Sermo De Vita Sancti Honorati Episcopi Arelatensis

The genuine works of Saint Hilary, Bishop of Arles. A sermon on the life of Saint Honoratus, Bishop of Arles. Preface. You recognize, dearly beloved, the day consecrated for the faithful from sorrows, which, as long as the Lord grants me these fleeting days of this life, will always come to me heavy with bitterness, yet full of dignity. For today that man of holy memory, this Church’s bishop in virtue, in priesthood, in name Honoratus, was divested of his body. Whatever I add to the conclusion of my speech may be judged absurd. For if I say: He has migrated to the stars, he, even while he dwelt on earth, was counted among those most splendid stars of God. Shall I add: He stood by Christ? But when in his life did he not stand by Him? Whose whole life had that cry of Elijah: ‘The Lord lives, before whom I stand today’ (1 Kings 18:15). Shall I say: He abandoned earthly things, whose conversation, as the Apostle says, was always in the heavens (Philippians 3:20)? Likewise, therefore, as far as my mind has it, whatever occurs to be said about such a man lacks a fitting conclusion by its very magnitude. Joys contend with sorrows. To remember such a man is sweet; to lack such a man is a punishment.

Thus a twofold subject matter urges me on. On one side, the grace of his praises draws me to speech; on the other, the common losses pull me back to sobs. Forgive me, therefore, if, with these two affections tearing at my mind, the service of my mouth, as if serving two masters, refuses fitting compliance. Whatever recollection suggests in the way of praise, grief claims it all for itself, counting it as losses. Moreover, even if serenity of mind were present to me, and my tongue served my mind with suitable obedience, could his praise ever be brought forth more abundantly by my words than it abides in your hearts? There is no one, I think, for whom that man’s grace does not appear greater than the most opulent eloquence of anyone could set forth. Since, therefore, as Scripture says, the memory of the just is always with praises (Prov. 10:7), and no one can recall men of illustrious merits without praise, I shall set forth, as ability allows, some of those things which the hearts of your beloved meditate concerning him. Your minds will surely aid my efforts; and whatever is difficult for my speech to express, your hearts will themselves eloquently utter through their own thoughts.

It is written: Wisdom is sung at the end; that is to say, the conversation of a wise man is praised at the end of his conversation. Whence also in another place: Do not praise a man in his lifetime. And again: Before death, do not praise anyone (Ecclus. 11:30); as if to say: Praise after death; for in the praises of a living man, both a place of vain exultation is offered to the one praised, and the mark of flattery is affixed to the one praising. In many ways, however, it is useful to praise the dead: first, because while the one whom we might gratify by praise is absent, it is necessary that the whole praise be referred back to the giver of grace; then, because only the admiration of virtue remains where the suspicion of flattery is removed. Therefore, the praise of the dead, uttered in the holy assembly of the faithful, is full of edification, empty of boasting. The merits of the one who is praised also increase, in that many profit by his praise. Nor shall I fear that I might be thought to speak too favorably of my own, because, before I say anything that is not inferior to his virtues, there is no one who does not count him as his own, feel him as his own, and believe him to be his own. Yet I do not, trusting in my own talent or relying on eloquence, set my hand to touching upon the life of so great a man: for if any author of ancient eloquence were to touch upon it, not only would eloquence not adorn it, but, overcome by the weight of the subject, he would succumb. Your love provokes me, your affection supplies the confidence to say something about him.

It will be animated, as we believe, by the merits of the saint himself, this discourse, though from a sluggish intellect; and what lies flat in words will be raised up by the deeds; and, poured out into the charity of your hearts, it will be seasoned in the dwelling-place of your breasts. CHAPTER ONE. The consular nobility of Honoratus. He is baptized as an adolescent. It is a well-known rule of oratorical discipline that, for those whose life one has undertaken to praise, one should first proclaim their fatherland and origin; so that what is lacking in their own virtues may seem to have been anticipated in the glory of their ancestors. But we are all one in Christ; and the pinnacle of nobility is to be counted among the sons of God, nor can the splendor of earthly origin add anything to our dignity, except by its own contempt. No one is more glorious in the heavens than he who, having rejected the pedigree of his fathers, has chosen to be esteemed solely by the paternity of Christ. I therefore pass over mentioning those ancestral insignia of worldly goods, and that which the world holds as desirable and almost supreme—the nobility of his family advanced to the consulship—which he disdained with a greater generosity of heart. Nor did he take pleasure in the superfluous honors of his own people, since through love of the truth he no longer desired his own.

My discourse hastens rather to that point: with what faith he desired baptism in the years of adolescence by his own choice, before mature counsel had feared death; how he foresaw that he would be without life before baptism; with what thirst he desired his life to be renewed; how sweet his infancy was, how modest his boyhood, how grave his adolescence; how he always surpassed all the stages of age by grace and virtue, and was always found greater than himself, so that you would think him wholly educated in some divine school. He is instructed without any urging from his own people. With God's help, he preserves his baptism beyond any human concern; and, what is greater than these, with the luster from the font still fresh and unstained, he is converted without a monitor. Without a monitor, I said; and where was that which his homeland opposed, which his father struggled against, which all his kindred resisted? For grace had entered the senses of all; and while Christ was taking him to himself, the world was holding him back, vying among all his own. The sweetness of his person had bound some; the charms of companionship had captivated others; the admiration of worldly virtues in various youthful exercises held others. As many as had been the graces of his former life, by so many bonds was he being dragged back from conversion. All feared that a common ornament of the family was being snatched away. And truly, who ever received a garment from him as if it were his own? What attire did he not at some time adorn?

Thus, as if a most brilliant jewel and a common ornament of all, they thought that country, friends, and parents alike were being snatched from him at the same time; for they believed not that all these things were to be changed and reformed for the better, as we have seen, but that they were, as it were, about to die. And hence it was that, because his father had observed him doing everything he undertook with vigor, he turned him away from baptism as long as he could, fearing that he would be wholly seized, as indeed happened, by love of religion. Yet desire and love of Christ prevailed, and, with his father’s dissembling overcome, faithful boyhood seized baptism. For even as a catechumen, amid the first rudiments of faith, he had so formed himself that he rejected wantonness out of reverence for the baptism he would one day receive, honored clerics as fathers, and with his boyish allowance sometimes helped the poor. Whatever that age could still possess, and, even more, could love because of the novelty of having, he lavished prodigally out of compassion: even then, in his small way, he was premeditating to despise all things and to give away everything of his own at once.

Thus, by such and so great exercises, his robust faith as a catechumen rushed forth to baptism. From then on, his foresighted father, anxious with a suspicion of earthly affection, sought to provoke him with various pleasures, to entice him with the pursuits of youth, to ensnare him with the diverse vanities of the world, and, as it were, to become young again in fellowship with his adolescent son; to occupy him with hunting and a variety of games, and to arm himself with all the sweetness of this world in order to subdue that age. Nor was it without reason that his worldly father feared that he would be snatched away, for among the other most accomplished youths he embraced him as if he were his only one. But for him, greater than all these things was the care of guarding his baptism. The youth, disdaining that by which we, as elders, were delighted, always addressed his father with this exhortation: "This life delights, but it deceives. Other precepts are recited in the churches; other commands have sounded in my ears: there, modesty, continence, quiet, and chastity are taught; here, unbridled luxury is nourished. There, piety flourishes; here, bodily exercise. There, Christ invites to an eternal kingdom; here, the devil tempts to a temporal one. Everything that is in the world is vanity and desire of the eyes, and the world passes away, and its desire with it; but he who does the will of God abides forever, just as He abides forever. Let us therefore hasten to be torn from these snares, while we are still less entangled. Bonds long bound are difficult to loosen. It is easier to uproot tender shoots than to cut down strong ones.

On the mountain, save your soul, lest evil thoughts seize you. The poison of pleasure creeps quickly; the freedom taken up through Christ’s grace must be preserved for Christ. Let others admire gold and silver. Let metals, as I see, rule over those who rule them. Let others possess estates and slaves, not without the captivity of their own mind. Let others rejoice in honors and suppress the divine image in themselves: for me it is enough not to be a slave of vices; for me, salvation is joy; for me, wisdom is a spouse; for me, pleasure is in virtues; let Christ be my treasure, who will compensate me for fleeting joys with better ones, and will give me in this life both to delight in and be adorned by the pursuits of discipline, and among these to become worthy of the heavenly kingdoms. Nor did such meditation long delay; but immediately the spark, nourished by such kindling, burst into the flame of conversion. Taking up the yoke of the Lord’s servitude with a bowed neck, it threw off the yoke of freedom, understanding that the license of youth is the highest form of captivity. Luxuriant locks are reduced to short hair. The splendor of garments is transferred to the luster of the mind. The beauty of a milk-white neck is taken over by stiff cloaks. Joy passes into serenity; the vigor of the limbs is exchanged for the vigor of the mind. Bodily strength migrates into spiritual strength. The handsome face grows pale with fasting, and, once full of vitality, becomes full of gravity. And what more?

Suddenly he was shown to be so completely different from what he had been that his own father lamented him as a father bereaved of his son. And truly there was a complete mortification of the body; but for him the spirit was life. From this point the full persecution of his parents was stirred up. Then alone and for the first time was he disobedient to his father, when he strove to be a son of God the Father, the ordered charity already in him, as Solomon commands. For the aforementioned prophet proclaims in the voice of God: “Order charity in me” (Song of Songs 2:4). He indeed ordered it, and under the arrangement of charity he provided that first God, then one’s neighbor, should be loved. So his father’s old age believed itself condemned by the conversion of that age. He runs to meet him, resists, threatens; yet by none of these things is the boyhood that trusts in God shaken. CHAPTER II. He travels abroad with his brother Venantius. — The death of this brother. Honoratus and Venantius leave their homeland. — Pilgrimages to holy places.

The Lord, the Comforter, stood by His new recruit, and did not delay in raising up for him one of his own brothers to join his company, who, called to conversion by his example, and the elder following the younger, in the brief time he lived, accompanied him not only in fellowship but also in virtue. Thenceforth there were among them pleasing contests of purpose: whose mind was gentler toward piety, whose food harsher, whose speech more gentle, whose clothing rougher; who spoke more rarely, who prayed more frequently; whom the bed detained less, whom reading more; whom injury moved less, whom mercy more; who gave more readily what he had taken from himself; who more willingly offered a guest a bed of goat-hair and that pillow of the customary stone; who more promptly cherished a stranger with tears before the distribution of alms, and fed Christ with affection before feeding the newcomer with a meal; in whose mouth the world was rarer, in whose Christ more frequent; who in that height of virtues seemed lesser to himself, and the more he ascended in merit, the more he decreased in compunction. A kind of private episcopacy was then exercised in their way of life. I lie, unless many bishops learned from them, while being received, to receive: for if any did not shrink from that strictness of purpose, they carried away from there more humanity in their soul than refreshment in their body.

Thus they together adorned the whole country, and, as far as remains in the minds of many, the bodies of some were protected by them, the spirits of others, as each one was in need, were clothed, nourished, instructed, either with garments, or teaching, or resources. No one, weary from the labor of travel, arrived there as if to a homeland and the fields of his inheritance; no one, departing from there to further places, did not seem to move his foot again from his own home, and again to leave behind his fellow citizens, again his relatives. Meanwhile, love for them grew among all, multiplied, spread, and their fame was carried into every further region, and the whole country now vied in services, love, and honor toward them. It was not permitted for them to attain obscurity and poverty: the more their life was hidden, the more their fame shone forth, and each would offer the other for praise and expose him to glory, and refer everything to their one common virtue. But while each wished to be obscured under the shadow of the other, like reflected brightness, it illuminated both. What gravity was theirs, what senile maturity, how rare the visitation of women, even of close relatives, and what flight from all vanity amidst so many virtues; what gentle consolation, and what solicitous care for the salvation of those who had entrusted themselves to their teaching!

An angelic life was led by them on earth, in great patience, in vigils, in fasts, in chastity, in knowledge, in forbearance, in gentleness, in the Holy Spirit, in unfeigned charity, in the word of truth, in the power of God. Meanwhile, they feared their own glory, and the fragrance of their good conduct spread far and wide; although they referred it to the praise of God, they feared it would bring upon them the danger of vanity. They considered that they had received the reward of their life in their lifetime, and, disdaining human society and favor, they burned with love for the desert. ii. Therefore, having taken counsel, and in a way suffering persecution from their own honor, they set out for foreign lands. Again the homeland rises up, again relatives resist. They fear being stripped, but now more wisely, of their light. What a contest of faith and love was there, O good Jesus! What a compass of counsels, of prayers, of tears was there then? Who did not claim for himself the office of a relative there, or whose tears did not contend with the tears of the father? For the whole fatherland felt that it was losing itself in those young men. And truly their old age was gray not with years, but with graces; not decayed in limbs, but comely in character. How great, O Lord, is the dispensation of your providence!

you allow your lamps, blazing with the fire of faith, to stand fixed not in one place, but you prefer them for the illumination of various places, inspiring the will to migrate and to flee glory; which glory was certainly to be multiplied, by the very increase of virtue through the undertaken pilgrimage. Their substance, long veiled by various works of mercy, but still abundant, is plundered; and the auctioneer admits the relative and the stranger equally to the patrimony. Thus no regard is had for parents in the profits, as if they were selling not their own property. The possession which had served the poor, from the time it was possessed by them, is now sold off to be distributed to the poor. The homeland receives the poured-out mercy, and repays it with poured-out tears. They depart from their land, from their home, and from their kindred, and by this example they are shown to be true sons of Abraham. Lest anything be thought rashly begun by them with youthful audacity, they take with them an old man of perfect and consummate gravity, whom they always called father in Christ, the holy Caprasius, still living an angelic life on the islands. Although your love has until now been ignorant of his name, and still does not know his life, Christ numbers him among his friends. They take him as the organizer in the Lord and guardian of their age, though a great many young men had already chosen them as guardians. Therefore a hiding place for the pilgrimage is sought, the fame of virtue is fled; but wherever they go, there, whether they wish it or not, another fame was born.

Happy the lands, and blessed the harbors, which a pilgrim thirsting for the heavenly homeland illuminates! Others approach the shores of the East and whatever other places full of saints for the sake of receiving an example; these men, wherever they go, stir up good examples. Their substance is scattered everywhere, and at every approach of theirs the good fragrance of Christ wafts. This very man, by whose memory we are nourished today, the Church of this city of Massilia almost snatched away, with the bishop of that city urging him and such a college rejoicing in him. But what would that fervor not overcome, with its contest of tears and ambition of blandishments? More eagerly, therefore, warned by a new danger, they cross the seas, they seek shores where that Roman eloquence, which was so abundant in them, would be barbarous. It would be long to recount what profit each place drew from their departure, what healthiness they brought to churches without any act of clerical office, how many teachers were teachers in silence.

Let it suffice to have recalled that they fearlessly endured the swell of the sea for the sake of Christ, sought out the squalor and barrenness of the Achaean shore, and—though so delicately, so softly reared—contended against such great variations of waters and winds. How grievous, how intolerable this was to that tenderness, the departure there of his most blessed brother in Christ, the man Venantius, and his own infirmities and those of his companions, bore witness. And now what Methone believed it had either exalted or received in that funeral, it revealed through the manifold throngs of psalm-singers. Here a Hebrew, here a Greek, here a Latin exults; even the Jew who rejects Christ admires a faithful servant of Christ. The very stars are struck by fervent choirs, and, as we believe, angelic choirs sing together with human voices; Christ comes to meet his faithful servant. “Well done, Venantius, good and faithful servant; and while you hear, ‘Enter into the joy of your Lord’ (Matt. 25:21), remember us, whom the joys of the world still assail.” The struggles of flesh and soul reach their end; eternal life and glory take their beginning.

CHAPTER III. Honoratus, his brother having died, came into Italy, and was hosted by bishops. — Leontius, bishop of Forum Iulii. — He enters the island of Lérins. Hence now Christ brings back to you your Honoratus, and with a hidden hand tempers the salubriousness of his return. For whatever he touches in passing, he illuminates. Italy rejoices at his entrance, which it blesses. Tuscia venerates and embraces him, and through its priests weaves most charming delays. Moreover, the providence of God, looking out for us, broke through everything, and Christ invites into the wilderness near this city the one whom the desires of the hermitage had summoned from his homeland. Therefore, he seeks out the island, vacant because of its excessive squalor and the fear of inaccessible venomous animals, situated not far from the Alpine ridge. Besides the opportunity for seclusion, he was delighted by the proximity and bound by the charity of the holy and most blessed in Christ man, Leontius the bishop, even as many were trying to draw him back with a new audacity. For the neighboring inhabitants reported that terrible desolation, and with the ambition of faith they vied to occupy him within their own borders. But he, impatient of human society and desiring to be cut off from the world by the barrier of the sea, carried in his heart and on his lips, now for himself, now for his companions, uttering: "You will walk upon the asp and the basilisk, and you will trample the lion and the dragon" (Ps.

and in the Gospels, the promise made by Christ to his disciples: "Behold, I have given you the power to tread upon serpents and scorpions" (Luke 10:19). Thus he enters fearlessly, and dispels the fear of his companions by his own security. The horror of solitude flees, the throng of serpents gives way. And what darkness did that light not put to flight? What poisons did not yield to that remedy? Truly, I think that must be reckoned among the miracles and merits of that man, that such frequent encounters with serpents in those arid places, stirred up especially by the sea's heat, were never, as we have seen, a source not only of danger but even of fear. Why should I delay longer? With Christ, so to speak, cooperating, all adversity that had previously raged was overcome, and your Honoratus establishes there a kind of camp of God; and that place which had long repelled men from dwelling there is illuminated by angelic ministries. The hiding place is lit up, while the light is concealed. The obscurity of a previously unknown exile yields to the brightness of a voluntary exile. What, then, does that accession, that improvement bring? Wherever Honoratus has come, it is necessary that honor be present there. There he is first bound to the office of the clergy, which he had long avoided; there the priestly stole entangles its fugitive; and he who had refused to go to dignity, dignity itself comes to him.

There appeared there a presbyter not merely of double, but of manifold honor, most worthy, before whom he would acknowledge no distance of priesthood, no privilege of the name of episcopacy. No bishop ever usurped so much for himself as to consider himself a colleague of that presbyter. But he preserved as complete a humility of the monk in the priesthood as he had fully possessed the merits of the priesthood while a monk. There, by his own sufficient industry, a temple of the Church is raised for the elect of God, suitable roofs for the dwellings of monks arise; waters denied for ages flow abundantly, in their single spring producing two miracles of the Old Testament. For as they burst from the rock, they flowed sweet in the midst of the bitterness of the sea. Now the whole region, seeking God, eagerly directed itself there. Whoever desired Christ sought Honoratus, and plainly whoever sought Honoratus found Christ. For there he flourished entirely; his breast, as a lofty citadel and most splendid temple, he had taken up residence. There chastity, which is holiness, faith, wisdom, and virtue dwelt; there justice shone and truth. And so, as if with outstretched arms and open embrace, he invited all to his embrace, that is, into the love of Christ; they flocked to him eagerly from everywhere. For what land, what nation, does not yet have its citizens in that monastery? Whom did he not soften, though barbarian? How often did he make gentle doves from savage beasts?

How bitter were the customs he sometimes sprinkled with the sweetness of Christ! And whose perversity, previously a punishment to themselves, afterwards became a delight to all through their grace; having tasted the sweetness of the good, they could not but hate more and more what they had been. For, as if led into a new light, they detested that ancient prison of long-standing errors. Through his exhortation, the various plagues of souls were driven out. Bitterness, harshness, and rage gave way to the freedom which Christ had offered, and rest was delightful after long and heavy Pharaonic servitude. A stupendous and admirable transformation, not, as they say, a Circean cup turning men into beasts, but the word of Christ, like a most sweet cup, administered by Honoratus, turning beasts into men. For what would that persistence, joined with eagerness, not hammer out, or what stones would not be turned into sons of Abraham? Where was the workshop of virtues in stripping minds, so that if he did not advance a man to his own salvation by living exhortations, he would constrain God by prayer. He believed all their passions to be his own and wept for them as his own; he counted the progress and labors of all as his own; knowing how to rejoice with those rejoicing, to weep with those weeping, he at the same time transferred the vices and virtues of all into the accumulation of his own merits. For just as virtue excites to virtue, so compassion bestowed on the wretched bears fruit. For each one reaps more for himself than for the individuals.

The salvation of each one built up for him a single glory. He persevered, energetic, swift, untiring, as he had observed the nature and habits of each. This one he approached in secret, that one openly; to this one he was stern, to that one gentle; and to vary his correction, he often changed even the very face of his corrections. Hence it was that we saw no one so much either loved or feared: for he so placed these two affections in each of his own that his love tempered fear, and the fear of discipline introduced love. CHAPTER IV. The illustrious institution of Lérins. — The virtues of Honoratus. — Honoratus kind and generous to guests. — Eucherius wrote to Honoratus. It is incredible how great was his care that no one be afflicted by sadness, that no worldly thought oppress them. How easily he perceived what troubled each one, as if he carried the minds of all within his own. With what great dispensation of piety he provided, lest excessive labor weigh anyone down, lest anyone grow sluggish through too much rest. He weighed, if it can be said, even the very sleep of each of the brothers with pious affection. Those strong in body he always roused from idleness, those fervent in spirit he compelled to rest. He knew the strength, the minds, the stomachs of all, by the instinct, I believe, of God, having become truly the servant of all for the sake of Jesus Christ. It is a wonder how one man fulfilled so many duties at once, especially while afflicted with such varied infirmity.

The strongest, and those still weak in their recent conversion, unequal in strength to fasts and vigils, he accompanied with equal observance. He himself, weaker, visited the weak; he provided refreshment for souls and bodies alike; and lest anything be lacking for anyone, he always returned in thought: this one is cold, this one is troubled; that one's labor is heavy; this food does not suit this one; that one has been harmed by another; what this one inflicted is serious, and no less serious is what that one felt. Great effort is needed for offense to obtain grace, and for this one to count the insults inflicted on him as either light or nothing; but for that one to sigh that he has inflicted very grave ones. This was his constant work, his constant intention: to lighten the yoke of Christ for all, and to avert whatever the devil had injected, to dispel the cloud of faults, to recall the serenity of graces, to instill love of Christ and of neighbors by loving, and to cultivate the minds of all as if they were his own breast; to renew joys, and to burn with desire for Christ always, as on the first day of conversion.

Hence it was that the whole congregation, eager for divine service, gathered from different parts of the earth at his name, though diverse in customs and languages, conspired in love for him. All called him lord, all called him father, reckoning that in him their homeland, their relatives, and everything had been restored to them at once. All had learned, with him sympathizing with them, to count his sorrows as their own, so that not undeservedly the distinguished and most blessed man in Christ, the presbyter Salvianus, one of his dear ones, said in his writings that just as the face of the sky changes for its sun either into darkness or brightness, so that congregation, thirsting for heaven and devoted to heavenly pursuits, received from him either cloudiness or serenity of minds, as from a peculiar Sun in Christ, and was afflicted when he was afflicted, and revived when he breathed again. Hence that grace of the Holy Spirit, diffused in his monastery and still persisting through his prayers, was strengthened by the example and admonition of such a teacher in various gifts of charisms, in humility and gentleness, in unfeigned charity, and in one glory of the head amid the diversity of the members.

Great was his care among these for newcomers and guests. For who ever passed him by? Who, soon after, did not break off any favorable voyage, any gentle winds, through desire for so great a man, a despiser of his own convenience? Or if it was not permitted to hold the island, he counted the violent compulsion of a second voyage the bitterest storm. No one did not hasten there; no one felt his delays there; no one departed from there without the greatest security, with love, expenses, and prayers accompanying him, and sending forth those first known as if they were his own of long standing. In the squalor of the desert he provided delights by his own sight, receiving all with such joy and love as if he had awaited them; moreover, there was present a spirit of munificence with substance equal to the faith administered. For he who had willingly heard: "Sell all your things, and give to the poor, and come, follow me" (Matthew 19:21); to him each one most willingly entrusted for distribution whatever he had devoted in a spirit of mercy; each one securely committing all his goods to him whose example he had followed in leaving all behind. Hence came to him that frequent gathering from different regions, from desolation. And truly he was that one who, not as a stingy or timid steward, with regard to the congregation entrusted to him and growing daily, would give some things and keep back more. But what would he not do daily in the cauldron, which he had once done in his own case? That is, he reserved nothing for himself, nothing for his own, beyond the food and clothing of the present days.

The substance of his stewardship was at times exhausted, but his faith never. For on one occasion, when from his abundant and generous treasury he retained a single gold coin out of many thousands, he gave even this one, in the midst of a shortage of many things, most steadfastly to a passing pauper, and said to me and to others standing by: “It is certain that one who will bring supplies is now approaching, if our generosity has nothing to offer.” Scarcely three or four hours of the flowing day had passed, and immediately someone appeared who gave credence to his words. O blessed generosity, to which faith ministered! O blessed faith, which generosity never delayed! And truly, as much as his faith supplied, it did not happen that he distributed with his own hand alone. He had very many most trustworthy men in many places, by whose hands he always expended what was brought to him. Thus, by the grace of a single steward, he had many stewards, and his faith, like a common fountain, flowed forth for many givers and receivers. No one’s difficulties reached him that were extended beyond him, or did not find their limit in him.

From this point, letters of service were eagerly brought to him from all sides—as he thought, or at least as he hoped, while he lay hidden—letters to which he responded with such novel affections, such weighty, such gentle, such sweet words. Hence, most beautifully splendid to the world, but more splendid to Christ, the blessed Eucherius, emulator of his virtue, when he had received his letters from the desert on wax-coated tablets, as is customary, while dwelling on a nearby island, said: "You have given honey back to the wax." Who, therefore, did not consider himself blessed, his home blessed, his bookcases blessed, enriched by a small gift from his own mouth with a great blessing? And indeed, there was so much salt in his writings, so much sweetness, that they deserved to be stored not in scrolls or cabinets, but in the treasury of the heart. Hence it is that many carry them inscribed in their minds and most willingly bring them forth as testimony of their love. Finally, who ever bound so many friends to himself by present services as he had unknown ones who loved him and most eagerly desired him?

CHAPTER V Saint Hilary is converted by the exhortations of Honoratus; the efficacy of Christ’s grace in Hilary. Meanwhile, while I recall his great care for all, I pass over his boundless concern for me: for his care for me certainly brought me the salvation I did not have in Christ, which the love among you has left as a memorial and a token of love. For my sake—as pertains to his merit and my judgment—he did not disdain to approach the homeland he had scorned; nor did he shrink from the labor of so long a journey, already heavy for him with many long-standing infirmities; and there, in those years, he found me, a friend to the world and stubborn toward God, and like a seducer and a truthful man, he tried with a gentle hand to draw me to the love of Christ. It would be long to recount the force of his genius in his exhortations, in which, even before his own purpose, he could have applied the sharpest goads to himself for conversion, drawing from the fountains of wisdom and spreading forth in many ways. But when the words of his piety descended too little into my ears, he turned to his usual aids of prayer, and the cry of his affection, repulsed by my hardness, struck and penetrated the most pious ears of God, even to mercy. And truly, as I struggled against him, and through that all-too-dangerous worldly habit sometimes bound my obstinacy by oath, he had promised beforehand, with a prophetic spirit, so to speak: "This," he said, "which you do not grant me, God grants." And oh, how long he labored to soften my hardness with a shower of tears!

with how many pious kisses and embraces he struggled with me for my salvation! Yet for the present, as he says, I have won a most wretched victory. The right hand of God took me up from there to be shaken and tamed; for he had entrusted me to Him by his prayer. What waves then arose in my heart! What storms of diverse and mutually conflicting desires were stirred up! How often in my mind did willing and unwilling succeed each other! And why say more? In his absence, Christ carries out His part in me: after two days, through his prayers and the mercy of God, my obstinacy is subdued. For thought had driven away sleep, and while the pious Lord invited me, the whole world with its pleasures stood before me in full view. What was to be sought, what was to be left behind, was urged upon me; my mind, as if in consultations held with a friend, debated with itself. Thanks to you, good Jesus, thanks, who broke my bonds, moved by the pious supplication of your servant Honoratus, and cast upon me the bonds of your love, by which if I am held, the bonds of sin will never regain strength. So I run to you, submissive, I who had departed proud, and with all contradiction laid aside, I approach as a new suppliant. Thus, thus does the prayer of a saint bring back its fugitives, thus does it subdue the obstinate, thus does it conquer the rebellious.

Now with what tears he then bedewed my dryness, with what pious weeping he also drew me into tears! With such humility and caress, as if he himself were being received by me, he received me. The cause for delay was immediately removed. Then for the first time he recognized that homeland which he had long believed should be fled. He leads me out with him, his prey; he rejoices, triumphs, exults. Yet he hastens to enclose me, already desirous of solitude by his own example, in the desert. First he nourishes me with milk, and afterwards with food. He also drinks from that flowing celestial fountain of wisdom which was in him. And would that my spirit's capacity had received as much as he strove to pour in! He would surely have prepared me for you, and given one worthy of your desire; and, unknowing, would have trained a successor suitable for himself. But now that flowing charity of his in all things—which, I say without envy, how much he had added to me, and how much lighter that light yoke of Christ had made for me by his caresses! How often he called me his mind, his soul, his little tongue! How impatient of absence, how always desirous of my most unworthy presence he was! What shall I say of all these things, except that prophetic word, that the Lord repaid him for me?

CHAPTER VI. Honoratus becomes bishop and lives as a bishop. — The refreshments of the dead from alms. Meanwhile, dearest ones, touching upon a narrow path rather than recounting what has been done, I have repeated concerning your most diligent shepherd those things which were known to others rather than to you. For we saw his priesthood increased in name in this Church; but in holiness and deeds he was already supreme. But whence, I ask, did it come that he, so unknown and from so far away, was sought out? Who fixed that grace of an absent man, never before seen, in your hearts? Who aroused that desire, so that, when he was deprived of those with whom the Lord had clothed him in the desert, he was born for you? Surely it was He who arranges all things; He who both granted him to his own homeland, as long as it seemed fitting, and through seas and lands led this grace of so great a worshiper of His around to the benefit of those who saw him. 26. In short, from that brief time in which he was brought to you, it is easy to measure what more I might have said about him in these matters, what less. For you have seen, dearest ones, that vigilance of solicitude, that zeal for discipline, those tears of piety, that constant and perpetual serenity of mind, of which his unchanging face was a testimony. You have also heard that mouth matching his life, in which there was a purity of heart in harmony, a lucidity of speech.

You saw that breadth of charity which was so great in him that the same holy man, whose recent statement I have quoted, not undeservedly said of him: that if charity itself were to be depicted according to its own judgment, it would seem that it ought most especially to be painted upon the face of Honoratus. Who, therefore, ever seemed to himself to have seen him sufficiently? For whom was he not a place of all affections? Who so joined gentleness with severity? Who so administered discipline mingled with cheerfulness? Who, when he was corrected, did not correct with his own joy? When did his gladness smack of any wantonness? When was his sadness not wholesome? When was his groan not descending from grief over another's sin? Who did not find him greater than he had seen him before? Always placed at the summit of virtues, he always found a way to grow. Now, indeed, by his exhortation, who that was anxious did not lay aside his sorrow? Who with fierce manners did not curse his own madness? Who that was arrogant did not abominate his own pride more than all others? Who that was lascivious did not detest his own luxury? And what more? Having become all things to all, as the Apostle says (1 Cor. 9:22), he was the common medicine of all. He held almost no grace in such a way that he seemed to cultivate and possess it as if it were unique. In no order of life did he not flourish so that he seemed especially suited to it.

Finally, as soon as he received the governance of this Church of Arles, his first care was for concord, and his principal labor was to unite with mutual love the brotherhood, still heated from the dissenting factions concerning the election of a bishop. Like a proven charioteer of Israel, he well knew that nothing is easily commanded to those who are in discord. Moreover, he strove to rule by love rather than to dominate by terror, so that voluntary rather than coerced correction would add this ornament also to his subjects, lest they appear compelled to their duty. Therefore, as soon as discord was excluded, he gave place to charity, which is the mother of all virtues. Thus, under him the Church of Christ flourished, just as the monastery had flourished before. Grace increased, metals decreased; that is, discipline having entered, from his own house as from the Lord's house he excluded the mammon of iniquity; and what had long been idly accumulated, he finally assigned to worthy uses; he sent his treasures to the long-dead; and again, those who had offered felt the refreshment of their offerings. He reserved only what was sufficient for his ministry. But if need had demanded it, I believe he would not have spared even his ministry. The vows of another time made his dispensation.

CHAPTER VII. The Illness, Death, and Burial of Honoratus. — The Saints in Heaven Pray for Mortals. Even in his final moments, he did not cease to work. While lying in his bed, he enriched many with the ministry of the word. But how long could that bed hold him, for whom it had become customary to overcome even the weariness of approaching death? At last, with his pains already struggling, he delivered a sermon in the church on the day of Epiphany, never knowing how to yield to the body's pain over the spirit's fervor when faith wrestled with infirmities; he served your desires beyond his strength. For it was not some externally arising sickness, nor a sudden onslaught of fevers, that consumed him; but a long-deferred infirmity, contracted long ago by excessive rigor of purpose, and growing worse by yielding too little to rest, finished him off by gradual weakening, on the eighth or ninth day after the aforementioned feast. Yet for scarcely four days did he deny us his presence in the duties of charity, lest his passing sadden his neighbors by its proximity. He was never burdensome to anyone amid the gravest illnesses. Never, as often happens, did his infirmities cause anyone horror. And indeed, in this manner, that dwelling place of the Holy Spirit came to rest.

Moreover, it is incredible how whole the vigor of that immaculate mind remained until the very end. First, he always comforted his own most abundantly, and feared nothing more than that they might be worn down by prolonged despair, understanding that extremes are almost more easily borne than uncertainties. He always wiped away the tears of those standing around with a seasoned speech, which, however, the more he wiped them away, the more he provoked them. Hence he reckoned our grief heavier than his own suffering. Not easily would anyone with so brave a heart endure any harsh and difficult circumstances, nor did he ever desire death nor fear it. For he, whom it did not displease to live amid any grave trials in the service of Christ, did not fear to pass through that common gate of new life into new life. For that ultimate necessity of mankind had been premeditated by him, not come upon him suddenly. And so, at the very sight of the end, as if he were departing, as if he were bidding farewell, lest he leave anything unfinished, lest he arrange anything less fully than he had intended, he questioned each of us, and urged us to suggest if anything had escaped his memory. Meanwhile, he confirmed everything with his signature, and, sparing us from his own fatigue, compelled us to do all that was to be done; compelling, however, with that gentle command, as always.

But once, when I was struggling to suppress the storm of my tears and to break off the streams of weeping, he said: "Why do you weep? For the inevitable necessity of the human race? Then my passing ought to have found you unprepared, since it did not find me unprepared?" And when I, hindered by sobs, as best I could, interjected his own words, that I no longer lamented my own destitution, since I trusted that the patronage of his prayers would never be lacking to me—indeed, I presumed they would be even more powerful after his passing—but that I was grievously afflicted by the one wound of his sufferings and by the difficult struggles at the end, he said: "And what am I, the least of all, bearing compared to what very many of the saints endured in their final, most bitter trials?" And after naming several, he added—what I believe he had read somewhere: "Great men," he said, "suffer much, and they are born as an example, so that they may teach others to suffer.

When the authorities were flocking to him, both prefects and men of praetorian rank, with what fervor did he issue his commands, already under the chill of death, taking from his very end the most vigorous beginning of an exhortation. And it was certainly fitting that he who had always offered examples of life should also summon his own death as an example. "You see," he said, "how fragile a lodging we inhabit. However high we may have climbed in living, we are dragged down from there by death. From this necessity no honors redeem anyone, no treasures ransom anyone. This is common to the just and the unjust, this to the powerful and the humble. We shall give great thanks to Christ, who by his own death and resurrection has animated our death with the hope of resurrection, offering eternal life, having dispelled the horror of eternal death. Therefore live your life in such a way that you do not fear the end of life; and await what we call death as a kind of migration. Death is not a punishment, if it does not lead to torments.

The separation of flesh and soul is indeed harsh, but far harsher will be the union of flesh and soul in the flames of Gehenna, unless throughout every life the spirit, recognizing its own nobility, declares war on the body and a contest against bodily vices, and, having separated by a happy divorce from the filth of the flesh, preserves both substances unpolluted for eternal peace, to be joined together there in blessedness where the saints will exult in glory and rejoice in their resting places, that is, in bodies as in their receptacles, when they recognize the social members they had dedicated to justice as their accustomed dwellings. Do this, therefore. Your Honoratus leaves you this inheritance: with his final breath he invites you to the inheritance of the heavenly kingdom. Let no one be held too much by love of this world. It is best that you disdain by choice what you see you will lack by necessity. Let no one overflow with wealth, let no one serve money, let no one be corrupted by the vain pomp of riches. It is a crime to take the price of salvation as material for perdition, and for anyone to be captured by that by which he could be redeemed. Meanwhile, he urged more with his face, more with his eyes, more with his mind shining toward heaven. The words of the reporter are indeed unequal to his fiery speech; but no less unequal to his spirit were the words of the one exhorting. With such an exhortation and with speech poured forth in some unusual movement, he bestowed some unusual gift of blessing.

As the service of his limbs failed, the grace of his mind continually blossomed anew. And so, with everything arranged (for indeed not many of his acts remained incomplete), as he ran through all his dear ones in his mind—how many he would have named individually, had weariness not prevented it—he enriched them with a greeting sent through those who stood by. But to me, in my ear, he said, "Excuse me, that it could not be done for that holy man as he wished." Great and admirable was his thoughtfulness, that amid those severe agonies of death he provided, lest anyone's sadness he not, as far as in him lay, wipe away; lest he leave anything certainly unexcused. What of that, I ask, when he left all his own, whom his love had drawn to this city, as if among strangers, he commended to no one any return, any fellowship, he did not distribute fixed places for living: as if truly prescient that no future dispersion of his own would occur, except of those who had already, while he was still alive, departed by a decision of their spirit? And truly we know that no one is absent from our company easily, except whom he himself forewarned would be absent, who had either felt a fatherland dearer than his sight, or a harsher discipline. Meanwhile, a heavier sleep was pressing upon him; and when we, fearful, would occasionally interrupt him, he said: "I am surprised that, in my great weariness, after such long sleeplessness as has passed, my sleep seems heavy to you.

And when we all, having become anxious, reported that he was sitting too long at the end, he replied with a playful caress, as was his custom, and with his usual serene cheerfulness: that he endured us as troublesome in this part of our concern. Thus his sweetness was almost consumed before his life. Then, overtaken by final sleep, sleeping in the quiet of death, he passed away without any struggle, as is the case with the final moments. He felt no difficult delays of death. That holy, noble, sincere soul, uncontaminated by any contact with the world, is received by angelic choirs. Meanwhile, sleep is disturbed for many by various visions, of which, however, all had one face: namely, that the offices of the saints were meeting that holy man. And indeed, at that same point of midnight, a gathering filled the church to meet the holy body, so that it might be thought that he was roused only by angelic messengers. The lifeless body, always vigorous in spirit, full of grace, is left behind: indeed, the face preserved its whole beauty, a countenance pleasing to all. You know these things well, and you describe them much more fully in the meditation of your minds than speech suffices.

Nor did anyone seem to be afflicted with a great loss to himself, if he lacked the sight of his body, if, as reverence or love prompted each one, he did not imprint a kiss upon his mouth or upon whatever limbs of his. You have fed me with such abundant outpouring of your heart toward him. For whom did his own roofs not receive on that day? Or whom did the walls of this city not give forth, overwhelmed as by a personal grief? It was considered a great burden to have placed a hand on the litter, or to have put one's shoulder under it. You saw, not without your own glory, his prayer: for that religious observance of the funeral was a devotion of faith, and it was as joyful to have had such a one as it was grievous to have lost such a one. Nor does the grace of his tomb give little confidence: for whose bones we have laid here, we surely presume upon his patronage in heaven. We then saw aromatics and incense borne before his bier; but God has received greater fragrances from your minds, in such great affection of yours toward your great shepherd. The glory of God exulted in his glory, and in the dissonant choirs of different languages, love was harmonious.

CHAPTER VIII. Hilary, successor of Honoratus, his kinsman.—Honoratus is invoked as patron. Pious Lord, who by stirring your hearts to the election of my littleness, granted that I should not be far from his tomb, will also, with you praying, grant that I should not depart far from his ways; but that whatever I have learned he did, I may hasten to do without any investigation or debate over the deeds. For you, as I see, God already then through him gave birth to me. For you he prepared an unworthy one. For you he, unknowing me, sought me with such great labor. For you he educated both with such careful solicitude and concern, preserving in me the vein of his own blood. For you he strove, with such great labor through letters, with such great effort through travel and ambition, to remove me from the island to which I had returned, having abandoned the beginning of his episcopacy for love of solitude (I dare not say, unknowingly; perhaps he foresaw), so that he might place my homeland in your love, near the seat of his tomb. But what are we doing, that he handed me over, immature, to a mature departure? It is not for us to think that the secret of the eternal King is obtained by even the most strenuous prayers in any slight way, lest the signs cry out the virtue. Peace also has its martyrs; for you were a perpetual witness of Christ, as long as you dwelt in the body.

It is also astonishing that the strength of your youth, weakened by the constant rigor of abstinence and reduced to that thinness which we saw—though with your beauty preserved—was consumed by the daily cross, which you nevertheless always observed without any notable superstition, always fleeing all excesses and the appetite for glory akin to excesses. Never on your lips was there anything but peace, but chastity, but piety, but charity. Never in your heart did anything dwell but Christ, the source of all these, who for you and through you provided the fruits of charity, joy, peace, long-suffering, goodness, kindness, faith, modesty, and continence, abounding in manifold plenty for the salvation and joy of many, so that not undeservedly you sang to him: "Those who fear you will see me and rejoice" (Ps. 118:74); to whom you always ascribed every good of your conduct, constantly impressing upon yourself and yours: "For what do you have that you have not received? Or, if you have received, why do you boast as if you had not received?" (2 Cor. 4:7). But the good of your life was all the more yours, the more you denied it was yours.

In you was the common solace of all who long for the Lord. Some boast in the prosperities of this life; you, on the contrary, urged rejoicing in God, murmuring with a voice of sweet modulation your affection resounding: "Let the heart of those who seek the Lord rejoice" (Ps. 104:3). No pleasure was ever greater to you than in prayers and psalms. Your own had so thoroughly imbued you that you would even summon your own death as an example. "You see," he said, "how fragile a lodging we inhabit. However high we may have ascended in living, we are dragged down from there by death. From this necessity no honors redeem anyone, no treasures ransom anyone. This is common to the just and the unjust, to the powerful and the humble. We owe great thanks to Christ, who by his own death and resurrection has animated our death with the hope of resurrection, offering eternal life, having dispelled the horror of eternal death. Live your life, therefore, so that you do not fear the end of life; and await what we call death as a migration. Death is not a punishment, if it does not lead to torments. The separation of flesh and soul is indeed harsh; but far harsher will be the union of flesh and soul in the flames of Gehenna, unless throughout life the spirit recognizes its own nobility and wages war against the body.

and waged war against bodily vices, and, separated by a blessed divorce from the filth of the flesh, preserves both substances unpolluted for eternal peace, to be joined there happily where the saints will exult in glory and rejoice in their chambers, that is, in their bodies as in their accustomed dwellings; when they recognize the social members which they had dedicated to justice, as if recognizing familiar lodgings. Therefore do this: your Honoratus leaves you this inheritance; with his final breath he invites you to the inheritance of the heavenly kingdom. Let no one be held too much by love of this world. It is best that you disdain by will what you see you will lack by necessity. Let no one overflow with wealth, let no one serve money, let no one be corrupted by the vain pomp of riches. It is a crime to take the price of salvation as material for perdition, and for anyone to be captured by that by which he can be redeemed. Meanwhile, he urged more by his face, more by his eyes, more by his mind sparkling toward heaven. The speech of the reporter is indeed unequal to his fiery speech; but the words of the one exhorting were no less unequal to his spirit. And so, with such an exhortation and with a certain unusual flow of speech poured forth, he bestowed a certain unusual gift of blessing.

As the service of his limbs failed, the grace of his mind always sprouted anew. And so, with everything arranged (for indeed few things in his actions remained incomplete), when he ran through in his mind all his dear ones—as many as he could not name individually due to weariness—he enriched them with a greeting sent through those who stood by. But to me, in my ear: "Excuse me," he said, "that it could not be done for that holy man as he wished." Great and admirable shrewdness, amid those severe agonies of death, to have provided that he might wipe away, as far as in him lay, the sadness of anyone: that he might leave nothing, certainly, unexcused. What of that, I ask, when he commended to the Lord all his own whom his love had drawn to this city, that they should not be abandoned among foreign lands, granting no return to anyone, no companionship? He did not assign fixed places for living: as if truly prescient that no dispersion of his own would occur, except of those who had already, while he was still alive, departed by a decision of the spirit? And truly we know that no one is easily absent from our company, except whom he himself forewarned would be absent, who had either felt a fatherland dearer than his sight, or a harsher discipline. Meanwhile, a heavier sleep was pressing upon him; and when we sometimes fearfully interrupted him, he said: "I marvel that, in my great weariness, after such long sleeplessness which preceded, my sleep seems heavy to you.

And when, with all things having been considered, we insisted that he sit in the last place for a longer time, he replied with a playful coaxing, as was his custom, and with his habitual serenity of mind: that he endured us as troublesome in this part of our concern. Thus his life was almost consumed before his sweetness was. Then, received by his final sleep, he passed over, sleeping into the quiet of death, without any struggle, as is usual in final moments. He felt no difficult pangs of death. That holy, noble, sincere soul, uncontaminated by any contact with the world, is received by angelic choirs. Meanwhile, the sleep of many is deceived by various visions, of which, however, one was the face of all: namely, that the offices of the saints were meeting that holy man. And truly, at that same point of midnight, the assembly filled the church to meet the holy body, so that he would be thought to have been roused only by angelic messengers. The body, always animated by spirit, full of grace, is left lifeless: indeed, his face, pleasing to all, preserved the complete beauty of his countenance. You know these things well, and you describe them much more fully in the meditation of your minds than my speech suffices.

No one seemed to consider it a great loss to themselves if they lacked the sight of his body, if they did not, as reverence or love prompted each one, press a kiss either to his mouth or to whatever limbs of his, or to the bier in which that holy body, clothed with great ambition of faith, was later, when it was moved to the tomb, stripped of its stone. Nor did the faith spare the sanctified cloths of his coverings, which considered it the place of a most precious gift to have plucked some fringe from those veils. Your affection vied in his funeral rites. You refreshed my pilgrimage, still hidden among you, at his funeral. You nourished me with such abundant charity of spirit toward him. For what houses held their own people on that day? Or whom did the walls of this city not give to this basilica, as if overwhelmed by a particular grief? It was considered a great thing to have moved a hand to the litter, or to have placed one's neck beneath it. You saw his glory, not without your own glory: for that religious observance of the funeral was a devotion of faith, and it was as joyful to have had such a one as it was grievous to have lost such a one. Nor does the grace of his tomb give little confidence: for whose bones we have laid here, we certainly presume upon his patronage in heaven. We saw then aromatics and incense placed before his bier; but God perceived greater fragrances from your minds, in such great affection of yours toward your pastor. The glory of God exulted in his glory, and in the discordant choruses of diverse languages, love was harmonious.

CHAPTER VIII. Hilary, the successor of Honoratus, his kinsman.—Honoratus is invoked as a patron. Pious Lord, who by stirring your hearts to the election of my lowliness, granted that I should not be far from his tomb, will also grant, through your prayers, that I not stray far from his ways; but that whatever I have learned he did, I may hasten to do without any scrutiny or debate of his deeds. For through him, as I see, God already then begot me for you. For you he prepared me, though unworthy. For you he sought me, unknowing, with such great labor. For you he educated me, with such eager care, as best he could, seeking in me the vein of faith, as of his own blood. For you he strove, with such great labor through letters, with such great effort through his journey, to remove me from the island to which I had returned, abandoning the beginnings of his episcopate out of love for seclusion (I dare not say unknowingly, perhaps foreknowingly), so that he might place my homeland in your love, near the site of his tomb. But what are we doing, that he handed me over, immature, to a mature departure? It is not for us to blame, even lightly, the secret judgment of the eternal King: you would not easily have sensed what good you had lost, if your good, restored to you, had been.

O great and renowned Honoratus, your glory had no need of being proven by signs; for your very way of life, full of virtues and exalted by the novelty of admiration, provided a kind of perpetual sign. Indeed, we who stood closer to you know many things divinely granted to you; but among these you counted yourself as the least part, and you took greater joy in the fact that Christ recorded your merits and virtues than that men noted signs. And yet what greater sign of virtue could there be than to flee from signs and to conceal virtues? And your prayer was so familiar, in a certain way, to the ears of Christ, that I believe it was obtained by your most earnest petitions that the signs of your virtue should not be proclaimed. Peace also has its martyrs; for you were a perpetual witness of Christ as long as you dwelt in the body. That too is astonishing: that the strength of your youth, weakened by the perpetual rigor of abstinence, and reduced to that emaciation which we saw in your appearance—though your beauty was preserved—was consumed by a daily cross; yet you always maintained this without any notable superstition, always fleeing from all excesses and from the appetite for glory, which is akin to excesses. Never in your mouth was there anything but peace, but chastity, but piety, but charity.

Never did any dwell in your heart except Christ, the source of all these things, who for you and through you ministered the fruits of charity, joy, peace, long-suffering, goodness, kindness, faith, modesty, and continence, overflowing in manifold abundance for the salvation and joy of many, so that not undeservedly you sang to him: "Those who fear you will see me and rejoice" (Ps. 118:74); to him you always ascribed every good of your way of life, constantly impressing upon yourself and your followers: "For what have you that you did not receive? Or, if you received it, why do you boast as if you had not received it?" (2 Cor. 4:7). But the good of your life was all the more your own, the more you denied it was yours. In you there was a common solace for all who long for the Lord. Some glory in the prosperities of this life; you, on the contrary, urged rejoicing in God, murmuring with a voice of sweet modulation that echoed your affection: "Let the heart of those seeking the Lord rejoice" (Ps. 104:3). No pleasure was ever greater to you than that in prayers and psalms. Christ had so settled into your very marrow that sometimes—and I speak from experience—when your limbs were bound in peaceful sleep, your tongue would still resound with him in its accustomed office even in your dreams. Often while sleeping you poured forth words of the soundest exhortation, often words of the most heartfelt prayer. For the body's rest was taken in bed, but the mind's rest was in Christ. And indeed these things, as we who were present each time, experienced.

You, however, were always the one and only rest for all. How eagerly, how often you recounted dreams, not foretelling anything, nor troubled by any anxiety about the future, but stirred by the desires of a restless soul—namely, the martyrdom which you always carried in your meditation. I believe that the Lord, sometimes playing and provoking your desire, as if persecution were stirred up against your faith, you were undergoing. And truly I think no one would deny that for you, torturers for martyrdom, not the spirit, were lacking. For daily, in the most sincere treatises, you were a witness of the confession of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Nor did anyone easily discourse so clearly, so plainly on the Trinity of the Godhead, when you distinguished the persons and united them in the eternity of glory and majesty. Remember therefore, friend of God, remember us continually, standing before God unstained, singing that new song, and following the Lamb wherever he goes. You are his follower; you are our patron, the acceptable interpreter of our prayers, and a strong advocate. Bear the prayers of the flock, poured out at your tomb, to him; obtain that by common accord, all together, priest and people, we may merit to obtain, to some extent, what you commanded, what you taught. Through our Lord Jesus Christ, who assumed you into his glory, and who lives and reigns as God with his Father and with the Holy Spirit through all ages of ages. Amen.