For some weeks in the bright springtime of 735 Bede had been ill, yet “cheerful and rejoicing, giving thanks to almighty God every day and night, yea every hour.”  Daily, too, he continued to give lessons to his pupils, and the rest of the time he spent in singing psalms.  “I can with truth declare that I never saw with my eyes, or heard with my ears, any one return thanks so unceasingly to the living God,” says the letter.  “During these days he labored to compose two works well worthy to be remembered besides the lessons we had from him, and singing of psalms:  that is, he translated the Gospel of St. John as far as the words, ‘But what are these among so many,’ into our own tongue for the benefit of the church, and some collections out of the Book of Notes of Bishop Isidor.

“When the Tuesday before the Ascension of our Lord came, he began to suffer still more in his health.  But he passed all that day and dictated cheerfully, and now and then among other things said, ’Go on quickly, I know not how long I shall hold out, and whether my maker will not soon take me away.’

“But to us he seemed very well to know the time of his departure.  And so he spent the night awake in thanksgiving.  And when the morning appeared, that is Wednesday, he ordered us to write with all speed what he had begun. . . .

“There was one of us with him who said to him, ’Most dear Master, there is still one chapter wanting.  Do you think it troublesome to be asked any more questions?’

“He answered, ’It is no trouble.  Take your pen and make ready and write fast. . . .’

“Then the same boy said once more, ’Dear Master, there is yet one sentence not written.’

“And he said, ‘Well, then write it.’

“And after a little space the boy said, ‘Now it is finished.’

“And he answered, ’Well, thou hast spoken truth, it is finished.  Receive my head into your hands, for it is a great satisfaction to me to sit facing my holy place, where I was wont to pray, that I may also, sitting, call upon my Father.’”

And sitting upon the pavement of his little cell, he sang, “Glory be to the Father and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost.”  “When he had named the Holy Ghost he breathed his last, and departed to the heavenly kingdom.”

So died Bede, surnamed the Venerable.

We have come to think of Venerable as meaning very old.  But Bede was only sixty-two when he died, and Venerable here means rather “Greatly to be honored.”

There are two or three stories about how Bede came to be given his surname.  One tells how a young monk was set to write some lines of poetry to be put upon the tomb where his master was buried.  He tried hard, but the verse would not come right.  He could not get the proper number of syllables in his lines.

    “In this grave lie the bones of
    Bede,”

he wrote.  But he could not find an adjective that would make the line the right length, try how he might.  At last, wearied out, he fell asleep over his task.