w good
works. And again, when "Understanding" and "the Soul" hold converse.
Understanding, desirous of knowing everything, asks the Soul why such
brilliant light radiates from her, and the Soul replies by inquiring
why Understanding asks this, seeing that she is so much wiser than the
Soul. When Understanding would still penetrate the unspeakable secrecy
between God and the Soul, the Soul refuses to answer, since, as she
explains, to her alone is given union with God, to which Understanding
can never attain. Or, again, when Mechthild, telling how the Soul, no
longer led by the Senses, but leading them to the desired goal, says,
"It is a wondrous journey along which the true soul progresses, and
leads with it the senses, as a man with sight leads one who is blind.
On this journey the soul is free and without sorrow, since it desires
naught but to serve its Lord, who orders all things for the best."

Of Prayer, which to her was "naught else but yearning of soul," she
says, "It makes a sour heart sweet, a sad heart merry, a poor heart
rich, a dull heart wise, a timid heart bold, a weak heart strong, a
blind heart seeing, a cold heart burning. It draws the great God down
into the small heart, it drives the hungry soul out to the full God,
it brings together the two lovers, God and the soul, into a blissful
place, where they speak much of love."

Again, in a spirit of self-examination, she writes: "What most of all
hinders the spiritually-minded from full perfection is, that they pay
so little heed to small sins. I tell you, of a truth, that when I
abstain from a laugh that would hurt no one, or hide some soreness of
heart, or feel a little impatience at my own pain, my soul becomes so
dark, and my mind so dull, and my heart so cold, that I am constrained
to pray heartily and long, and humbly to make confession of all my
faults. Then grace comes again to wretched me, and I creep back like a
beaten dog into the kitchen."

But all these and kindred thoughts pale before her discourses on love.
Love was the keynote of her life. She was born a poetess; she became a
saint. How sorely she strove towards this end, and spent herself in
conflict between self-control and ecstasy, no words can tell. It was
only when Purgation's way was partly trod, and she had "found in Pain
the grave but kindly teacher of immortal secrets," that she could say,
"Lord, I bring Thee my treasure, which is greater than the mountains,
wider than the world