O Truth, Truth, how inwardly did even then
the marrow of my soul pant after Thee, when they often and
diversely, and in many and huge books, echoed of Thee to me, though it
was but an echo? And these were the dishes wherein to me, hungering
after Thee, they, instead of Thee, served up the Sun and Moon,
beautiful works of Thine, but yet Thy works, not Thyself, no nor Thy
first works. For Thy spiritual works are before these corporeal works,
celestial though they be, and shining. But I hungered and thirsted not
even after those first works of Thine, but after Thee Thyself, the
Truth, in whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning: yet they
still set before me in those dishes, glittering fantasies, than
which better were it to love this very sun (which is real to our sight
at least), than those fantasies which by our eyes deceive our mind.
Yet because I thought them to be Thee, I fed thereon; not eagerly, for
Thou didst not in them taste to me as Thou art; for Thou wast not
these emptinesses, nor was I nourished by them, but exhausted
rather.
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