De Laude Heremi

A Treatise in Praise of the Desert A Letter to Hilary, Priest of Lérins. To the holy lord, most blessed in merits and most glorious in Christ, Hilary, from Eucherius. With a great spirit, indeed, you had long ago gone forth from your home and from your kindred, penetrating as far as the retreats of the great sea; yet with a greater virtue the desert has been sought again by you than it was first sought. For when you first entered it as a guest, you had a guide and, as it were, a forerunner on your journey, whom you afterwards made the master of your heavenly soldiery; and then, following him, though you were leaving your parents, you were nevertheless following a parent. But now, when you thought you should accompany that same man as he was summoned to the pontifical dignity, the love of the familiar solitude of the desert has drawn you back. Therefore, you are now more noble and a greater example. For before, when you sought the desert, you seemed to be accompanied even by a brother; but when you sought the desert again, you left even that brother behind. And what a man he was, and how great! How much was he observed by you with the cult of affection? How singularly was he bound to you by devotion? And to whose love could you prefer nothing, except perhaps the love of the desert alone? And since you prefer that love to him by a just judgment, you have shown that you love not him too little, but this love something more. You have also shown how great the love of the desert in you was, to which even the greatest love would yield. And this love of the desert, what is it in you but the love of God? Therefore, you have preserved the order of love prescribed by law: first loving your God, then your neighbor.

Yet I, considering only your progress, as I conjecture in my mind, do not think that he opposed your journey and your plan, but that he wished to let you go in a manner unusual between persons bound to each other, no less, I believe, than you wished to depart. For he too loves you greatly in return, yet in his love for you he consults your advantage, and although his affection for you is most abundant and supreme, its height nevertheless extends to your benefit. And although you have long since poured out all your wealth upon Christ’s poor, rich in Christ, and although you, young in years but old in character, are also distinguished in intellect and distinguished in eloquence, yet I have admired and loved nothing in you more than that you so desired the abode of solitude. Hence, since you often demand that I reply more copiously to your very extensive and eloquent letters, you must bear with my ignorance for a little while, wise as you are, while I recall the manifold grace of the Lord toward this very desert, your beloved.

Therefore I would rightly call the desert the uncircumscribed temple of our God; for He whom it is certain dwells in silence is to be believed to rejoice in solitude. There He has more often shown Himself to be seen by His saints, and, with the place conciliating, He has not scorned human intercourse. For in the desert Moses beholds God with glorified face; in the desert Elijah, fearing lest he behold God, veils his face. And although He visits all things as His own and is absent nowhere, yet, as one may judge, He more particularly deigns to visit the desert and the secret of heaven. They relate that a certain man, when another asked in what place he believed God to dwell, replied that he should follow him without delay wherever he might lead; then, with the same man accompanying him, he came to the remote recesses of a wide-stretching desert and, pointing to the retreat of the vast solitude, said: "Behold, where God is." Nor is it undeservedly believed that He is more readily there, where He is more easily found. For also in the beginnings of things, when God was making all things in wisdom and distinguishing each thing fit for future uses, He did not, surely, leave this part of the earth useless and dishonored, but, creating all things no more by present magnificence than by foreknowledge of the future, He prepared the desert, as I think, for the saints to come.

I believe that He wished this land to be rich in fruits, and in place of a more indulgent nature, He made it fruitful with saints, so that the boundaries of the desert might grow fertile, and when it watered its mountains from its higher reaches, the valleys also would abound with multiplied harvest, and it would make up for the loss of places by enriching a barren habitation with an inhabitant. That possessor of paradise and transgressor of the commandment, when he dwelt in a place of pleasure, could not keep the law fixed for him by God. For the more delightful that place was with its amenities, the more prone he was to fall; hence not only did it subject him to its own laws, but death also extended its sting from him even down to us. Therefore, let him cultivate the desert who desires life, because the inhabitant of pleasantness prepared death. But let us now come to the later examples of the desert, always acceptable to God. When Moses had driven his flock into the interior of the desert, then he saw the fire of God shining harmless from afar, and not only saw, but also heard Him speaking. Indeed, then the Lord, when he urged the removal of the fetters from his feet, proclaimed the holy land of the desert, saying: "The place on which you stand is holy ground"; by that manifest sign he expressed the merit of hidden honor. For the sanctity of the place was confirmed by God through the sanctity even of the testimony, in which, I think, it also equally and latently declares that one approaching the desert should absolve himself from the former obligations of life's cares and proceed freed from earlier bonds, lest he pollute the place.

There first Moses is employed as an interpreter familiar with divine discourse; he receives words and in turn reports them, both what is to be said and what is to be done, and he both inquires and is taught, and by mutual conversation and customary exchange he converses with the lord of heaven. There he takes up again the rod powerful in works of signs, and having entered the desert as a shepherd of sheep, he is sent back from the desert as a shepherd of peoples. What then of the people of God, to be freed from Egypt and released from earthly labors—did they not seek paths and flee to the wilderness, to draw near in the desert, of course, to God by whom they had been delivered from servitude? So they made their way, with Moses as leader, toward the desert, terrible in its vast emptiness. How great is the sweetness of your multitude, O Lord! Moses, having entered the desert, had seen God. Lo, he returns again to see him. The lord himself plainly led his people to the deserts as guide of the journey, drawing for the travelers a column for use in both times, now glowing red with flame, now gleaming white with cloud. Thus he gave then to those who deserved it a sign from heaven, which, stretched out like a milky mass, shone alternately with radiances. Israel followed the light, gazing at the ray glittering from afar with fiery brightness, so that for those making their way into the secret places of the desert the lord might fittingly, while showing the way, also bear the light before them.

This same people, as they made for the desert, did not the barriers of the impassable sea lie open before them? When, picking a path between steep whirlpools, the dusty columns trod with their tracks on the red shores, and, looking up from the deep valley at the threatening mountains of hanging waves, the guardian of the race crossed the pools of the strait. Nor did the power of the divine work stop at this, for the bared sea, covering again with its ebbing waters, destroyed their path together with the enemy, and the whole sea, in its own place, I believe so that Israel might not return from the desert, opposed them. It opened a way among the waters and then covered it with confused waters, so that it laid open the going for those seeking the desert, and closed the return. By this power of grace, then, that people were gifted when they made for the solitude; yet they merited more when they possessed it. For there the Lord refreshed them again with an unexpected miracle, when, with a flint struck, he provided gushing waters for the thirsty, and, drawing streams from a native spring on the repulsive rocks, he imposed, by a hidden hand, a sudden nature upon the latent veins. Nor did he only pour an ingested river into the bowels of the dry rock, but also, by overlaying sweetness, he repressed the bitter draughts of the sad waters. He drew forth those, he calmed these, and he rendered waters from rocks no greater a miracle than other waters from waters. The whole people stood amazed, feeling the help of heavenly aid there no less in these waters which existed than in those which had not yet been.

There also the same people gathered heaven-sent food on the whitening ground, when the Lord rained down bread from the clouds in a dry shower. Manna, falling through a snowy air, descended into the tents and the surrounding encampments, where man ate the bread of angels. And because each day’s own malice suffices, divine indulgence even then provided daily sustenance, the law having been given in advance, so that one need not think of the morrow. Thus once, for those dwelling in the desert, since the earth could not supply food, the sky ministered it. Did not the same Hebrew, as an inhabitant of the desert, receive the Law and the heavenly edicts, when, drawn nearer, he was deemed worthy to inspect the signs impressed on the tablets by the divine finger? Led out from the camp to meet the Lord, he stood face to face at the mountain’s foot. He saw, indeed, stricken with fear, that summit of Sinai which the terror of the manifest majesty had occupied. He beheld, astonished, the mountain smoking with fire flowing between, which then a very dense cloud covered and concealed far and wide. He shuddered at the lightnings flashing with bursts of fire and at the thunders echoing with frequent crashes mingled with the blare of trumpets. Thus the children of Israel, while they lived in the wilderness, were granted to see the abode of God and to hear his voice.

That nation once used and was sustained by such and similar miracles, when it was a dweller of the desert, when unusual food, sudden drink, and unending clothing nourished it, when even those things which externally surrounded the body remained in an untiring state. Whatever the nature of the places had not offered to their need, the manifest magnificence of God supplied. Hardly to these gifts of heavenly grace does one of the saints who speaks of this people attain: "The Lord has not done thus for every nation." He conferred special things, he granted unheard-of things, when he refreshed the people with divine gifts in the desert. And although these things are handed down as made in a figure of us, and that face of things blazes with hidden mysteries, and all who are baptized in Moses, in the cloud and in the sea, are reported to have eaten spiritual food and drunk spiritual drink, yet all these things so contain the truth of future things that they preserve the truth of the deeds, although even so the praise of the desert is not less, even if those things which were done there are to be referred to the depth of the sacraments. Therefore no grace is detracted, even if that then state of body and clothing, not followed by corruption, bore a pattern of the future life; for the grace of the place is great, if such as the happiness of the most blessed age will have them, such already in this age the desert has them.

What of the fact that the children of Israel reached that desirable land only through dwelling in the desert? And that the same nation, before it could possess that land flowing with milk and honey, first possessed this arid and uncultivated one? Always the entire path to the true fatherland is opened by sojourns in the desert. Let him who wishes to see the good things of the Lord in the land of the living inhabit the uninhabitable land; let him be a guest of this place who strives to be a citizen of that one. But to leave these things aside, David himself escaped the plots of the hostile king only when he sought out the desert; dwelling in the arid wastes of Idumaea, he thirsted for the Lord with his whole heart, so that, thirsting in the desert, in the pathless and waterless place, he might at last appear to God on holy ground and thereafter, as a saint, see both the power and the glory of God. But Elijah, that greatest dweller of the secret places, closed the heavens with rains, opened them with fires, took food brought by a ministering bird, revoked the fixed laws of death, crossed the divided Jordan with its interrupted stream, and was snatched up into heaven on a fiery chariot.

What then of Elisha, a follower of this life and virtue? Did he not likewise shine through the working of divine miracles, whom a now-divided torrent, now floating iron, now revived dead, now increases of oil made famous, and who afterward, among many other things, also proved the doubled power of the master in himself by this: that while the master, still alive, raised the dead, he, already dead, revived a dead man? Also the sons of the prophets, leaving cities behind, sought out the Jordan flowing from a double source and built huts in hidden places joined to a remote torrent. A holy cohort kept watch on the banks of a secluded river, scattered like tents, and with suitable dwellings a noble character guarded the paternal spirit. What of that one than whom no greater has arisen among those born of women? Did he not cry out in the desert and live in the desert? In the desert baptism is given by him, in the desert repentance is preached, in the desert mention of the heavenly kingdom is first introduced. There he first pressed these things upon his hearers, where anyone seeking them more quickly earned them. Nor undeservedly, this future harsh dweller of the desert—an angel is sent before the face of the Lord—opens the way to the heavenly kingdom, both forerunner and worthy witness, who heard the Father speaking from heaven, touched the Son while baptizing, and saw the Holy Spirit descending.

Our Lord and Savior Himself, immediately after being baptized, as Scripture says, is led by the Spirit into the desert. Who, then, is this Spirit? There is no hesitation: it is the Holy Spirit. For the Holy Spirit draws Him into the desert. Surely, it is He who dictates this, He who silently inspires it, and the desert becomes a worthy suggestion prompted by the Holy Spirit. Thus, infused by the mystic river, He thinks nothing should be done before hastening to the secluded places. And yet, He had sanctified the sanctifying waters then, and, being cleansed, had washed away no sin of man; for He had neither committed nor feared sin. And still He burned with desire for the desert, and, as the author of salvation in all things, He desired this for Himself, not as unworthy of Him, but for our sake. If the desert is a vow to God for one free from errors, how much more necessary is it for a man subject to errors? If it is sought by one who does not sin, how much more is it to be longed for by one who sins?

There also, in the service of the Lord, the clamoring crowds having been removed, the silent ministries of divine power take over, and, established in the desert as if already carried back into heaven, he is received by the attending offices of angels. There then he confuted that enemy of ancient times, who was tempting with the snares of his well-known art, and the new Adam repelled the supplanter of the old Adam. O great praise of the desert, that the devil who had conquered in paradise should be conquered in the desert! That place was also a desert in which our Savior fed, satisfied, and filled five thousand living men with five loaves and only two fishes. Always in the desert Jesus feeds his own with bread; once he had preferred for his own the faith of the divine gift of manna, now fragments were preferred, and by the same miracle, food then fell for the hungry, and now it grew for those eating. For all, the feasts were greater by his gift than the foods that had been brought to the banquets. To deserts, I say, to deserts let us now assign the causes of such great signs; the power would have declared its might, if the place had possessed abundance.

And then the Lord Jesus withdrew to the more remote parts of a high mountain, when, with only three chosen disciples brought with him, he shone with an unusual brightness of countenance; he who, while he openly bore the assumed man, entrusted the judgment of his majesty to be declared to secrets there. Then that greatest of the apostles said: "It was good for us to be here," loving, of course, the greatness of the sign in the remoteness of the desert. And the same Lord Jesus, as it is written, went into a desert place and prayed there. Therefore, let that place be called the place of prayer, which the divine author showed to be suitable for beseeching God, and taught whence prayer, humbling itself, more easily penetrates the clouds, aided by the place, because honored by the secret; and there he himself, while praying when he made a request, demonstrated where he wished us to pray, when a request is made. Why now should I mention John and Macarius and many others, whose conversation, while it was in the deserts, was made in the heavens? They approached the Lord as much as it was permitted for a man to approach the Lord, and were admitted into the works of divine things as much as it was allowed for those surrounded by flesh to be admitted. They fixed their mind on the heights, inserted it into celestial secrets, and from there brought forth accompanying grace either through silent revelations or through shouting signs, and, with the secret supporting them, they were advanced to the point that they then indeed touched the earth with their body, but already possessed heaven with their spirit.

Therefore, I will say that this dwelling of the hermitage is not undeservedly a certain seat of faith, a stronghold of virtue, a sanctuary of charity, a treasury of piety, a storehouse of justice. For just as in a great house, precious things are kept locked away in remote places, so that magnificence of the saints hidden in the hermitage, which nature has guarded with its difficulties, is deposited in the earth in a kind of secluded chamber of the desert, lest it perish through the custom of human intercourse; and fittingly, this precious wealth of riches is stored by the Lord of the world in that part of the worldly house not only hidden away, but also, when there is need, brought forth from its hiding places. Once, indeed, the care of divine providence for the hermitage was utmost and greatest, but even now it is not small. For even now, when sustenance for the inhabitants of the hermitage arrives with unexpected abundance by divine means, what else is it but manna flowing down from heaven? They too have their own manna in this heavenly bounty, and no less does the Lord scatter sustenance for them from his hidden store by the secret work of his arm. And when, after rocks are pierced, waters finally flow forth from the stones in response to divine gift, what else is it but water emerging as if from a rock struck by the blow of Moses' rod? Likewise, the clothing for those living in the vastness of the hermitage does not now fail; it is constantly supplied freely by divine provision, and thus, by being supplied, it endures. The Lord once nourished his own in the desert, and he nourishes them now as well; and those he nourished for forty years, but these he nourishes for as long as the years shall be.

Rightly does the holy man, kindled with divine fire, leaving his own home, choose this dwelling as his seat; rightly does he prefer it to his close children and parents, and buy it with the commerce of all his own. Rightly does this place obtain the name of a temporary fatherland for those abandoning their native land, from which neither fear, nor desire, nor joy, nor grief can recall them. Rightly, indeed, is it the sole price of all affections. For who can worthily enumerate the benefits of the hermitage and the advantages of virtue for those dwelling in it? Placed in the world, they in a certain way withdraw from the world, wandering, as the apostle says, in solitudes, in mountains, and in caves, and in caverns of the earth. Nor undeservedly does the apostle deem such men unworthy of the world, who are alien from that tumult of human society, set apart, quiet, silent, and no more absent from the will to sin than from the ability. Famous men of this world among the ancients, wearied by the labors of their affairs, used to take refuge in philosophy as in their own home. How much more beautifully do they turn aside to these studies of the most manifest wisdom, and more magnificently withdraw to the freedom of solitudes and the secrets of deserts, so that, devoting themselves only to philosophy, they may be exercised in the walkways of that hermitage as in their own gymnasia? Where, I ask, is Easter more healthfully observed than in the dwelling of the desert? But by virtues and continence—continence, I say, which is like a certain other hermitage of the heart.

For Moses spent forty continuous days in the desert, and Elijah likewise gave himself to fasting there for the same number, and each of them extended their abstinence beyond human strength; and then the Lord himself, but in the wilderness, passed the time of his abstinence. Nor, moreover, do we read anywhere that the same periods were exacted by fasting, so that it must be thought that some vigor is granted to those places by the Lord. Where, I ask, is it more possible to be at leisure, and to see how sweet the Lord is? Where is the path more readily opened for those striving toward perfection? Where is a greater field for virtues spread out? Where is the guard of the mind more easily able to look about? Where is the intention of the heart freer to strive to cling to God, than in those solitudes, where it is not only easy to find God but also to keep him? And although often in the desert the thin dust of the soil meets one, nowhere are the foundations of that evangelical house more firmly laid. Even if someone wishes to stand on those sands, he by no means builds a house on the sands; nowhere more than there is that building placed upon the rock, which, founded with immovable stability, will endure with unshaken mass, so that in the time of raging storms it is not undermined by blowing winds or by rushing torrents. Thus the inhabitants of the desert build such houses for themselves, but in their hearts—those who seek the heights through lowliness, who pursue the lofty with humility, idle and forgetful of earthly things because of the hope and desire for heavenly ones.

who cast off riches while they prefer to be in need, hasten to be in need while they long to be rich; they struggle day and night with labor and vigils in order to seize the beginning of that life whose end will not be found. Thus the maternal bosom of the desert holds them—most rightly greedy for eternity, rightly prodigal of brevity, careless of present time, certain of the future—and through these things they achieve that, upon those into whose lot the ends of the ages have run, the ages without end may fall. There the salubrious laws of the inner man and the more subtle rights of the eternal age are fervently inscribed. There, human prescriptions concerning crimes and misdeeds do not resound with their force, nor do the avenging laws of capital offenses exert themselves. The laws make the heart guilty unless it is most pure, and every movement of the mind is restrained within the bounds of justice by its own effort, and the same mind, as its own judge, punishes even the beginnings of light thoughts. Among others, it is evil to have done evil; among these, however, it is evil not to have done good.

But how could I venerate the inner institutions of the hermitage with a worthy commemoration? Yet I cannot pass over in silence that in its inhabitants that force of virtue, which is hidden from nearly all, is so well known. For although they drive themselves into remote places, repudiating the world and human fellowship, they indeed strive to be hidden, yet they cannot conceal their merit. The more their life withdraws inward, the more their glory bursts outward, with God, as I believe, so moderating between the two that the dweller of his hermitage lies hidden from the world but is not hidden as an example. This is the lamp which, placed upon the candelabrum of the hermitage, shines throughout the whole world; from here it diffuses its most blazing light through the dark members of the world. This is the city which, built on a mountain in the desert, cannot be hidden, and which by its image has given the heavenly Jerusalem to the lands. Therefore, if anyone is in darkness, let him approach this light, that he may see; if anyone is exposed to danger, let him make for this city, that he may be safe.

How delightful are the solitudes, even the pathless wastes of those forests, to those thirsting for God! How pleasant are those retreats, stretched far and wide under nature’s watch, where all is silent, to those seeking Christ! Then the joyful mind is roused toward its God by certain goads of silence; then it is quickened by ineffable ecstasies. No sound intrudes there, no voice is heard unless it be with God. Only when the sweet sound of silence of the secret station intervenes for the mind, and a noise sweeter than quiet and the holy tumult of the most modest intercourse interrupts that state of peaceful stillness, does it happen. Then, with hymns sweetly resounding, the fervent choirs themselves beat upon the heights, and heaven is reached almost as much by voices as by prayers. The adversary, prowling round, rages in vain, like a wolf penned in by the folds of sheep. The wolf, as if by the rampart of walls, so the hermitage by its circuit removes its enemies, and so that those who guard the city do not watch in vain, it is more particularly fortified with Christ as champion, so that the adopted people of God, as much as they are exposed by the spaces of the secret, are so closed to their enemies. Indeed, the beautiful chorus of rejoicing angels visits the desert, and, passing by that ladder of Jacob, they illuminate the hermitage with the frequency of a hidden visitation. In that noontide, too, the Bridegroom reclines, and the inhabitants of the desert, wounded by love, contemplate him, saying: “We have found whom our soul loves; we will hold him and we will not let him go.

It is not unfruitful, as is believed; that soil of the hermitage is not barren, nor are the dry rocks of the desert unfruitful. There the dweller stores a manifold shoot and a hundredfold fruit. Seeds cast there do not easily fall by the wayside, where birds might consume them; nor do they easily slip away on rocky ground, which, lacking depth of earth, would heat up and wither when the sun rises; nor do they easily escape into thorn-bushes, where they might be overwhelmed by already grown brambles. The farmer will reap a rich harvest there; in those rocks is produced that grain by which even bones grow fat. There, too, is found the living bread which comes down from heaven. In those cliffs gush forth irrigating springs and living waters, which can suffice not only for the quenching of thirst, but also for the saving of souls. Here is the meadow and delight of the inner man; here the uncultivated desert is delightful with a wondrous pleasantness; and the same hermitage is a desert for the body, a paradise for the soul.

No land, however fertile, will boast in comparison with the soil of the hermitage. Is there some land rich in crops? In this land especially is born that grain which satisfies the hungry with its fat. Is there another land joyful with heavy vineyards? In this land especially is produced that wine which rightly gladdens the heart of man. Is there another land excellent in pastures? In this land those sheep of which it is said, "Feed my sheep," graze most wholesomely. Is there another land painted with blooming flowers? In this land especially that true flower of the field and the lily of the valleys shines forth. Finally, does another land exult in precious and showy metals, and is another tawny with its gold? In this land the gleams of various gems glitter with a quivering light. Thus this land, greater than individual lands for individual things, surpasses all in all goods. Rightly, therefore, you, venerable land, have been either habitable or desirable for saints placed in you or not far removed from you, because you are fertile for all those goods, in which all goods are held. You require this cultivator who cultivates his own land, not yours; you are barren for the vices of those inhabiting you, you are fruitful for virtues. Whoever sought your familiarity found God; whoever cultivated you found Christ in you. He who dwells in you rejoices in the Lord as dweller. And he is both your possessor and a divine possession. He who does not shun your dwelling-place has become a temple of God.

Indeed, I owe reverence to all the places of the hermitage that are illuminated by the retreat of the pious, yet I embrace my own Lérins with particular honor, which, with its most pious arms outstretched, receives those coming from the shipwrecks of the stormy world, and from the burning heat of that age gently leads them into its shade, so that there, beneath that inner shade of the Lord, they may recover their breath. Gushing with waters, green with grasses, gleaming with flowers, pleasant to the sight and to the senses, it shows itself as a paradise to those who possess it. Worthy to have been founded by Honoratus as its author for celestial disciplines, worthy to have obtained such a father, radiant with the vigor of apostolic spirit and countenance; worthy, having received him, to shine forth; worthy both to nourish the most excellent monks and to produce bishops by encompassing them. This island now holds his successor, Maximus by name, illustrious because he deserved to be enrolled after him; it held Lupus of reverend name, who brought back to us that wolf from the tribe of Benjamin; it held his brother Vincentius, a gem transparent with inner splendor; it now possesses Caprasius, venerable in gravity, equal to the ancient saints; it now holds those holy elders who, with their separate cells, brought the Egyptian fathers to our Gauls.

What companies and gatherings of saints did I see there, O good Jesus! Precious alabaster jars fragrant with sweet ointment; everywhere the odor of the inner life breathed in harmony. The face of the inner man was displayed in their outward bearing: bound by charity, lowly in humility, most gentle in piety, most firm in hope, modest in gait, swift in obedience, silent in meeting, serene in countenance—they show forth at once the very host of angelic peace. They covet nothing, desire nothing except Him alone, whom in desiring they alone covet. While they seek the blessed life, they live it, and even while they still strive for it, they already attain it. Thus, while they wish to be separated from sinners, they are already separated. Do they wish to possess a chaste life? They possess it. Do they wish to have all their time in the praises of God? They have it. Do they desire to rejoice with the companies of the saints? They already rejoice. Do they long to enjoy Christ? They enjoy Christ in spirit. Do they yearn to attain the life of the hermitage? They attain it before their eyes. Thus, through the most abundant grace of Christ, they merit in the present many of those things which they long for in the future. Moreover, they already grasp the thing itself while they follow hope. They have no small reward even in the labor itself, because the work is already almost what the reward will be.

Of these, my dearest Hilary, having been restored and joined to their company, you have contributed greatly to yourself, and greatly also to those who now rejoice with eager exultation for your return. With these, I beseech you, do not let the memory of my sins and of intercession for me be blotted out; with these, I say, to whom I know not whether you have brought more joy yourself or have found greater joy. You are now the truer Israel, who, beholding God in your heart, long since freed from the darkness of the world of Egypt, having crossed the life-giving waters with the enemy drowned, following the fire of faith kindled in the desert, you now experience as sweet what was once bitter through the wood of the cross, you draw from Christ the drink of water springing into eternal life, you feed the inner man with heavenly bread, you receive the divine voice of your throne in the Gospel. You who dwell with Israel in the desert, will enter the land of promise with Jesus. Farewell in Christ Jesus our Lord.