and eternal rest of the soul, which theologians call the Beatific Vision, and which is, according to the teaching of Aquinas, enjoyed by some still in life with an even greater intensity than by others who literally "sleep in the Lord."

The Roman Church has ever regarded Catholic Mysticism as the kernel of the Depositum Fidei of which she is the guardian. It was for it she fought through the long and wearisome controversies which brought to the birth at Nicea the orthodox dogma of the Incarnation. For, as has been said, without that dogma, Catholic Mysticism would have missed its specific and characteristic note and would have become a mere variant of Neo-platonist theurgy. The inherent tendency that all Mysticism has to Pantheism, indeed to Nihilism, would have inevitably asserted itself. Nothing short of faith in the descent of the Infinite into the finite could have saved the wavering lines of human personality, turned inwards to gaze upon itself. All, including that personality, would have become an unstable illusion, the web of Maia woven by the fallacious dreams of human desire. And European religion, at least at the point of its highest individual development, would have been indistinguishable from Buddhism. When Schopenhauer drew his parallel between Catholic and Buddhist Mysticism, he failed to see the enormous difference made by belief in the dogma of the Man-god. It is perhaps not without significance that he dwells so much on the value in that connection of Madame Guyon, whose Quietist tendencies, resting ultimately on a Docetic view of the Incarnation, were the cause of her difficulties with Bossuet.

At first sight perhaps the visions of the Blessed Angela may seem to have only an archaic value for us. The world in which she lived seems so remote from ours, the circumstances of her life so different from anything that could possibly occur to us, that her experience seems hopelessly irrelevant to our own needs. But this is a superficial view. The human heart is always the same: there exists a law of what may be called sentimental constancy. And nothing that has ever been believed by anybody is without value. It is enough if the faith and the experience were really genuine. Angela is an authentic specimen of a clearly-defined class of human beings. Mystics are very rare, but they exist. Moreover they are only rare in the West. Oriental bazaars are crowded with them; they prophesy at the corners of streets surrounded by yellow dogs, picturesquely clad disciples, and occasional European tourists. Quite a considerable number of human beings pass their lives in a state of more or less constant inspiration. We are apt to forget this and limit the possibilities of all experience to our own. It is therefore enlarging to our minds to step sometimes into other people's worlds. In the world of Blessed Angela we shall find much to interest and astonish us, and perhaps to excite our admiration. We shall at all events enjoy the commerce of a pure and candid soul.

The translation here offered to the reader is that of the first Italian version which was made in 1510 from the Latin of Fra Arnaldo. This version is one of the rarest books in the world, and has a special value as being one of the earliest popular devotional works printed in the vernacular in Italy. It takes its place with the "Dialogo" of St. Catherine of Siena and the "Fioretti" of St. Francis, among the attempts to popularise Mysticism, which represented a too little known side of that complex movement which we call the Renaissance.

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* "Isti sunt fratres mei milites Tabulae rotondae." *Spec. Perfec.*, p. 72.

Stone · 09-03-2026, 01:54 PM

Preface by the Old Italian Translator

Unto all Readers Beloved in Jesus Christ,

Although in the Holy Gospel our most loving Lord hath plentifully shown unto us the means and the way whereby we may attain unto the perfection of Christian life, yet hath His consoling spirit (giver of all comforting and spiritual grace) nevertheless not ceased, nor ever will cease, to reveal unto us continually by means of His most worthy instruments — the which are saints and devout persons — divers ways and conditions of finding the most perfect and consummate union possible unto wayfarers in this life. And although by the facility of printing there hath been put forth an infinite number of books, so many that they do obscure the sun of justice upon earth (seeing that there are more evil books than good), because by reason of their perverse judgment and voluptuous desires men do delight more in imagining and in hearkening unto hurtful things rather than unto wholesome ones, and because through the world's abuses evil men are more favoured than are good men, yet cannot malice overcome wisdom, neither can the many overcome the few.

For this reason, also, hath God elected the weak to confound the strong, and thus in our own times hath He inspired many women of exalted spirit, and they did lead most holy and exemplary lives, walking upon the short and straight road. Amongst these is the Blessed Angela of Foligno, who, although a woman (and therefore of the weaker sex), did, nevertheless, by means of her humble, patient and steadfast despising of the things of this world and by her chosen and beloved poverty, overcome all the strong and powerful of her time. Unto whomsoever shall truly read and prudently consider them, her conversion, penitence, temptation, and doctrine (as set forth in this book), will be of exceeding profit for walking in the way and service of God, until he attaineth unto the happiness of glory. This book hath already been printed in Latin, divided into three treatises, namely — of penitence, of visions, and of doctrine. But because it was neither elegant nor learned in that language, it was neither read by scholars nor understood by the simple, and for this reason hath it been deemed well to translate it into the vulgar tongue, that it may be universally understood and be profitable unto a greater number of persons.

The writer hath not sought to put it into elegant language, nor yet into the Tuscan or the courtly tongue, but only to render it intelligible. Wherefore each one is exhorted to read it solely for his profit and for the good of his soul, which he will the more obtain the more he doth carefully read and digest, and put into practice that which he hath read and digested. For it is not the readers, but the doers, of good works who attain unto grace. And although it is to be believed that the writers of that time put down everything in the order in which it pleased God to recall it unto the memory of the Blessed Angela, yet hath it seemed more convenient in this translation into the vulgar tongue to put the treatise of doctrine into the second place, the which in Latin is given the third place, and to put here as third treatise that of the visions and consolations, which in Latin hath the second place.

This hath been done because these consolations and visions are things most high, and it hath seemed right to leave them unto the last to be read by those who are more perfected and instructed, and first to set down her teaching (which is likewise that of Jesus Christ), as being more universally profitable, and especially unto beginners. The treatise of doctrine is further divided into several chapters, which was not done previously, in order that it may be more easy and less wearisome unto the reader, because certain of the chapters were exceeding long. Each one is now prayed and exhorted that (for his own good) he weary not of reading this most excellent book, wherein he will find pointed out that straight highroad (the road of poverty, of pain, and of contempt), whereby it is easy to find God, and from which none can excuse themselves as they might do from the contemplation of the incomprehensible Trinity. And it will be unto him a joy to hear and know of those sufferings and other ills which Christ and the saints did willingly endure for our sakes, piously praying God that He will open the treasures of His mercy unto all. Amen.

Stone · 09-03-2026, 02:17 PM

Treatise I. Of the Conversion and Penitence of the Blessed Angela of Foligno and of Her Many and Divers Temptations

As I walked (said the Blessed Angela) by the way of penitence, I did take eighteen spiritual steps before I came to know the imperfection of my life.

The first step was that I did begin to reflect upon my sins, the knowledge of which did fill my soul with so great a dread that, fearing to be condemned unto hell, I wept bitterly.

The second was, that I did begin to be so exceeding ashamed of those my sins that for shame I could not fully confess them; wherefore many times did I communicate whilst yet unconfessed and with all my sins did I receive the Body of our Lord. Being day and night reproached by my conscience because of this thing, I did pray the Blessed Francis that he would grant me to discover a confessor meet for my needs, who should be well acquainted with my sins and unto whom I could fully confess myself. In that same night did the Blessed Francis appear unto me and say: "Sister, if thou hadst prayed unto me sooner thy prayer would have been sooner granted; that which thou hast asked hath been done." Upon the next morning, therefore, I went into the church of Saint Francis and found there a friar preaching in Saint Feliciano, which friar was chaplain unto the bishop and did hold his authority; and to him I did determine to make my confession immediately that the sermon should be ended. Wherefore I did confess myself most fully and was absolved of all my sins. And in this confession I did feel no love, but only bitterness, shame, and pain.

The third step was that I did consequently persevere in the performance of the penance imposed upon me, and as yet I was filled with pain and misery without any other consolation.

Fourthly, I did begin to consider and to know the divine mercy which had granted me the aforesaid grace and saved me from hell. Here did I begin to be enlightened and I did now weep and lament more than heretofore, forcing myself to do more severe penance, of the which I will not speak here.

The fifth was that, being thus enlightened, and finding nothing save faults in me, I did condemn myself, as one who knew and was most assuredly convinced that she was worthy of hell; whereat I did again weep bitterly. It must be understood, however, that between the one step and another there was a space of time, and I did ever weep and dolefully lament; and there was nothing else vouchsafed unto me, only I did have some consolation in that I could weep, but truly it was a bitter consolation.

Sixthly, there was given unto me a constant and certain illumination of grace, whereby I was made to know my sins so profoundly that, having offended the Creator, I saw that I had likewise offended the creatures made for me. Therefore I did recall unto my memory all the sins which I had committed and in the confession (which I did make unto the Lord my God) I did most profoundly ponder over them. Wherefore I did beseech all the saints, with the Blessed Virgin, that they would intercede for me, and I did pray the merciful Lord (who had vouchsafed unto me so many good things), that He would have pity upon me, and, seeing that I did know myself to be dead in sin, that He would raise me to life again through His grace. Moreover, I did pray all creatures (seeing how that I had offended them inasmuch as I had offended the Creator), that they would not accuse me before God. Thus did it appear unto me that all creatures and all the saints did have compassion upon me, wherefore with a greater fire of love did I apply myself to praying unto God more than was customary.

The seventh was, that by an especial grace I did begin to gaze upon the Cross, whereon I did behold (as much with the eyes of my heart as with those of my body) Jesus Christ who had died for us, and I did feel great grief at that sight, notwithstanding that this vision and meditation were as yet but little understood of me.

The eighth was, that as I did gaze upon the Cross I was granted a greater understanding how that Christ had died for our sins. Whereupon I did so clearly perceive all mine own sins, and with such exceeding great grief, that I did feel that I myself had crucified the Lord. Nevertheless I did not yet know how great a blessing was the Passion of Christ, nor did I understand as clearly then as I afterwards did, how that He had redeemed me from my sins and converted me unto repentance, and had died for me. In this beholding of the Cross I did so burn with the fire of love and remorse that, standing before the Cross, I did divest myself of everything and did thus offer myself unto Him. And although I feared greatly, I did nevertheless promise to observe perpetual chastity and not to offend with any of my members, accusing my members one by one of past sins. And I did pray Him that He would make me to keep this my promise, that is, to preserve chastity and to keep guard over my thoughts; for upon the one hand I did greatly fear to promise, and upon the other hand the aforesaid fire compelled me, and I had no power to resist.

Ninthly, there was given unto me the desire to seek out and know the way of the Cross, that I might stand at its foot and find refuge there where all sinners find refuge. Unto which end I was enlightened and instructed after this manner: that if I did desire to find the way and come unto the Cross, I must first pardon all those who had offended me, and must then put away from me all earthly things, not only out of mine affections but likewise in very deed, and all men and women, friends and kindred and every other thing, but more especially my possessions must I put away, and even mine own self. And I must give my heart unto Christ (who hath done me such great good), electing to walk upon the thorny path, which is the path of tribulation. So then I did begin to put aside the best clothing and garments which I had and the most delicate food, likewise the covering for my head. But as yet it was a shameful and a hard thing for me to do, seeing that I did not feel much love for God and was living with mine husband. Wherefore was it a bitter thing for me when any offence was said or done unto me, but I did bear it as patiently as I was able. In that time and by God's will there died my mother, who was a great hindrance unto me in following the way of God; my husband died likewise, and in a short time there also died all my children. And because I had commenced to follow the aforesaid way and had prayed God that He would rid me of them, I had great consolation of their deaths, albeit I did also feel some grief. Wherefore, because that God had shown this grace unto me, I did imagine that my heart was in the heart of God and that His will and His heart were in my heart.

Tenthly, seeking to know from God what thing I could do, the which would be most acceptable unto Him, He did of His mercy many times appear unto me, both sleeping and waking, and appearing fastened upon the Cross He did bid me gaze upon His wounds, and in a marvellous manner He did make me to know how that He had borne all things for me; and this happened many times. And when He had showed unto me one by one all the things which He had borne for me, He said, "What canst thou do for Me that will suffice?" Likewise did He appear unto me many times when I was awake, but in a manner more pleasing than when I was asleep (although I did always perceive His great grief and suffering), and He showed unto me the pains of His head and the hairs plucked from His eyebrows and His beard, counting over unto me all His scourgings and showing them unto me in the places where they had been inflicted, saying unto me, "All this was for thee." Then did I most clearly recall unto my memory all my sins, by the which it seemed unto me I had wounded Him afresh and therefore had cause for great lamentation, and I did doubtless feel much more sorrow than before. Thus showing His Passion unto me, He did say, "What canst thou do for Me that will suffice?" Then did I weep and shed such burning tears that they did burn my flesh, wherefore it behoved me to lave it with cold water that it might be cooled.

The eleventh was, that because of my sins I was moved to do penance more severely, of the which it is not meet to speak here. And as I reflected and did oblige myself to wish to do this, it seemed unto me at last that I could not sufficiently do penance the whiles I was possessed of worldly things, wherefore in order the more freely to do this and to come unto the Cross as I had been inspired to do, I did determine most certainly to forsake everything. The which determination was marvellously sent unto me by God after this manner. In mine imagination I did cherish a great desire to become poor, and such was my zeal that ofttimes I did fear to die before I could attain unto this state of poverty. Upon the other hand I was assailed by temptations, the which did whisper unto my thoughts that I was youthful and that begging for alms might lead me into great danger and shame, and that if I did this I should be forced to die of hunger, cold, and nakedness. Moreover all my friends did dissuade me from this thing. But at last the Divine mercy did send a certain great illumination into mine heart, wherefrom I did derive a certain assurance, the which, as I believed then and do believe now, I shall not lose even in eternity. Wherefore I did dispose and determine that, even though I should be forced to die of hunger, cold, and shame, because such a thing was pleasing or might be pleasing unto God — I would by no means leave from my purpose, even though I were certain that these aforesaid evils should befall me, choosing to die willingly for the love of God rather than to fall short of mine intention. So then I did resolve in good earnest.

The twelfth was, that I did afterwards pray unto the Blessed Mother of Christ and the Blessed John the Evangelist that (for the sake of the suffering which they had endured), they would obtain for me a certain sign whereby I might always keep in memory the Passion of Christ.

The thirteenth was, that, persevering in the aforesaid prayers and desires, a dream was granted unto me wherein was showed me the Heart of Christ, and it was told me that in that Heart there is no falsehood, because therein all things are true. And it seemed unto me that this sign was sent because I had mocked at a certain preacher.

The fourteenth was, that being once at prayer, Christ did show Himself unto me as I kept vigil, more clearly and giving me greater knowledge of Himself than heretofore. Then it was that He did set me free, and it was after this manner. Firstly, He did question me; then He did say unto me, "Put thy mouth into the wound in My side." Then methought that I did put it there and did drink the blood which was running freshly from out of His side, and in the doing of this it was given me to know that I was cleansed. And here I did begin to receive great consolation, albeit I grieved when I did meditate upon the Passion. Then I did pray the Lord that He would cause my blood to be shed and poured out for His love's sake, as His had been shed for me, and I did desire that for His love all my members should suffer affliction and death, more vile and more bitter than His Passion. Wherefore I bethought me and did seek to find one who should put me to death, in order that I might suffer for the sake of His faith and love. But I knew that I was not worthy to die as the holy martyrs had died. Nevertheless, I did desire that He would cause me to die, and by a death more vile and more slow, and more bitter. I could not bethink me of a death as vile as I did wish for, or one that would differ from the deaths of the saints — for I did most surely deem myself unworthy of dying their death.

The fifteenth step was that I did fix my mind upon the Virgin Mother of God and upon Saint John, keeping them in my remembrance and praying them that (for the suffering which they had endured because of the Passion of our Lord) they would obtain for me the grace that I should always feel the pain of the Passion or at least of their sufferings. And they did obtain this grace for me in such a degree that one time Saint John did put upon me so great a pain that never did I feel a greater. Then did I perceive that the sufferings of Saint John and of the Mother of Christ (the which they did endure because of the Passion) were in very truth more than martyrdom. Then was it that the desire was given unto me to revile myself with all my might. And although I was much assailed by the devil and ofttimes tempted that I should not do this thing, and was forbidden by the Brothers Minor and by all from whom it was meet I should seek counsel, nevertheless by nothing either of good or of evil that could be done unto me was I prevented from giving all my possessions unto the poor. And if I had been hindered from doing this I would at least have forsaken all things because methought I could not keep any thing for myself without greatly offending Him who did thus enlighten me. Nevertheless I was yet sunk in bitterness because of my sins, neither did I know if the things which I did were pleasing unto God; but with much weeping I cried, saying: "Lord, even though I be condemned, nevertheless will I not cease from doing penance, and I have put away all things from me in order to serve Thee." But being, as I have said, still sunk in bitterness because of my sins and not yet feeling any divine sweetness whatsoever, I was changed out of this state in the manner hereafter written down.

The sixteenth was, that I did come again into the church to ask of God that He would bestow some mercy upon me. And whilst that I was praying and saying the Paternoster, God did implant that Paternoster in mine heart with so clear an understanding of the Divine goodness and mine own unworthiness that I could in no way describe it. Each word was written upon mine heart and I did speak it with great and enduring contrition and compunction. So that, although I wept because of my sins and mine unworthiness (the which I did here perceive), I did nevertheless have great consolation and did begin to taste somewhat of the Divine sweetness, because in the Paternoster I did see the Divine goodness better than in any other thing, and here likewise did I find it best. But because my sins and mine unworthiness were showed unto me in the aforesaid prayer, I did begin to be so greatly ashamed that I did not presume to raise mine eyes either to heaven or to the Crucifix, or any other thing, but did commend myself unto the Blessed Virgin, that she should implore and obtain mercy for me and forgiveness of my sins, seeing that I was yet sunk in the bitterness of sin. Oh, sinners, how beset with difficulties and full of heaviness is the way of the soul unto repentance! How art thou bound with strong chains and thy feet shackled! How evil are thine helpers, or rather they who hinder thee, the world, the flesh, and the devil! Ye must know that I did halt in each one of these aforesaid steps a good space of time before that I was enabled to move from the one unto the other; albeit I did not remain equally long in each, but in some more and in some less time.

Then at the seventeenth step were these things made manifest unto me, that the Blessed Virgin had obtained for me the grace of a more than human faith; wherefore did it seem unto me that until that time my faith had been almost dead, when compared with that which had been newly given unto me. Likewise did it seem unto me that the tears which I had hitherto wept had been shed almost unwillingly when compared with those which I now shed. Wherefore I did now lament for the Passion of Christ and for the sufferings of His Mother more earnestly than I had done before. And now everything which I did, howsoever much or great, did seem unto me but of little account. And I did desire to do greater penance, and I did fill mine whole heart with Christ's Passion, because unto me had been vouchsafed the hope that I might thereby be redeemed. I did now, moreover, begin to find consolation in dreams, for I did have fair and pleasant dreams, so that I was thereby consoled. I did likewise now begin to feel the sweetness and consolation of God within mine heart, and outwardly in my body continually, both sleeping and waking; but because I did not yet feel any assurance, my joy was mingled with bitterness, neither did my heart take any rest, but ever desired further mercies from God.

The eighteenth was, that I did at last begin to have the understanding and the visions and the words of God, and I so greatly delighted in prayer that I did forget to eat. Wherefore did I wish that there were no need for eating, in order that I might be ever at prayer. This desire did occasion a certain temptation not to eat, or, if I did eat, that I should eat but a small quantity. But I perceived this to be a snare; and there was such a great fire of love in mine heart that I did never weary of being upon my knees, or of doing other penance. After this I was filled with a yet greater fire and fervour of Divine love, in such a degree that if I did hear any man speaking of God I did cry aloud, and even had there been one with an axe ready to kill me I could not have refrained. The first time that this happened unto me was when I did sell the little piece of land which was mine to give the money unto the poor (this was the best possession which I had), but in the beginning I did mock at myself for this crying, as one mocketh at Petruccio; then I perceived that I could by no manner of means do otherwise. Wherefore it did ofttimes happen that, hearing God spoken of, I did cry aloud, albeit that I was in the company of other persons, no matter who they might be. And when those persons did say unto me that I was disordered in that I should do such a thing, I did answer that I was sick and overwhelmed, and that I could not do otherwise. Neither could I convince those who spoke evil against me because of this thing, but I did feel greatly ashamed. When I beheld the Passion of Christ painted in a picture I could scarce contain myself, but was seized with a fever and fell into a sickness; for the which reason my companion did hide such pictures of the Passion from me whenever it was possible, in order that I might not behold them. During the times of these cryings I did have many illuminations, understandings, visions, and consolations, of the which several will be written down in the following treatises.

Stone · 09-04-2026, 09:58 AM

Chapter I. Of Her Many and Various Temptations

In order, therefore, that I might not feel myself exalted by the magnitude and the number of the revelations, visions, and conversings with God, and that I might not be puffed up with the delight thereof, the great tempter was sent unto me, who did afflict me with many and divers temptations, wherefore was I afflicted both in my soul and in my body. The torments of the body were verily numberless and were administered by many demons in divers ways, so that I do scarce believe that the sufferings and infirmity of my body could be written down. There remained not one of my members the which was not grievously tormented; neither was I ever without pain, without infirmity, or without weariness. Always was I weak and feeble, and full of pain, so that I was compelled to be almost continually lying down. All my limbs were as though beaten, and with many troubles did the demons afflict me.

Thus was I perpetually sick and swelled, and in all my limbs I did suffer pain, so that it was difficult for me to move myself. Nevertheless was I not weary of lying still, neither was I yet able to eat sufficient. In short, the sufferings of the body were great, but those of the soul were beyond all comparison more bitter and more numerous, and all were inflicted by the same demons. I can only liken myself unto one who is hanged by the neck, his hands tied behind his back and his eyes bound, and who is left hanging by a rope upon the gallows; and although he hath no help or remedy or support, he doth nevertheless continue to live in that torment and cannot die. And I do affirm that even more desperately and with greater cruelty was I afflicted by demons, for they hanged my soul and all its strength was overwhelmed and departed from it. And seeing how that I had no power to oppose them, my grief was so great that at times I was scarce able to weep for rage and for grievous suffering. Moreover, I wept without obtaining relief, and ofttimes was my rage so great that I could scarce refrain from rending myself and beating myself most grievously, thus causing my head and all my members to swell. When my soul beheld itself cast down and all its virtue departed from it, then it made great lamentation, and then did I cry unto my God.

After this I did endure another torment, for every vice was re-awakened within me. Not that — albeit re-awakened — they had power to overcome my reason, but they did occasion me much tribulation. And not only did I remember those vices which assailed me in times past, but many others which I did never before know entered into my body and did inflame me and cause me the utmost suffering. But because they had no lasting power over me they did afford me great consolation when they began to weaken and leave me. This was the work of the demons into whose hands I perceived I had been delivered, but when I do remember how that God was afflicted here below and in poverty, I would that mine own sufferings might be increased twofold.

At times was I thrown into a most horrible darkness of spirit by the demons, wherein it did appear that all hope of good was withdrawn from me. Then those vices which were dead inwardly in the soul were revived outwardly in the body, both those which I did never before feel and those which I did have aforetimes. And I did suffer so greatly that I was constrained to put actual fire upon my body in order that it might quench the burning of desire; and this I did continue to do until my confessor forbade me. And when I was in that darkness of spirit methought I would have chosen rather to be roasted than to endure such pains. Wherefore did I cry aloud and call upon death, desiring that it should come in any form whatsoever if only God would permit me to die. And unto God did I say: "Lord, if Thou wilt send me into hell, I pray Thee tarry not, but do it instantly, and since Thou hast abandoned me, make an end of it now and plunge me into the depths." Presently I perceived that this was the work of demons and that such vices exist not in the soul, for never would I have consented thereto. Howsoever, the body doth suffer violence, and so great is the grief and pain that if it should endure the body would not be able to bear it. Moreover, the soul doth find that all its strength hath been taken from it, and albeit it doth in no wise consent unto vice, yet can it not resist. And seeing that it doth act contrary to the will of God, it loseth all hope of being able to resist and is tormented by those vices.

Among others, God did permit one vice to enter into me the which I had never known before, but I did clearly perceive that it entered into me by Divine permission, and it was so great that it did exceed all the others. Upon the other hand was there given unto me a certain virtue, manifestly wherewith to oppose the aforesaid vice and by means of which God did most potently set me free. Wherefore even if I had not already possessed a sure faith in God, this one thing alone would have inspired me with such a faith and a certain hope, of the which I could in no wise doubt. For virtue did increase and vice did diminish, and I was so upheld by that virtue that I could not consent unto wrong-doing, and likewise by means of that virtue was I so enlightened and strengthened that not all the men who were in the world, nor all the demons, could have persuaded me to commit the smallest sin. Hence proceedeth the aforesaid faith in God. The aforesaid vice was so great that I am ashamed to speak of it, and of such potency that if the virtue had tarried in coming to succour me, neither shame nor suffering nor any other thing whatsoever would have sufficed to restrain me from instantly falling back into sin. And all this did I bear for the space of more than two years.

Furthermore, beside this, was there a continual conflict betwixt humility and a certain pride, the which did increase in my soul and grievously vex it. The humility was because I did see myself fallen from all goodness and void of all virtue and grace, perceiving in myself such an infinite multitude of sins that I could not believe that God would ever desire to have me for His own. I perceived myself to have become an habitation of demons, their creditor and their child. Likewise methought that I had strayed from the right way and from all truth, and finally that I was worthy of the nethermost depths of hell. It must be known that this humility brought no contentment unto my soul, neither any understanding of divine truth and goodness, but was a certain humble dejection the which was the cause of innumerable evils. For I did perceive the backsliding of both soul and body, on account of which I did know in my soul that I was surrounded by demons.

Then was God hidden from me in all His power and grace, neither could I by any manner of means recall Him unto my mind, because He would not permit it. Thus did I perceive myself to be condemned, but I could not believe that I had been mine own damnation, because I did more grieve and lament for having offended my Creator than for any other thing. For this reason did I strive with all my members against the demons, that I might overcome the aforesaid vices, but I was not able, neither could I find any remedy or any way whereby I might escape or help myself, so deep did I perceive myself to have fallen. Wherefore was I ofttimes plunged into the abyss of this humility, wherein I did behold my sins and the superabundance of mine iniquities, but I did see no way whereby they might be made manifest and known unto all.

And in order that I might make known my dissembling and my sins, it came into my mind to go throughout the cities and open places with meat and with fishes hanging about my neck, and to cry: "This is that woman, full of evil and of dissembling, slave of all vices and iniquities, who did good deeds that she might obtain honour amongst men! And especially when I caused it to be told unto those whom I had bidden to mine house that I did eat neither fish nor meat, and when — being the while full of greediness, gluttony, and drunkenness — I did feign to desire naught save what was needful. I did diligently make an outward show of being poor, but I caused many sheets and coverings to be put there where I lay down to sleep, causing them to be taken up in the morning in order that none might see them. Behold, therefore, the devil of my soul and the iniquity of mine heart; hearken unto a daughter of hypocrisy and pride, a deceiver and an abomination of God who did feign to be a child of prayer. I was given over to pride and to the devil, but I did feign to have God in my soul and His consolation in my chamber, whereas I had the devil alike in my soul and in my chamber. And know ye, that during all the time of my life I have studied how that I might obtain the fame of sanctity, but verily I say unto you that through the iniquity and the hidden dissembling of mine heart have I deceived many, and have been the murderer of many souls, and of mine own soul likewise."

Then, being still sunk in this abyss, I did turn me towards these my brothers (who are called sons), saying: "Henceforth, oh my sons, ye will no longer believe in me; do ye not see how that I am possessed of the devil? Pray ye that the justice of God may compel the demons to go forth out of my soul, and that they may make manifest their most evil works in order that God may be no more dishonoured by me. See ye not that all that which I have told unto you is false? See ye not that if there were no iniquity whatsoever in the world, I should fill it out of the abundance of mine own iniquity? Wherefore must ye no longer put faith in me, neither must ye worship this living image; but pray that the justice of God may cause it to be cast down and broken asunder, so that its devilish works may be made manifest, its lies and its painted and gilded words, the which I did colour over and conceal with divine words in order that I might be adored and honoured as a thing of God. Pray ye finally that the devil may go forth out of this idol, and that by this woman the world may be no longer deceived. And I will pray unto the Son of God (whom I dare not name) that if it pleaseth Him not to show forth my sins Himself, that He will cause the earth to witness unto them by opening and swallowing me up, making of me such an example that men and women will say: 'Lo, how was she painted in false colours and a dissembler within and without!'"

At times I had a mind to put a rope about my neck, verily a strong band, and to cause myself to be dragged through the city and the open places, crying: "This is that woman who during all the time of her life hath showed the false in place of the true," and that all persons then should say: "Behold a miracle of God, for He hath caused this woman to reveal her sins of her own self and to declare her iniquities which have heretofore been hidden!" Yet did this not suffice unto my soul, for I was fallen into a desperation such as had never before been seen in this world, the cause thereof being that I did despair of God and all His benefits by reason of having made conflict betwixt me and them.

For which reason, also, was I certain that in the whole world there was no person more full of all manner of wickedness and more worthy of condemnation than was I. And all that which had been given me of God had been granted for the increasing of my despair and my condemnation. Wherefore pray ye unto God that He tarry no longer, for my head is already breaking, my body fainteth, and mine eyes are dimmed because of the abundance of my tears. And lastly, all my members are loosened and can no more give proof of the wickedness of my soul, but I do rejoice that it hath been made manifest in part." And all this did I perceive in mine humility. Thou must know, however, thou who hast written down these matters, that what thou hast written is but a small thing in comparison with all mine iniquities and mine abuses, for I was yet very young when I did begin to do wrong. These and other like things was I constrained to say when I was sunk in the aforesaid humility.

After this came pride. Then was I filled with wrath and vanity, with melancholy and bitterness, and all puffed up with pride. Thereto was added another bitterness concerning the benefits which God had bestowed upon me, because I remembered no more any good thing of them whatsoever, but only remembered injuries and dolorous grief, marvelling that there had been any virtue whatsoever in me and doubting whether in truth there had ever been any. Neither did I perceive any reason wherefore God should have permitted this, and for this cause was all goodness shut away from me and hidden. The temptation of this thought did make me to be filled with pride and anger, most bitter sadness and affliction and a grief greater than I can declare, so that if all the wise men of the world and all the saints of paradise had given me every assurance to comfort me and had promised me every blessing which could be named, not even they could have done aught for me or rendered me any help, if God had not changed my soul and worked differently within it. Neither should I have believed in them, but all would have worked together to increase mine anger, affliction, sadness, and pain more than I could possibly declare.

Wherefore, if God would but have liberated me from these torments and temptations, in lieu thereof would I willingly have suffered every ill and would have borne all the infirmities and suffering which have ever been known, and verily do I believe that they would have been less hard for me to bear than were the aforesaid torments. Wherefore have I ofttimes said that, if only I might be set free from them, I would gladly have endured every form of martyrdom. This state of torments and temptations did begin some little while before the time of the pontificate of Celestino and did last more than two years, during the which I was ofttimes tormented, nor am I even yet entirely freed, albeit I do now feel it but seldom, and that only outwardly, not inwardly as heretofore. But when I am in that state I do perceive that in betwixt that evil humility and that pride there is a great purging and purifying of the soul, by which and through which is acquired that true humility without which none can be saved; so that the greater the humility, the greater is likewise the purification. Thus came I to know that betwixt those two aforesaid extremes my soul must be burned and martyred, and through the knowledge of mine offences and my sins (which knowledge it did obtain through that same true humility) my soul became purged both of pride and of demons. For the which reason doth it come that the poorer the soul is made and the more profoundly humiliated, the more doth it abase and purify itself in order that it may be cleansed. And in no other way can a soul be cleansed save by deep humiliation and by being most profoundly implanted and rooted in veritable and true humility.

Here endeth the Conversion, Penitence, and Temptation of the Blessed Angela of Foligno.

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¹ Petruccio was evidently some noted personage of the time, whose identity it is impossible now to trace. *(footnote referring back to the previous chapter's mention of Petruccio)*

Stone · 09-06-2026, 10:12 AM

Treatise II. Of the Evangelical Doctrine Set Forth by the Blessed Angela

Chapter I. How It May Be Known That God Hath Entered into the Soul

It must be known that God cometh sometimes unto the soul when it hath neither called, nor prayed unto, nor summoned Him. And He doth instil into the soul a fire and a love and a sweetness not customary, wherein it doth greatly delight and rejoice; and it doth believe that this hath been wrought by God Himself there present, but this is not certain. Presently the soul doth perceive that God is inwardly within itself, because — albeit it cannot behold Him within — it doth nevertheless perceive that His grace is present with it, wherein it doth greatly delight. Yet is not even this certain. Presently it doth further perceive that God cometh unto it with most sweet words, wherein it delighteth yet more, and with much rejoicing doth it feel God within it; yet do some doubts still remain, albeit but few.

For the soul possesseth as yet no perfect certainty, neither is it assured that God is truly within it, because such converse and such feelings can be produced likewise by other spirits. Wherefore is it still in doubt. And it seemeth unto me that this cometh either of its own malice and sinfulness, or else truly by the will of God, who desireth not that the soul should feel certain and secure. But when the soul doth feel the presence of God more deeply than is customary, then doth it certify unto itself that He is within it. It doth feel it, I say, with an understanding so marvellous and so profound, and with such great love and divine fire, that it loseth all love for itself and for the body, and it speaketh and knoweth and understandeth those things of the which it hath never heard from any mortal whatsoever.

And it understandeth with great illumination, and with much difficulty doth it hold its peace; and if it doth hold its peace, it holdeth it out of the abundance of its zeal, that it may not be displeasing unto God its Lover nor cause offence, and likewise by reason of its humility; for it desireth not to speak of things so exceeding high that it may not draw attention unto itself. Thus hath it happened divers times unto me, that, out of my burning desire to work the salvation of my neighbour, I did speak things for the which I was reproved, and it was said unto me, "Sister, turn thee again unto the Holy Scriptures, for they say not thus, and therefore do we not understand thee."

But with that feeling whereby it is certified unto the soul that God dwelleth within it, there is given unto it a disposition so perfect that it doth most entirely and verily agree with the soul in all things, and in every way do all the members of the body agree with the soul and do truly form one cause together with it; neither do they rebel against the will of the soul, but do perfectly desire those things which are of God, but which, nevertheless, they had not heretofore in any way desired. And this disposition is granted unto the soul through grace — whereby it doth perceive that the Divine Being hath entered into it, and hath granted it the assurance and the desire of God and of those things which are of God, after the manner of the true love wherewith God hath loved us. Thus doth the soul feel that God is mingled with it and hath made companionship with it.

Further, when God cometh unto the soul, it is sometimes given unto it to behold Him, and it beholdeth Him devoid of any bodily shape or form, and more clearly than doth one man behold another. For the eyes of the soul do behold a spiritual and not a bodily presence, of the which I am not able to speak because words and imagination do fail me. And in very truth the soul doth rejoice in that sight with an ineffable joy and regardeth naught else, because this it is which doth fill it with most inestimable satisfaction. This searching and beholding (whereby God is seen in such a manner that the soul can behold naught else) is so profound that much doth it grieve me that I cannot make manifest aught whatsoever of it, seeing that it is not a thing the which can be touched or imagined or judged of.

Moreover, the soul doth know in many other ways that God hath without doubt entered into it, of the which ways I will now speak of two. One is an holy unction which doth so instantly revive the soul, make meek all the members of the body, and cause them to agree together with the soul, that they cannot be touched or offended by anything whatsoever the which could even in the smallest degree agitate the soul. Therefore doth it feel and hear that God speaketh within it, and by means of this great and in all ways unspeakable unction the soul doth understand with the utmost certainty that God is within it, because no saint nor any angel in Paradise would have power to grant this. But seeing how that it is a thing the which cannot be expressed, it grieveth me that I can find no words wherewith to describe it in comparison of that which it truly is. Wherefore I pray God that He will pardon me, for this is not of mine own will, and if I were able and if it were pleasing unto God, I would make manifest somewhat of His goodness.

The other way whereby the soul knoweth that God is within it is by an embrace which He doth give unto the soul. There is neither father, nor mother, nor son, nor any other person whatsoever who can embrace the object beloved with so great a love as that wherewith God embraceth the soul. For He doth embrace it with such love and draw it unto Himself with such sweetness and gentleness that methinketh there is not a man in the world who can declare it, nor express it, nor believe it unless he hath himself experienced it; and although he might perchance divine somewhat of this love, yet could he not possibly know it as it truly is. Of a surety, God doth implant most sweet love in the soul, the which doth make it burn for Christ alone. And it beareth with it so great a light (whereby it understandeth the fulness of the goodness of God which it experienceth within itself) that it hath understanding of much more than it feeleth within itself.

Then hath it the assurance and certitude that Christ dwelleth within it; but all that we can say is as nothing in comparison with that which it really is. Then the soul hath no more tears, whether of joy or of sorrow or of any other kind, seeing that when the soul hath tears it is in a lower state. For God poureth into the soul an exceeding great sweetness, in a measure so abundant that it can ask nothing more — yea, verily, it would be in Paradise if this should endure, its joy being so great that it filleth the whole body; and all injury which the soul suffereth, whether by deeds or words, is esteemed as naught and is turned into sweetness.

Because of this change in my body, therefore, I was not always able to conceal my state from my companion or from the other persons with whom I did consort, because at times my countenance was all resplendent and rosy and mine eyes shone like unto candles, and at other times I was pale as death, according as the visions did vary. My joy did endure for many days, and some joys have I the which I do think I shall never lose, for I hold them to be full and perfect, nor am I now without them. Wherefore, when sadness cometh upon me, I do instantly bethink me of those joys and am in no ways distressed. There are so many other ways whereby the soul knoweth that God dwelleth within it that I can by no manner of means relate them.

Through the aforesaid things and ways the soul doth know that God hath entered into it, but it hath not yet been told in what manner it doth lodge Him there. And all that hath been said is much less than was said when the soul did lodge the Pilgrim, who is God, because now hath it come to so full an understanding of the divine goodness and infinitude that when I do reflect within myself, I do sometimes perceive most clearly that those persons who do best know God (Who is infinite and unspeakable) are those who do the least presume to speak of Him, considering that all which they do say of Him, or can possibly say, is as nothing compared with what He truly is. Wherefore, if any preacher did verily understand divine things (as I have sometimes heard them declare they do) they would not be able to speak of them, neither would they presume to say aught whatsoever of God, but would remain silent and dumb.

And because God is so much greater than the mind and all other things, we are not able by any means whatsoever to measure, nor speak, nor think of Him, seeing that His goodness cannot perfectly be explained. This doth not happen because the soul hath lost all bodily sense, or hath cast off the body itself, but because it understandeth without the aid of the senses. Wherefore, when man perceiveth these things with his understanding he falleth into so great an amazement that (in so far as it may be expressed in bodily words) if some preacher were in this state and it behoved him to speak of God, however worthy and able he might be, he would say unto the people, "Get ye gone, for I know not how to speak unto you of God."

Wherefore do I believe and declare that all that which hath been said either in writing or by the mouths of men since ever the world began hath in no wise described the true nature of the divine goodness, but is as the half of a millet seed compared with the whole world. But when the soul is assured of God and is refreshed by His presence, the body doth likewise receive health and satisfaction and nobility, and is refreshed together with the soul, albeit in a less degree. Then do reason and the soul, thus refreshed, speak unto the body and unto the senses, saying: "Behold how great are the benefits God hath bestowed upon thee through me, and bethink thee how infinitely greater are those which have been promised and will be faithfully paid if thou wilt only follow me. Consider likewise how many and how great benefits we have already lost, thou and I, because thou hast not conformed unto me, but hast gone contrary unto me.

Wherefore must thou in future be in all ways obedient unto the things of God." And immediately the body doth submit itself unto the soul and the senses unto reason, and perceiving how that it shareth in the delights of the soul it maketh answer thus: "My delights have heretofore been bodily and vile, because I am a body; but thou who wert of great nobility and able to enjoy divine delights, thou shouldst not have yielded unto me, causing us both to lose such great benefits." Thus doth the body lament against the soul, and the senses against reason, with a long but most sweet lamentation, and perceiving the delights of the soul to be greater than it had imagined, it doth render obedience in all things.

Stone · 09-07-2026, 10:02 AM

Chapter II. How the Spiritual Man Is Deceived

There are divers ways whereby spiritual persons may be deceived. One way, and the chief one, is when the love within the soul is not pure, but is mingled with a love which is personal and selfish — that is to say, with man's own will. Then hath he certainly somewhat of the love of the world, and the world flattereth him and praiseth him. But all worldly flattery and praise on account of devotion is false, and the person whom the world doth single out and praise seemeth to be more fervent in devotion, and his tears flow more abundantly, and that sweetness and fear and trembling are increased which do come in spiritual love which is not pure. And these things are not done inwardly in the soul but outwardly in the body, neither doth pure love enter into the soul, wherefore the sweetness speedily fadeth and the man forgetteth himself; yea, he ofttimes turneth to bitterness. All these things have I proved within mine own self, and I should not be able to discern these aforesaid things save that mine own soul hath attained unto the certain knowledge of truth. For when love is pure it doth in all ways deem itself dead unto the senses; and it doth consider itself as nothing and it doth die in God and putrefy, and it doth reverence God and humble itself, neither doth it remember how that it was praised nor its own good. Yea, it doth find itself so downcast and so full of evil that it doth not believe it can be entirely saved by any saint whatsoever, only by God alone.

Yet it doth ofttimes more readily pray for assistance unto the saints rather than unto God, not daring because of its unworthiness to pray unto God Himself, albeit it imploreth help from the Holy Virgin and all the other saints. And when it is praised by any person it deemeth such praise to be a mockery and a jest. And this love is pure and cometh direct from God and is implanted within the soul, to whom hath been thereby revealed its own defects and God's goodness. Wherefore the tears which are now shed and the sweetness which is enjoyed do never occasion bitterness, but assurance and sweetness; and through this aforesaid love doth Christ enter into the soul, and the soul doth thereby know that it can suffer no deception nor yet deceive itself.

The other way wherein God permitteth spiritual persons to be deceived is this. When the spiritual and devout person feeleth himself to be greatly beloved of God and hath spiritual gifts and the works thereof, and doth openly speak of them, because he is too sure of himself and hath exceeded the right manner, God doth permit him to be in some way deceived in order that he may thereby learn better to know both God and himself.

Another way is when the spiritual man feeleth God to be very near and is filled with a perfect, pure, and excellent love; when every day he doth most heartily perform good works and hath determined that he will in no wise seek more to please the world, or to gain the fame of sanctity, but in all things to please Christ and submit himself entirely unto Him. Nevertheless the soul must needs learn to keep that which is its own and to render unto God the things which are God's; and if it faileth to do this then God permitteth deception in order to preserve it, and, because it is precious in His sight, that it should not overstep its proper limits. Moreover, the soul is not content with what hath been said, until God leadeth it unto the knowledge of Himself and the full understanding of His goodness — wherefore can there be no deception here, for the soul is so completely instructed of the truth that it doth deem itself to be as full as possible. It is first filled with the knowledge of God Himself, so that it can neither see nor remember aught else, and thereafter it cometh immediately to the understanding of His divine goodness. Then doth it see the one and the other together in a way the which cannot be described, but since even this sufficeth not, God doth excite it to yet greater zeal and permitteth tribulations.

But the sentiment wherein He doth not permit the soul to be deceived is poverty of spirit, and verily, I have heard poverty of spirit so much commended in the divine words of God (and with such great and good proofs thereof) that it doth in all ways surpass our understanding. Verily, God spake thus unto me: "If poverty had not been a most noble thing (said God) I myself would not have assumed it." Certain it is that pride can only exist in those who do possess something, or who believe themselves to have something. For this reason, because they did believe themselves to be possessed of something, came the pride and the fall of the first man and the angel; neither the angel nor the man did possess anything in themselves of themselves, for God alone hath this, and humility is found alone in those who are poor and who are persuaded that they do possess nothing. Wherefore is poverty a most excellent thing, and God Himself did cause His dearly beloved Son to be more poor than any man ever was before or will be hereafter; and albeit He is greater than can be declared, yet did God nevertheless make Him as poor as though He were naught. And unto sinners and mortal men in whom was no true light this thing did seem foolishness, but unto the wise and unto men of understanding it did seem just the contrary.

For whosoever hath poverty can never be ruined, neither can he fall through deception, and if any person were truly to perceive the benefits of poverty he would love God, and if he were but to consider the immeasurable value of it he would no longer be able to keep any worldly possessions, and whosoever were to see how greatly God loveth true poverty, would retain nothing for himself. The proof of this is the proof of divine wisdom, which first maketh us to see our faults and believe ourselves poor in all merit and goodness, and thus honestly to esteem ourselves for what we really are.

And in consequence we do make ourselves poor and do love that same poverty, and those who love it are enlightened by the gift of grace (which is given unto those who do perceive the benefits of poverty). Then doth it make us to see the divine goodness in order that we may all love God, and whosoever loveth doth esteem himself as possessing nothing. And as a man loveth so doth he work, and thus doth he lose all confidence in himself and trusteth in God alone; wherefore, because he confideth himself entirely unto God, he is enlightened by God Himself and all doubts fall away from him. Whosoever knoweth this truth cannot be deceived either by demons or by any other thing whatsoever, because in this poverty of spirit the soul receiveth a clear and perfect comprehension and hath a most enlightened understanding of all the matters of this life, so that it can never be deceived the whiles it doth possess this truth.

Wherefore do I know that poverty is the mother of all virtues and the revelation of the divine wisdom. For seeing how that the divine wisdom hath by the Incarnation taught us mortals to be blessed, it hath taught us more by poverty of spirit. Wherefore is all the wisdom of this world nothing worth if it hath not this truth in it, but turneth unto damnation; and thus likewise are all the wise men nothing whatsoever if this truth is not in them, but they fall into damnation. Finally, it must be understood that when the soul knoweth not this truth it worketh with the spirit of vainglory and the hope of reward.

Stone · 09-08-2026, 10:27 AM

Chapter III. How, Being Lodged Within the Soul, God Worketh Alike upon the Understanding, the Affections, and the Will

The soul, therefore, heareth and understandeth only those matters into the inner meaning of which it can penetrate. For when the soul is illumined by the presence of God and doth repose in God's bosom and God in it, then is it exalted above itself and heareth and rejoiceth and doth rest in that divine goodness, concerning which none can report because it is above all intelligence and all manner of speech and above all words. But herein doth the soul swim in joyfulness and in knowledge, and, thus enlightened, it comprehendeth the meaning of all the difficult and obscure sayings of Christ. It doth likewise comprehend how and wherefore in the soul of Christ there existed suffering without any relief whatsoever. For which reason mine own soul (the which was illumined, as hath been already said, and wholly absorbed in the Passion of Christ) did likewise experience such great suffering that here, neither, was there any relief. When, therefore, it remembered the suffering of Christ's soul, it could find nowhere any more joy, which doth not happen when it remembereth the passion of the body, because then grief is followed by joy. It understandeth these reasonings by virtue of its aforesaid exaltation; it understandeth, moreover, that the sufferings in Christ's soul were sharp even while He was yet in His mother's womb, as sharp as were afterwards His sufferings upon the Cross, saving only that as yet He had had no experience thereof. Through the judgments and the unspeakable things of God doth the soul further understand that by the presence of God it is exalted even unto Himself.

Ofttimes doth God work within the soul in many marvellous ways, which none save He alone could perform. Sometimes the soul is suddenly exalted unto God with such joy that, if it were to endure, I do think that the body would not be able to bear it, but would lose all its members and its sensation. God doth ofttimes treat thus with the soul and in the soul, and when the soul desireth to hold Him fast He doth instantly depart. There remaineth, nevertheless, great joy and assurance in the soul, verily such great joy that it doth in no wise doubt that God is yet present, but there is naught which I can liken unto that seeing and hearing, nor am I able to describe it. These revelations, however, and exaltations and delights, or joys, do not always happen after the same manner, but in divers ways and almost always accompanied with some new thing; yet none of them can be described. The revelations and visions are at one time thus and different at another time; so is likewise the delight, the joyfulness, and the happiness. Of all this I can say no more — in truth, were I to speak of them, by reason of mine unworthiness it would be speaking ill, spoiling, faultily describing, yea, even reviling them rather than making them manifest as I should. I am blinded and darkened in spirit and without truth; wherefore, oh my sons, hearken unto my words with suspicion as unto the words of an evil person, and take ye good heed of everything, neither believe ye in any saying of mine save those which are like unto the sayings of Jesus Christ, and which do work inwardly and lead unto the imitation of Him.

For the present, oh my sons, I take no delight in writing, but do continually bewail my sins and their redemption, the which was effected through the Passion of Christ the Immaculate; yet am I constrained to write unto you because of the letters which ye send unto me. Wherefore do I now write unto you that which is newly impressed upon mine heart. Ye must know, therefore, oh my sons, that there is only one thing necessary unto us, which is God, to find God and wholly fix our minds upon Him. This is necessary unto us. But in order that our minds may be the better fixed upon God it is needful that we should cast off all perverse and useless habits, all superfluous familiarity with men and women of whatsoever nature, all superfluous knowledge and the desire to hear many new things, all superfluous labours and occupations. And, briefly, it is needful that man should put away from him all things which do distract his mind. Then must he instantly plunge into the abyss of his wretchedness and bethink him what things he hath done in times past, what he is doing in the present, and what he will do in the future, and how that his fate in the next world will be according unto his deserts. Then cometh death, which will be unto all eternity. And no day and no night must pass wherein he doth not think upon these things. Wherefore must he constantly think and meditate and use all his endeavour to comprehend the mercy of God, how that He did most mercifully ordain that Christ Jesus should suffer all this wretchedness with him, and he must take heed that he never forgetteth this great benefit.

Stone · 09-09-2026, 07:06 AM

Chapter IV. How That Our Perfection Doth Consist in Knowing Our Own Wretchedness and God's Mercy

Our perfection doth certainly consist in knowing God and ourselves; there is nothing in the whole world whereof I do still delight to write or speak save these two things, namely, the knowledge of God and of ourselves. For this must a man lie ever within the prison of his own self; and if he obtaineth no profit from this, he must seek another prison.

Oh my beloved sons, every vision, every revelation, all sweetness and emotion, all knowledge, all contemplation availeth nothing if man knoweth not God and himself; for which reason I tell ye truly that without this knowledge all those other things will profit you nothing whatsoever. Wherefore do I marvel that ye desire to have letters from me; I perceive not in what manner my words can bring you comfort, seeing that I write of naught else save of this knowledge, for I take no more delight in speaking of other things — yea, I have even imposed upon myself silence concerning any other matters. I do beseech you, therefore, that ye pray unto God that He will grant this light unto all generations and that it may remain unto you for ever.

That the knowledge of God is necessary unto us can be proved and made manifest, because that which we strive after is the Kingdom of Heaven. And since we cannot nor ever should strive after it save in the same manner in which the Son of God did attain unto it, it is necessary to know the Son of God and His life and works and those things for the which He did obtain grace, in order that through the imitation of His works and the transforming of ourselves in Him, we may finally follow Him by virtue of His merits and grace, and with Him possess the Kingdom of Heaven. I say unto you that before all things it is necessary to know Christ, how that He was crucified for us and did suffer the Passion, thereby pointing out unto us the right way of life. For herein hath His infinite charity and His inestimable love been revealed unto us more clearly than in any other of the benefits He hath conferred upon us. For this reason, therefore, and in order that we may not be ungrateful, it is necessary that we should transform ourselves in His love, that is, that we should love Him as He hath loved us, and should love our neighbours; and likewise that we should lament for the Passion of this our Beloved, seeing how that He was crucified for love of us.

Considering, moreover, how many things God hath done for us (and especially for our redemption), we are required, led, and instructed to reflect upon our condition; that is to say, to reflect that our condition is most noble, being so beloved of the most high God that He was willing to die for our sake, which He would not have done if man had not been a most noble creature and of great worth. We are further required by this consideration of Christ crucified to work out our own salvation; for God Himself, so exalted (and so far removed and strange unto us), did use such diligence in obtaining our redemption and salvation that it is our bounden duty to take heed for ourselves and our salvation and to further the will of God, showing penitence for our sins.

The knowledge, therefore, doth afford us infinite profit in many ways, but chiefly in that we are saved through His Passion and are filled with His great love.

Stone · 09-10-2026, 08:56 AM

Chapter V. The Necessity of a Constant Consideration and Profound Knowledge of Christ Crucified

A constant consideration and a profound knowledge of Christ crucified are here necessary, for as we behold so do we love, and the more we do behold of the Son of God, Jesus Christ the Crucified, the more perfectly and purely do we love Him and for love do become one with Him. And according as we do become one with Him through love, so do we likewise share in the sufferings which the soul witnesseth in God, the Man of Sorrows. And seeing that we do love according as we see and know, so doth the soul lament according as it beholdeth the sufferings of its Beloved, and doth suffer with His suffering.

Likewise, the more intimately any person knoweth this Man of Sorrows, the more doth he love Him and suffer with His sufferings, and through grief is made one with Him whom he loveth. And as the soul is made one with this most sweet Christ through love, so is it likewise united with Him through suffering; and all this cometh about through perfect vision and the knowledge of God and of ourselves. In truth, moreover, since the soul beholdeth the infinitude of the divine majesty (of the which I will not speak for fear I should rather disgrace it than speak of it worthily), and since it beholdeth, upon the other hand, the vileness and great unworthiness of sinners (whose friend and kinsman the most sublime God hath deigned to be, and for their sake, moreover, hath borne the most shameful death), it doth sincerely transform itself in the love of the Son of God, Jesus Christ; and the more it knoweth and doth profoundly and inwardly consider and behold Him, the more doth it then enter into His love.

When it further beholdeth the sinners and the creature full of faults, it perceiveth and discerneth that these faults are so numerous that its comprehension of them is as nothing in comparison with their number. When, however, being illumined by the divine light, the soul recogniseth that it hath itself been the only cause of such great and sublime suffering as Christ Jesus did bear for its sake, and reflecteth upon the infinitude of the divine goodness which for the sake of so vile a creature did so abase itself that it became mortal man and was tormented with great and immeasurable suffering — and this not only once, but continually the while He did live — and how in the end He who was the Creator of heaven and earth was willing to die a shameful death, when the soul perceiveth and understandeth this it is itself overwhelmed with grief — and the more clearly it doth perceive, and the more profoundly it doth consider, the more is it moved unto yet greater grief.

More deeply moved yet is the soul when it perceiveth how, by reason of his sins, miserable man is deprived of all good things and benefits, that he hath merited eternal suffering, and is despised and derided of that sublime Divinity, and of the angels and demons and of all creatures, and that, in order to raise man up again from out of this adverse poverty, the most high God, Christ Jesus, the most rich in all things, did make Himself poor for our sake; how He, the most beatific and most joyful, did make Himself most wretched in order that through His infinite suffering He might redeem man and save him from everlasting and unspeakable pain. The soul doth perceive, moreover, how the God of Glory, worthy above all things to be praised, did make Himself obedient and humble, willing to be despised, mocked at and reviled, seemingly of no account and thus reputed, and He did this in order that despised man might thereby be made glorious and honourable.

When the soul doth well consider and more clearly perceive these things, the more doth it incline itself unto Him and suffer with His suffering. For the more clearly the soul doth know God and His exaltedness, His mercy and infinite goodness and worthiness (which things it maketh known unto man and proveth them by means of their effect), and the more clearly it beholdeth the wretchedness of man, his faults, his unworthiness, his ingratitude, infirmities, and vileness, the more deeply is it moved towards the love of Christ and the grief of His Passion, and is transformed into the likeness thereof, wherein consisteth all the perfection of man.

It hath thus been made clear, therefore, that the knowledge of God and of ourselves is absolutely necessary and above all other things profitable. Wherefore must we constantly dwell upon such knowledge, day and night, and the more profound man's contemplation of the aforesaid things, the more perfectly can he transform himself into the likeness of Christ, both in sorrow and in love, as hath already been said.

Stone · 09-11-2026, 09:41 AM

Chapter VI. How All the Ways of the Passion Must Be Digested Within the Heart, or at Least Be Repeated by the Mouth

My beloved son, I do entreat thee, and with all mine heart do supplicate thee, that thou turn not away the eyes of thy soul from gazing upon this God, this Man of Sorrows. For this sight and this consideration do enlighten the soul and inflame it with love and the fervour of devotion, keeping it there fixed. And if thine eyes should stray, do thou use all thine endeavour to bring them back and hold them there with good attention. Further do I exhort and pray thee that, if thy mind be not exalted to behold the Man of Sorrows, thou do inquire and meditate upon all the ways of the Passion and the Cross.

And even if thou art not able to do this with thine heart, at least with thy mouth shalt thou earnestly and diligently repeat those things which belong unto the said Passion, because when a thing is ofttimes spoken with the mouth it doth in the end impart warmth and fervour unto the heart. If any person were perfectly to behold this One, so often called the Man of Sorrows, as He truly was, and were to consider how He became most poor and despised, and upon every side filled with unspeakable and unceasing pain and grief, consumed and cast down for our sake (which beholding cometh only of grace), he would assuredly follow after Christ, and cheerfully bear alike poverty, scorn, reviling, and unceasing pain.

None can excuse themselves for not having found and obtained divine mercy, for the Lord is generous and doth most abundantly give it unto all who do seek and desire it. I desire, oh my son, that thou fill thine heart with naught else save with God uncreated and the knowledge and love of Him, and that naught else be found therein save God uncreated. Nevertheless, if thou canst not have this, do thou hold fast to the love and knowledge of Christ crucified, and if this should be taken from thee, then rest thou not, oh my son, until thou hast verily filled thine heart with one of these two things, which do entirely fill and satisfy both heart and mind. Wherefore, my son, do thou hold fixedly unto me and believe my words concerning that which is needful unto him who would follow the way of God, and draw nigh unto God and enjoy His benefits in this world and the next.

Before all things it is necessary that he should know God in very truth, and not only outwardly and superficially, as though it were through the colour of writing, or the sound of words, or the likeness of some creature; which manner of knowing Him, according to the common way of speech, is assuredly a simple knowledge of God. But man must know Him in very truth; he must understand His supreme worthiness, His supreme beauty, sweetness, exaltedness, virtue, goodness, liberality, mercy, and pity, and he must understand that God is the supreme good and highest of all. True it is that these things are understood of a wise person otherwise than of a simple person, for the wise doth verily understand the matter as it is, whereas the simple understandeth it only as it doth appear outwardly. It is like unto a precious stone which hath been found and which the wise and the simple do covet in different ways. The simple man knoweth not its virtue and desireth to possess it only for its beauty and its brightness, and for no other reason; but beyond the splendour and the brightness of the precious stone, the wise man knoweth its virtue and its worth, and when he hath found it he loveth it with the utmost intelligence and fervour.

In like manner doth the wise soul seek to know God, not only according to the outward appearance and with only careless reflection, but using all its endeavour to know Him in very truth, to taste of His supreme goodness and to know His worth. For not only is He good, but He is the Supreme Good — and knowing Him, man doth in all ways love Him for His goodness — and loving Him, seeketh to possess Him — and He, who is supremely good, giveth Himself unto the lover, and the soul feeleth Him and tasteth of His sweetness and enjoyeth that greatest of all delights. Then doth the soul participate in that supreme good, the which is supreme love; it entereth into it with affection, and being enamoured of the love of its Beloved, it desireth to hold Him fast, wherefore it embraceth Him and presseth Him unto itself; it uniteth itself with God and draweth Him unto itself with the utmost sweetness of love.

Then, by the virtue of love, is the lover transformed in the beloved and the beloved is transformed in the lover, and like unto hard iron which so assumeth the colour, heat, virtue, and form of the fire that it almost turneth into fire, so doth the soul, united with God through the perfect grace of divine love, itself almost become divine and transformed in God. Nevertheless, it changeth not its own substance, but its whole life is transformed in the love of God, and thus doth it almost become divine in itself.

Behold, how greatly it doth profit us to possess a knowledge of God. And truly is it needful, as hath been said, that man must know God before he can walk in His ways and desire to possess Him. Thereafter cometh love, which doth transform the lover in the beloved, and of this nature is the soul who knoweth God in very truth, and fervently loveth Him whom it knoweth so well.

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