Insipid to me are the counsels of the elders and sages of men — oh, how insipid they are to me — ever since Thy wisdom shook my heart and my brain, Holy God.
They believe not in Thy light, those whom the dark cravings of the heart drag down to perdition. For a stone rolling down the hill there is no barrier. The steeper the slope and the lower the abyss, the swifter and the more unstoppable grows the rolling of the stone.
One dark craving by its success lures out another, the second a third, until all that is good in a man withers away, and all that is evil flows in a rushing torrent. Until the edifice of the Holy Spirit crumbles down entirely, both without and within.
Until the despisers of holy things begin to despise their own selves and their teachers.
Until the sweetest sweetnesses begin to choke them with their stench.
Until all the treasures, for which they murdered neighbors and razed cities, begin to mock their hideousness.
Then they furtively lift their eyes toward heaven, and through the pus of their being, desecrated and reeking, they cry out: Holy God!
How the boastfulness of men in their own might wounds me like a burning arrow, ever since I came to know Thy mighty hand, Holy Mighty!
They build towers of stone, and say: we are better builders than your God. And I ask them: did you, or your fathers, build the stars?
They discover light in the earth, and boast: we know more than your God. And I ask them: who buried the light beneath the earth, that you might discover it?
They fly through the air, and haughtily say: we have made ourselves wings — where is your God? And I ask them: who reminded you of wings and of flying, if not the birds, whom you did not create?
But behold, when Thou openest their eyes to their own powerlessness; when wordless things show them their monstrous might; when their mind is filled with wonder at the starry towers, which without pillars or foundations hold themselves in space; when their heart is filled with dread at their own impotence and folly — then in shame and contrition they stretch out their hands to Thee and cry: Holy Mighty!
How man's overprizing of this life grieves me, ever since I tasted the sweetness of Thy immortality, Holy Immortal!
The shortsighted see only this life, and say: this is the only life, and by our works we shall make it immortal among men. And I say to them: if your beginning is like a river, then it must have its source; if it is like a tree, it must have its root; if it is like a ray of light, it must come from some sun. And I say to them further: among mortals would you found your immortality? You are kindling fire in water.
But when they catch sight of death, they lose their voice, and anguish grips their heart. When they smell the flesh of their dead brides; when they lower into the grave the rayless faces of their friends; when they lay their hands on the grown-cold breasts of their sons; when they learn that neither kings with their crowns could ransom themselves from death, nor heroes with their arms, nor sages with their wisdom — then they feel the chill wind of death blowing upon them also, and they fall on their knees, and cast down their heads over their cast-down pride, and pray to Thee: Holy Immortal, have mercy on us!