St
John of the Cross – The Living Flame of Love
Flame, alive,
compelling,
yet tender past all telling,
reaching the secret center of my soul!
Since now evasion’s over,
finish your work, my Lover,
break the last thread,
wound me and make me whole!
yet tender past all telling,
reaching the secret center of my soul!
Since now evasion’s over,
finish your work, my Lover,
break the last thread,
wound me and make me whole!
Burn that is for my
healing!
Wound of delight past feeling!
Ah, gentle hand whose touch is a caress,
foretaste of heaven conveying
and every debt repaying:
slaying, you give me life for death’s distress.
Wound of delight past feeling!
Ah, gentle hand whose touch is a caress,
foretaste of heaven conveying
and every debt repaying:
slaying, you give me life for death’s distress.
O lamps of fire
bright-burning
with splendid brilliance, turning
deep caverns of my soul to pools of light!
Once shadowed, dim, unknowing,
now their strange new-found glowing
gives warmth and radiance for my Love’s delight.
with splendid brilliance, turning
deep caverns of my soul to pools of light!
Once shadowed, dim, unknowing,
now their strange new-found glowing
gives warmth and radiance for my Love’s delight.
Ah, gentle and so
loving
you wake within me, proving
that you are there in secret, all alone;
your fragrant breathing stills me
your grace, your glory fills me
so tenderly your love becomes my own.
you wake within me, proving
that you are there in secret, all alone;
your fragrant breathing stills me
your grace, your glory fills me
so tenderly your love becomes my own.
Translated by Marjorie Flower, OCD:
“The Poems of St. John of the Cross”
¡Oh llama de amor viva
que tiernamente hieres
de mi alma en el más profundo centro!
Pues ya no eres esquiva
acaba ya si quieres,
¡rompe la tela de este dulce encuentro!
que tiernamente hieres
de mi alma en el más profundo centro!
Pues ya no eres esquiva
acaba ya si quieres,
¡rompe la tela de este dulce encuentro!
¡Oh cauterio süave!
¡Oh regalada llaga!
¡Oh mano blanda! ¡Oh toque delicado
que a vida eterna sabe
y toda deuda paga!
Matando, muerte en vida has trocado.
¡Oh regalada llaga!
¡Oh mano blanda! ¡Oh toque delicado
que a vida eterna sabe
y toda deuda paga!
Matando, muerte en vida has trocado.
¡Oh lámparas de fuego
en cuyos resplandores
las profundas cavernas del sentido,
que estaba oscuro y ciego,
con estraños primores
color y luz dan junto a su querido!
en cuyos resplandores
las profundas cavernas del sentido,
que estaba oscuro y ciego,
con estraños primores
color y luz dan junto a su querido!
¡Cuán manso y amoroso
recuerdas en mi seno
donde secretamente solo moras,
y en tu aspirar sabroso
de bien y gloria lleno,
cuán delicadamente me enamoras!
recuerdas en mi seno
donde secretamente solo moras,
y en tu aspirar sabroso
de bien y gloria lleno,
cuán delicadamente me enamoras!
Below are some recent reflections on this wonderful poem starting with John's own commentary on them...
So begins St John of the Cross’s commentary on his last, and possibly
greatest, poem, The Living Flame of Love.
Probably written sometime between May 1585 and April 1587 (according to the
testimony of P. Juan Evangelista he only took a fortnight to write it) whilst
he was Prior of the Convent of Los
Martires in Granada under the shadow of the magnificent Sierra Nevada and
Alhambra Palace, this introduction resembles the prologue to the last work of
his equally famous co-worker and spiritual associate, St Teresa of Avila. John
had arrived in Granada in 1582, the year of Teresa’s death, and I don’t think
it is too fanciful to suggest that in this, his last great poem, he recalls the
indomitable spirit of the great Teresa whose shade often hovers over the pages.
For had she now not reached the place of bliss of which they had both spoken
during their long and eventful collaboration together? She began her last
masterpiece, The Interior Castle, thus:
So, both saints approached their last and possibly greatest tasks with
equal aversion. Teresa complaining of ‘noises in her head’ which meant she
couldn’t even attend to the necessary business of running a newly created religious
order and John fearful of his own spiritual immaturity to write of such
matters. Both protestations are belied, of course, by the masterpieces that
they then went on to produce. Yet, I feel it might be a mistake to pass over
these first protests too quickly. If such renowned spiritual masters challenge
the whole task of writing about spirituality shouldn’t we pay attention to
this? As much as Wittgenstein, Freud or Augustine, they stand on the abyss of
unknowing that opens up with alarming rapidity when we stare into our souls,
seeking to map that abyss with the tentative stutterings of their language. The
‘I know not what’ of John’s Spiritual Canticle. John’s Living Flame is thus his final confession and testament as he goes
‘gently into that Good Night.’ A testimonial made not to a priest or bishop, or
even a Discalced Friar, but to a simple ‘unlettered’ lay woman – Doña Ana del
Mercado y Peñalosa. Born in Segovia, to which she would return with John to
found his convent there, she was at this time widowed and living in Granada
with her brother. John’s final
testament, then, is to a woman, and it is to a woman’s heart that he confides
his last attempts at spiritual writing.
