The fourteen years are fourteen months; we are Paul
and the devil is Barnabas, Titus is-- Then a sudden loathing comes to us:
we are liars and hypocrites, we are trying to deceive ourselves. What is
Paul to us--and Jerusalem? We are Barnabas and Titus? We know not the
men. Before we know we seize the book, swing it round our head, and fling
it with all our might to the further end of the room. We put down our head
again and weep.
Youth and ignorance; is there anything else that can weep so? It is as
though the tears were drops of blood congealed beneath the eyelids; nothing
else is like those tears. After a long time we are weak with crying, and
lie silent, and by chance we knock against the wood that stops the broken
pane. It falls. Upon our hot stiff face a sweet breath of wind blows. We
raise our head, and with our swollen eyes look out at the beautiful still
world, and the sweet night-wind blows in upon us, holy and gentle, like a
loving breath from the lips of God. Over us a deep peace comes, a calm,
still joy; the tears now flow readily and softly. Oh, the unutterable
gladness! At last, at last we have found it! "The peace with God." "The
sense of sins forgiven." All doubt vanished, God's voice in the soul, the
Holy Spirit filling us! We feel Him! We feel Him! Oh, Jesus Christ,
through you, through you this joy! We press our hands upon our breast and
look upward with adoring gladness.
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