ood. No matter! My brothers work in my stead,
and I, a little child, stay close to the throne, and love Thee for
all who are in the strife.

But how shall I show my love, since love proves itself by deeds?
Well! The little child will strew flowers . . . she will embrace
the Divine Throne with their fragrance, she will sing Love's
Canticle in silvery tones. Yes, my Beloved, it is thus my short
life shall be spent in Thy sight. The only way I have of proving
my love is to strew flowers before Thee--that is to say, I will
let no tiny sacrifice pass, no look, no word. I wish to profit by
the smallest actions, and to do them for Love. I wish to suffer
for Love's sake, and for Love's sake even to rejoice: thus shall I
strew flowers. Not one shall I find without scattering its petals
before Thee . . . and I will sing . . . I will sing always, even
if my roses must be gathered from amidst thorns; and the longer
and sharper the thorns, the sweeter shall be my song.

But of what avail to thee, my Jesus, are my flowers and my songs?
I know it well: this fragrant shower, these delicate petals of
little price, these songs of love from a poor little heart like
mine, will nevertheless be pleasing unto Thee. Trifles they are,
but Thou wilt smile on them. The Church Triumphant, stooping
towards her child, will gather up these scattered rose leaves,
and, placing them in Thy Divine Hands, there to acquire an
infinite value, will shower them on the Church Suffering to
extinguish its flames, and on the Church Militant to obtain its
victory.

O my Jesus, I love Thee! I love my Mother, the Church; I bear in
mind that "the least act of pure love is of more value to her than
all other works together."[18]

But is this pure love really in my heart? Are not my boundless
desires but dreams--but foolishness? If this be so, I beseech Thee
to enlighten me; Thou knowest I seek but the truth. If my desires
be rash, then deliver me from them, and from this most grievous of
all martyrdoms. And yet I confess, if I reach not those heights to
which my soul aspires, this very martyrdom, this foolishness, will
have been sweeter to me than eternal bliss will be, unless by a
miracle Thou shouldst take from me all memory of the hopes I
entertained upon earth. Jesus, Jesus! If the mere desire of Thy
Love awakens such delight, what will it be to possess it, to enjoy
it for ever?

How can a soul so imperfect as mine aspire to the plenitude of
Love? What is