[Meditationes seu Contemplationes devotissimae]

Pilate, as the evangelist says, scourged him, and the soldiers, weaving a crown of thorns, placed it upon his head and clothed him in a purple garment. Recognize, faithful soul, how much you can do and how much you owe, and while you perceive such dignity of your redemption, let that very instruction shame your sinning. Behold, for the impious, piety is scourged; for the foolish, wisdom is mocked; for the liar, truth is denied; justice is condemned for the iniquitous; mercy is afflicted for the cruel.

Concerning the crucifixion of Christ

I refresh myself plainly, good Jesus, in the contemplation of your immense charity which you demonstrated to the human race in your death. For when the transgression of the first man had weakened human nature and had pierced it with a lethal wound, and there was no remedy for its salvation, nor any hope of justice, nor any form of wisdom by which the human race could be rescued from the captivity of the devil and the depth of eternal death, unless medicine came to us from heaven—although many things were ineffably available to the divine piety to repair the human race—he chose this passion as the way by which, to destroy the work of the devil, he would not use the virtue of power, but the reasoning of

justice. And because this contained more of good for grace, more of congruence for wisdom, more of beauty, and more of advantage for salvation. Hence you, good Jesus, about to complete this sacrament of salvific human repair, until he arrived at the place where he was crucified. O with what inexplicable sorrow she was vexed in mind, seeing her Lord and her son hanging on the cross and dying a most bitter death! Whence the evangelist says: "Standing by the cross of Jesus, his mother." Whence Augustine says, weeping, he said: "I was seeing him dying whom my soul loves, and I was entirely melting away for the anguish of sorrow. I was weeping, saying and saying while weeping, 'My son, my son, woe is me, who will grant me that I may die for you?' O miserable one, what shall I do? He is dying, my son; or rather, he is not dying, this most sad mother. My son, my son, love, only son, most sweet son, do not leave me behind you. Draw me to yourself, let this be the first thing of your groaning. O miserable death, do not spare me; you alone are pleasing to those who are suffering. Rise up, forces, slay the mother with the son. Son, sweet, only, singular joy of my life, my only solace, make it so that I, who bore you to death, now die. O son, recognize the miserable one, hear the desolate mother, hear me, I beseech you, and receive me on the gibbet, so that those who lived in one charity may pass in one