O my God!  I cannot measure the extent of my request, I should fear to be crushed by the very weight of its audacity.  My only excuse is my claim to childhood, and that children do not grasp the full meaning of their words.  Yet if a father or mother were on the throne and possessed vast treasures, they would not hesitate to grant the desires of those little ones, more dear to them than life itself.  To give them pleasure they will stoop even unto folly.

Well, I am a child of Holy Church, and the Church is a Queen, because she is now espoused to the Divine King of Kings.  I ask not for riches or glory, not even the glory of Heaven—­that belongs by right to my brothers the Angels and Saints, and my own glory shall be the radiance that streams from the queenly brow of my Mother, the Church.  Nay, I ask for Love.  To love Thee, Jesus, is now my only desire.  Great deeds are not for me; I cannot preach the Gospel or shed my blood.  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?