I was to describe the vision I had last night. But I shall write it later.
Jesus says:
“The person who designed this cover, which you like so much and which, only now, after nineteen years, you see in its true meaning, did not just carry out a delightful, symbolic work, but expressed a truth.
“Little Thérèse - who, resting on empyrean clouds, incessantly plucks the petals off roses, and two angels help her to convey her rain of roses over the world - was a true likeness of Me as a Child. They have thus acted well in portraying her with such a resemblance to a Child Jesus that she could be mistaken for Him. You now see that it is she, not I.
“This partially resumes yesterday’s dictation. The more mystics, with their loving desire, approach Him whom they love completely, the more their spiritual effigy becomes identified with the Model.
“My little great flower was Thérèse of the Child Jesus and the Holy Face. And if my pained Face was the sun impressed on her heart, which burned it, for you, that hate pain and are daunted by austerity, in her spiritual exterior she bore a likeness to my sweet childhood - its gentleness, grace, and simplicity. This was what I wanted, and I guided her this way with inspiration, to give you a model which your current spiritual incapacity will be able to follow.
“Thérèse is for all. All can strive to imitate her. Even those who are scarcely formed spiritually. Do not believe, though, that Thérèse was spared. Oh, no! She shows you a loving, smiling face, the peaceful face of a happy child. But within her my Passion hollowed her out with a scalpel of fire.
“I have given her to you out of mercy on your weakness. I give my saints for all spiritual personalities. I give the ascetics with an almost fearful severity for temperaments of steel, for the flames which know no lassitude. I give the saints with a cheerful sanctity for those unable to sanctify themselves with weeping. I give the saints with childlike graces for those who cannot love Me except with very slight strength - and it is already a great deal if they are able to do so.
“And observe that little Thérèse, with the heart of a hero, had to force herself - and it was a martyrdom added to all her other ones - to give you the impression which I wanted, for her spirit led her towards eagle’s flights and fiercer forms of heroism. Do you know what it means to contradict one’s nature? Try it and you will understand what her double merit was.”
This dictation was originated by the observation I made concerning the cover of the book The Story of a Soul.474 I have had this book for nineteen years, but I always thought the child strewing roses from the height of a cloud was the Child Jesus.
This morning my inner counselor told me, ‘No. That heavenly infant is the little Thérèse of the Child Jesus. She wanted ‘spiritual childhood’ as her form of sanctity, and she became so perfect therein that she really was a second little Jesus.”
Afterwards Jesus gave me the dictation. And I had to write it at once. For the dictation is a succession of words, and I cannot remember them exactly unless I write them as I receive them, and I would never take the liberty of introducing modifications of my own or alterations. Whereas a vision is sculpted in my mind to such a point that I can recall it exactly, even hours later.
I thus preferred to write the dictation and then describe the vision I had last night. And I state beforehand that last night, in the greatest torments, which forced moans out of me, I really could not remain seated and write. I was very stiff from the vertebral pains, which radiated out through all my nerves to my whole body. It seemed my cerebellum was continually being torn out or a bundle of thorns was being driven into it. The pain in my nape was unbearable, as well as the pain in my heart and lungs. But, indeed, where was I not tormented? Even in the most remote phalanxes, it seemed there were minute saws and pincers cutting, twisting, and tearing away. They are still very intense now. But, though with dizziness and nausea, by a cerebral reflex, I can write - with difficulty, but I write.
Last night, before the pains, which began at 3 p.m., became violent, I had planned on observing the Holy Hour. But I really could not do so. I said to Jesus, “You see. I wanted to spend this evening with You in memory of your agony in the garden. But I can’t.” And then Jesus sent me this vision. I shall describe it, though for those who hate repetitions it may prove tiresome. But if it has already been seen in general terms475 - and, given my particular condition then, it could not be described in all detail - it now appears more specific precisely because my attention is caught by one single point.
Here it is, then. It is the death of Jesus.
He is on the cross in the lividness of the light of a very intense storm which is getting darker and darker. Yet the greenish and, I would almost say, violet light enables me to see the tormented Body of the Dying One in the smallest details. The hurried, short gasps of his poor thorax, which struggles with asphyxia, are thus quite visible. The movement of respiration is limited to the upper part of the chest. His open, slightly twisted mouth - because of both the right zygomatic contusion and a pain contraction - eagerly seeks to drink in air, and his swollen tongue is visible, seeming to tremble from the general trembling of his body.
I see the stripes on his Body, tormented by scourges and blows and lined with the blood dripping from the wounds in his hands along his arms, for his hands are slightly above his shoulders from the weight of his body, slumping downwards, like this: [sketch]
On the right there is more blood than on the left because Jesus’ shoulder is also lacerated by the wound from carrying the cross and having his clothing removed, which was attached to the gash, that has opened and bled quite a bit; the blood has also flowed down his chest and sides, over his ribs. And, furthermore, Jesus’ head, as usual, is crowned with thorns and bends towards the right, and blood has also flowed down from it in small rivulets over his hair and beard.
Jesus thus seems to be dressed down to his waist in a tightly-clinging striped robe, with a lot of purple mixed with violet and rare stains of pale white which looks even paler in the midst of the purple and bluish color of the bruises or blood. The points where his skin appears dry are quite rare. It is a sight inspiring great pity.
At his waist Mary’s veil has absorbed the dripping blood, and the veil seems to have changed into a red cordon around Him. It then appears to be white, streaked with red.
His legs display the gloomy whiteness of death against the dark wood and even darker sky, which seems to have descended very low. But, aside from the bruises from a few stones and blows and the contusions on his knees from his falls - the right one is badly wounded, and in the opening of the laceration He received against the sharp stone there appears the white rotula in the midst of the red bruise - blood is not streaming down his legs. Blood is on his feet and is dripping from his fingers to the ground.
Mary, supported by John, is looking at her dying Son. She is standing with her head upraised towards the cross. I am seeing Her and the apostle from behind their back. The Mother is not speaking. She remains silent in her pain, entirely dark in her dress and mantle, as motionless as a statue. She is about two meters away from the cross to see her Jesus clearly and be seen by Him, since He can still see.
But now the final convulsion comes.... And Jesus dies. The last cry is followed by the profound silence of the Dying One. There is no more death rattle or moaning. Silence. But not for the earth. The earth howls and shakes, and the people scream and flee.
Mary is concerned only about her Jesus. She calls Him, since in the deep darkness which has suddenly fallen She barely sees Him. She calls Him three times: “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!” And then, when a lightning bolt furrows the sky, on seeing Him motionless, hanging forward completely, with his head markedly bent towards the right and forwards, and separated from the cross from his hips upwards, She understands. She extends her arms and hands, two whitenesses trembling in the black air, and cries, “My Son! My Son! My own! My own!” And She listens.... She does not want to convince Herself that He no longer hears Her and awaits a moan in reply.
But Jesus can no longer moan. And John, placing an arm over Mary’s shoulders - before he was holding Her by the arm respectfully - seeks to draw Her away and persuade Her, saying, “He is no longer suffering!”
But Mary understands even before John finishes the sentence, and, turning around in such a way that She is now looking at me, She bends, not to her knees, but in an arc-like motion, bringing her hands to her face to cover her eyes, swollen with pain, and cries out, “I no longer have a Son!” I cannot describe the tone of this voice.... But it torments me, for I still hear it.
Mary wavers, and John takes Her, so bent and hesitant, and rests Her against his heart. And since She cannot stand, He gradually seats Her in the place where the soldiers were previously playing dice and supports Her on his chest until, in the general confusion, the Marys, no longer pushed back by the soldiers, rush over and take the apostle’s place alongside the Mother.
I see that, while the Magdalene takes the position John occupied before, and, accordingly, Mary is almost resting on her knees, another, lacking anything else, grasps the sponge in the vinegar and gall and has Her smell that stench and moistens her temples and nostrils with the vinegar.
Longinus approaches the cross and observes. He says two words, which I do not grasp, to John. He then looks at the group of women. When he sees them all concentrated around Mary, with their backs to the cross, he unleashes the lance thrust.
Only John, standing between the cross and the women and facing sideways so as to observe both points, sees the act. That is why he can say, “And blood and water emerged from Him,”476 whereas Mary sees nothing until She later finds the wound in his side when touching with her hands. I like the action by Longinus, who waits to wound with the lance until the Mother is not looking. He tempers duty with mercy.
This is my vision last night. I have related it faithfully. It will strike many as repetitive. It did not seem so to me because I was able to meditate better on the Passion of our Savior - which, if it makes me suffer out of compassion, is a comfort for my passion. I cannot despair of Goodness when I see how much He has loved us.
474 This is the title of the autobiography of St. Thérèse of Lisieux (1873-1897).
475 On February 18 and April 7. The definitive and even more detailed description of the Crucifixion will be on March 27, 1945. It is included in the Passion cycle.
476 John 19:33-34.