My sweet Lord Jesus remembers well the garden of Gethsemane, and though he has left that garden, he now dwells in the garden of his church. There he opens his heart to those who keep his blessed company. That voice of love with which he speaks to his beloved is more musical than the harps of heaven. There is a depth of melodious love within it which leaves all human music far behind. Ten thousands on earth, and millions above, are blessed with its harmonious accents.

Some whom I know well, and whom I greatly envy, are at this moment listening to the beloved voice. O that I were a partaker of their joys! It is true—some of these are poor, others bedridden, and some near the gates of death. But O my Lord, I would cheerfully starve with them, pine with them, or die with them, if I might but hear your voice!

Once I did hear it often, but I have grieved your Spirit. Return to me in compassion, and once again say to me, "I am your salvation." No other voice can content me; I know your voice, and cannot be deceived by another. Let me hear it, I pray. I know not what you will say, neither do I make any condition. O my Beloved, do but let me hear you speak! If it be a rebuke, I will bless you for it.

Perhaps to cleanse my dull ear may need an operation very grievous to the flesh. Let it cost what it may—I turn not from this one consuming desire: cause me to hear your voice. Bore my ear afresh! Pierce my ear with your harshest notes! Only do not permit me to continue deaf to your calls.

Tonight, Lord, grant your unworthy one his desire, for I am yours, and you have bought me with your blood. You have opened my eyes to see you, and the sight has saved me. Lord, open my ears. I have read your heart—now let me hear your lips.