From Confessions of Saint Augustine, by Augustine
And as I spake, I all but enacted it: I all but did it, and did it not.
I loved not yet, yet I loved to love, and out of a deep-seated want, I hated myself for wanting not.
How sweet did it at once become to me, to want the sweetnesses of those toys! and what I feared to be parted from, was now a joy to part with.
Let my soul praise Thee, that it may love Thee; and let it confess Thy own mercies to Thee, that it may praise Thee.
Behold my heart, O God, behold my heart, which Thou hadst pity upon in the bottom of the bottomless pit.
Instantly at the end of this sentence, by a light as it were of serenity infused into my heart, all the darkness of doubt vanished away.
And behold, Thou wert within, and I abroad, and there I searched for Thee; deformed I, plunging amid those fair forms which Thou hadst made.
It was foul, and I loved it; I loved to perish, I loved mine own fault.
For I said with myself, ‘Be it done now, be it done now.’
Thou wouldest give it, if with inward groanings I did knock at Thine ears, and with a settled faith did cast my care on Thee.
And I gave way to the tears which I before restrained, to overflow as much as they desired; reposing my heart upon them; and it found rest in them, for it was in Thy ears, not in those of man, who would have scornfully interpreted my weeping.
For within me was a famine of that inward food, Thyself, my God; yet, through that famine I was not hungered.
For he who confesses to Thee doth not teach Thee what takes place within him; seeing a closed heart closes not out Thy eye.
I lusted to thieve, and did it, compelled by no hunger, nor poverty, but through a cloyedness of well-doing.
Thou madest us for Thyself, and our heart is restless, until it repose in Thee.
To love then, and to be beloved, was sweet to me; but more, when I obtained to enjoy the person I loved, I defiled the spring of friendship with the filth of concupiscence.
Our souls may from their weariness arise towards Thee, leaning on those things which Thou hast created, and passing on to Thyself, who madest them wonderfully.
Too late loved I Thee, O Thou Beauty of ancient days, yet ever new! too late I loved Thee!
Never would such and so great things be by God wrought for us, if with the death of the body the life of the soul came to an end.
What then was it which did grievously pain me within, but a fresh wound wrought through the sudden wrench of that most sweet and dear custom of living together?
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