Поющие в терновнике

           AmonumentnotonlytoGod,buttoMan.DeepundertheconfessioinalittlestoneroomSaintPeterhimselfwasburied;heretheEmperorCharlemagnehadbeencrowned.Theechoesofoldvoicesseemedtowhisperamongthepouringsliversoflight,deadfingerspolishedthebronzeraysbehindthehighaltarandcaressedthetwistedbronzecolumnsofthebaldacchino.

           Hewaslyingonthesteps,facedown,asthoughdead.Whatwashethinking?Wasthereapaininhimthathadnorighttobethere,becausehismotherhadnotcome?CardinalRalphlookedthroughhistears,andknewtherewasnopain.Beforehand,yes;afterward,certainly.Butnow,nopain.Everythinginhimwasprojectedintothemoment,themiracle.NoroominhimforanythingwhichwasnotGod.Itwashisdayofdays,andnothingmatteredsavethetaskathand,thevowingofhislifeandsoultoGod.Hecouldprobablydoit,buthowmanyothersactuallyhad?NotCardinalRalph,thoughhestillrememberedhisownordinationasfilledwithholywonder.Witheverypartofhimhehadtried,yetsomethinghehadwithheld.

           Notsoaugustasthis,myordination,butIliveitagainthroughhim.Andwonderwhathetrulyis,thatinspiteofourfearsforhimhecouldhavepassedamongussomanyyearsandnotmadeanunfriend,letalonearealenemy.Heislovedbyall,andhelovesall.Itnevercrosseshismindforaninstantthatthisstateofaffairsisextraordinary.Andyet,whenhecametousfirsthewasnotsosureofhimself;wehavegivenhimthat,forwhichperhapsourexistencesarevindicated.