Surprised by joy--impatient as the wind
I turned to share the transport--Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss?--That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn,
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
-- William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
Friday, December 16, 2005
Speculations on Jesus and 'the Jews' in John
I have recently been re-reading the Gospel according to John; and in doing so I have been struck by something more forcefully than I have previously, namely, the peculiarities of the evangel's use of the term 'Jew'. We might be inclined, and, indeed, any look at comments on John shows that many people are inclined, to read the word in the modern sense; but a look at the author's actual usage shows that this is an untenable approach, because he is clearly not using it in our sense. There are two aspects of his usage that become clear when we look at this usage:
(1) John's term 'Jew' is limited by geography. So, for instance, Jesus stays in Galilee to avoid the Jews (Jn 7:1), despite that Galilee has a lot of Jews in our sense of the term. The author of the gospel uses the term always and only for Judeans (the one possible exception is probably not really one, see below). Indeed there are a number of groups in the gospel that are not called 'Jews', despite being clearly what we would call Jewish:
(a) the disciples of John
(b) the disciples of Jesus
(c) the Greeks (who are in context clearly Hellenistic Jews, since they have come to Palestine to celebrate the holy days)
(d) Jewish Galileans
In some cases, particularly (a), (b), and perhaps (c), there is a clear opposition of some sort set up between the Jewish group and the Jews in John's sense.
(2) What is more, John usually restricts it even further, to those who are in league with the Pharisees and priests. In other words, the Jews in John's sense of the term are those who are representatives of Judea's religious establishment. Several uses of the term can only be understood in this way. For instance, Caiaphas's advice to the Pharisees and the priests (Jn 11:48ff) is later summarized as his counsel to the Jews (Jn 18:14); and in more than one spot the people of Judea are opposed to the Jews -- the people are afraid of the Jews because (for instance) the Jews have the power to throw them out of the synagogue.
Obviously, there are lots of uses of the term that can be interpreted in more than one way. But there are only two scenes in which the word 'Jew' seems to have a broader signification than this narrower 'those in league with the Pharisees and priests'. The first scene is the discussion between Jesus and the Samaritan woman (Jn 4). The Samaritan woman having called him a Jew, Jesus identifies himself with the Jews:
If we regarded this use of the term as being closer to our own sense of the term, it would be the only case in the whole gospel which would definitely take that meaning. Much more probable is the conclusion that Jesus is accepting the Samaritan's labeling of him as Judean. We don't find any reason for this in the gospel itself, but, of course, we already know (from Matthew and Luke) that there was a Christian tradition predating this gospel which did, in fact, take Jesus to be born in Judea, despite living in Galilee. Origen had interpreted the phrase 'his own country' in 4:44 (which, if we take it to refer to Galilee seems to conflict with 4:45) to refer to Judea; this is usually dismissed, because modern scholars tend to assume that John only associates Jesus with Galilee (cf. 1:46), not Judea. But I wonder if they are perhaps being too glib on this point, since I suspect Origen is quite right. To identify 'his own country' with Judea fits with the passage preceding. I don't know if this is the right solution or not; but it seems to me that we are taking the gospel more consistently if we regard v. 22 as an affirmation of a Judean identity.
In any case, the other scenario is in some sense more interesting, since it is the interaction between the priests and Pilate (Jn 19). It is a sign of deliberateness, I think, that throughout this entire interaction, the narrator continues to use the term in his usual narrow sense, but Pilate consistently uses it to mean 'Judean'; the Roman governor lumps in all the Judeans together. His title for Jesus, "King of the Jews," clearly means "King of the People of Judea" rather than "King of the Jewish People".
I find all this somewhat interesting in that the gospel is often accused of being anti-Semitic for its heavy, and heavily negative, use of the term 'the Jews'. But the structure of the work tells against this interpretation. There are several Jewish populations who are never condemned under this term, and usually the term is restricted to the Judean religious establishment. The occasional positive use (Jesus with the Samaritan woman) and neutral use (Pilate) are the exceptions that prove the rule: for these are the only cases where there is a straightforward positive argument for taking the term as a reference even to all Judeans. There is no attack on the Jewish people in the Fourth Gospel. Rather, the picture that the evangel gives is of a particular group -- the Judean religious establishment -- who see themselves as the leaders and protectors of all Jewish people, and take this self-appointed mission as a license for meddling in the religious affairs of others. So effective is their meddling that ordinary Jewish people, and even some of their own members, live in fear of their sanction. They are self-appointed gatekeepers, who brand Jewish people who oppose them as sinners or (even worse) Samaritans. That's the picture that John gives; a very limited picture of a very small group within Judaism, and not of the whole Jewish people. In the gospel Jesus opposes not the Jews in general, but the power of the Temple: one might say that in this gospel the Temple of Jesus's body stands over against the corrupted Temple as the symbols of the two opposed ways in which God may be worshipped, the first of which liberates and the second of which oppresses.
(1) John's term 'Jew' is limited by geography. So, for instance, Jesus stays in Galilee to avoid the Jews (Jn 7:1), despite that Galilee has a lot of Jews in our sense of the term. The author of the gospel uses the term always and only for Judeans (the one possible exception is probably not really one, see below). Indeed there are a number of groups in the gospel that are not called 'Jews', despite being clearly what we would call Jewish:
(a) the disciples of John
(b) the disciples of Jesus
(c) the Greeks (who are in context clearly Hellenistic Jews, since they have come to Palestine to celebrate the holy days)
(d) Jewish Galileans
In some cases, particularly (a), (b), and perhaps (c), there is a clear opposition of some sort set up between the Jewish group and the Jews in John's sense.
(2) What is more, John usually restricts it even further, to those who are in league with the Pharisees and priests. In other words, the Jews in John's sense of the term are those who are representatives of Judea's religious establishment. Several uses of the term can only be understood in this way. For instance, Caiaphas's advice to the Pharisees and the priests (Jn 11:48ff) is later summarized as his counsel to the Jews (Jn 18:14); and in more than one spot the people of Judea are opposed to the Jews -- the people are afraid of the Jews because (for instance) the Jews have the power to throw them out of the synagogue.
Obviously, there are lots of uses of the term that can be interpreted in more than one way. But there are only two scenes in which the word 'Jew' seems to have a broader signification than this narrower 'those in league with the Pharisees and priests'. The first scene is the discussion between Jesus and the Samaritan woman (Jn 4). The Samaritan woman having called him a Jew, Jesus identifies himself with the Jews:
You Samaritans worship what you do not know; we worship what we do know, for salvation is from the Jews.
If we regarded this use of the term as being closer to our own sense of the term, it would be the only case in the whole gospel which would definitely take that meaning. Much more probable is the conclusion that Jesus is accepting the Samaritan's labeling of him as Judean. We don't find any reason for this in the gospel itself, but, of course, we already know (from Matthew and Luke) that there was a Christian tradition predating this gospel which did, in fact, take Jesus to be born in Judea, despite living in Galilee. Origen had interpreted the phrase 'his own country' in 4:44 (which, if we take it to refer to Galilee seems to conflict with 4:45) to refer to Judea; this is usually dismissed, because modern scholars tend to assume that John only associates Jesus with Galilee (cf. 1:46), not Judea. But I wonder if they are perhaps being too glib on this point, since I suspect Origen is quite right. To identify 'his own country' with Judea fits with the passage preceding. I don't know if this is the right solution or not; but it seems to me that we are taking the gospel more consistently if we regard v. 22 as an affirmation of a Judean identity.
In any case, the other scenario is in some sense more interesting, since it is the interaction between the priests and Pilate (Jn 19). It is a sign of deliberateness, I think, that throughout this entire interaction, the narrator continues to use the term in his usual narrow sense, but Pilate consistently uses it to mean 'Judean'; the Roman governor lumps in all the Judeans together. His title for Jesus, "King of the Jews," clearly means "King of the People of Judea" rather than "King of the Jewish People".
I find all this somewhat interesting in that the gospel is often accused of being anti-Semitic for its heavy, and heavily negative, use of the term 'the Jews'. But the structure of the work tells against this interpretation. There are several Jewish populations who are never condemned under this term, and usually the term is restricted to the Judean religious establishment. The occasional positive use (Jesus with the Samaritan woman) and neutral use (Pilate) are the exceptions that prove the rule: for these are the only cases where there is a straightforward positive argument for taking the term as a reference even to all Judeans. There is no attack on the Jewish people in the Fourth Gospel. Rather, the picture that the evangel gives is of a particular group -- the Judean religious establishment -- who see themselves as the leaders and protectors of all Jewish people, and take this self-appointed mission as a license for meddling in the religious affairs of others. So effective is their meddling that ordinary Jewish people, and even some of their own members, live in fear of their sanction. They are self-appointed gatekeepers, who brand Jewish people who oppose them as sinners or (even worse) Samaritans. That's the picture that John gives; a very limited picture of a very small group within Judaism, and not of the whole Jewish people. In the gospel Jesus opposes not the Jews in general, but the power of the Temple: one might say that in this gospel the Temple of Jesus's body stands over against the corrupted Temple as the symbols of the two opposed ways in which God may be worshipped, the first of which liberates and the second of which oppresses.
Theology in the Blogosphere
The 100th Christian Carnival is up at NickQueen.com. I found especially interesting the post on the view of messianic prophecy in the Talmud.
Nestorius Lives is very good post on the Theotokos doctrine at "The Crusty Curmudgeon." (HT: Rebecca Stark at Theologica)
Was Jesus really a carpenter? Euangelion discusses the alternatives to the traditional attribution.
Loren Rosson III discusses New Testament meanings of Christ's death at The Busybody.
Claude Mariottini discusses the proper translation of Isaiah 40:6.
At Prosblogion there's a discussion of Rowe's Can God Be Free? argument. It's an interesting argument; but I'm inclined to think it was already shown to be impossible by Malebranche. People forget that Leibniz, in his affirmation that God must create the best possible world, was explicitly opposing himself to Malebranche, who denies--rightly, I think--that there's any coherent argument for such a conclusion. The best you can do is conclude that whatever God does must be done in the best possible way given the ends He has in view. Malebranche himself held that this world was not only obviously not the best possible world, it's not even a particularly good one by most of our standards; but this does not reflect on God as infinite perfect being at all, since all that follows from God's being infinite perfect being is that his actions must be the best possible actions of their kind, not that his effects must be the best possible effects. Leibniz, in fact, makes no good argument whatsoever for his rejection of this view; and none of his erstwhile modern followers are even as good as Leibniz is at making Malebranche's distinction even to reject it, which is the absolute minimum for saying anything useful on the subject. I've given an argument for accepting what is essentially Malebranche's distinction in a similar context. Once the distinction is accepted, the argument fails.
Nestorius Lives is very good post on the Theotokos doctrine at "The Crusty Curmudgeon." (HT: Rebecca Stark at Theologica)
Was Jesus really a carpenter? Euangelion discusses the alternatives to the traditional attribution.
Loren Rosson III discusses New Testament meanings of Christ's death at The Busybody.
Claude Mariottini discusses the proper translation of Isaiah 40:6.
At Prosblogion there's a discussion of Rowe's Can God Be Free? argument. It's an interesting argument; but I'm inclined to think it was already shown to be impossible by Malebranche. People forget that Leibniz, in his affirmation that God must create the best possible world, was explicitly opposing himself to Malebranche, who denies--rightly, I think--that there's any coherent argument for such a conclusion. The best you can do is conclude that whatever God does must be done in the best possible way given the ends He has in view. Malebranche himself held that this world was not only obviously not the best possible world, it's not even a particularly good one by most of our standards; but this does not reflect on God as infinite perfect being at all, since all that follows from God's being infinite perfect being is that his actions must be the best possible actions of their kind, not that his effects must be the best possible effects. Leibniz, in fact, makes no good argument whatsoever for his rejection of this view; and none of his erstwhile modern followers are even as good as Leibniz is at making Malebranche's distinction even to reject it, which is the absolute minimum for saying anything useful on the subject. I've given an argument for accepting what is essentially Malebranche's distinction in a similar context. Once the distinction is accepted, the argument fails.
Bernoullian Combination
Jakob Bernoulli's posthumous Ars Conjectandi (1713) is a classic of probability theory that deserves to be better known among students of early modern thought. One of the interesting things about the work is its proposal of a non-Bayesian way of dealing with probability of arguments. We tend to forget that originally there was no notion of numerical probability; our tendency to think of probabilities numerically is precisely one of our inheritances from the early modern period. Originally a probability was an argument; and much early probability theory gets its major impulse from the first exploratory attempts to see if this sense of probability could be clarified by algebra.
Against this background, it was natural that people would begin seeing what analogies there were between gambling, an area where decision and argument was very easily mathematized, and other areas. Bernoulli explored a way to mathematize probably arguments by seeing them as analogous to a game of chance. A probable argument, Bernoulli suggested, can be broken down into 'cases of argument', where each case is a possible outcome of using the argument. So, as just one example, if I put forward a given argument, I could break this down into a case in which the argument yields A and a case in which the argument does not yield A. That is, if I have a probable argument, there will be cases in which the probable argument will give a given possible conclusion and cases in which it won't.
If we break down a probable argument into its cases, we can then combine arguments in an interesting probabilistic way. Here's an example. Suppose someone has been murdered. We know there was only one murderer, we have a profile of the murder, and we know that p people fit the profile. Since the profile fits p suspects, for each suspect we can regard the profile as a probable argument for the conclusion that that subject is the murderer. These are the cases of the argument. Suppose that one of the suspects is called Gracchus; then there are p-1 cases of the argument in which the argument does not prove Gracchus guilty, and 1 case in which it does. So far, so good; but let us add another argument, since we're interested here in the combination of arguments. Suppose that Gracchus, on being questioned about the murder, turns pale. Let's put on our sleuthing hats. Gracchus's pallor can form the basis of a probable argument about his participation in the murder. If we break this down into its cases, there would be a case in which this argument would prove his guilt, because the guilt and the pallor would actually be linked; and there would be cases in which it would not (because the pallor would not be linked to the guilt). Let the total number of these cases be called q; then the number of cases which leave the matter open is q-1.
By combining this argument with the previous one, we could reason in this way. We can use our first probable argument to divide the q-1 cases into cases in which Gracchus is guilty and cases in which he is innocent. In accordance with that first argument, proportion of these cases, 1/p, yield the conclusion of guilt, because one case out of p will lead to guilt; the rest, (p-1)/p, will yield the conclusion of innocence. So if we put together all the cases yielding the conclusion that Gracchus is guilty, we get the following number:
1 + (q-1)/p
Think it through a moment, and you'll see why: we have 1 case of guilt, and we add to that a proportion 1/p of the q-1 cases. The combined probability that Gracchus is guilty, then, is as follows:
[1 + (q-1)/p]/q
which can be simplified to:
(p + q -1)/pq
Suppose there were 20 suspects; and suppose that we judge on the basis of our experience that guilt can be inferred from pallor one out of every hundred times. Assuming I haven't made a stupid addition mistake, the probability of guilt is a little under 3/50 (more precisely, something like 119/2000). Suppose there were only 4 suspects, and we could corrrectly infer guilt from pallor one out of every ten times. Then the probability of guilt would be 13/40.
One of the interesting features of this approach is that, depending on the arguments we are combining, we can't assume that the probabilities for and against a conclusion sum to one. This isn't actually surprising, given that we are dealing with probable arguments; we would hardly expect it always to be the case that the arguments we are combining always cover all possible cases.
Bernoulli's work was only published poshumously in 1713; however, it was an attempt to bring mathematics to the understanding of probability that was then common. It's not surprising, then, that if we look at what people in the seventeenth and eighteenth century say about probabilities and chances, we find that they think of it in terms that are (broadly) like those of Bernoulli, and not really like the way we tend to think of them. Barry Gower had a nice article in the April 1990 Hume Studies in which he pointed out that recognizing this explains one of the common objections to Hume's argument against miracles. It was common for people to insist that whatever the probability against miracles may be, it has no effect on the probability for miracles. Their conception of probability is certainly not Bayesian; it is not even directly probability-theoretical (since it's based on a different, albeit related, notion of probability). Rather, it is much closer to the Bernoullian combination of arguments (as Hume's own argument also is). Pretty much everyone in the period has this view of the matter; they differ on details, but they tend to think along the same lines.
Glenn Shafer has a really good article on the significance of Bernoulli's Ars Conjectandi for probability theory (PDF format).
Against this background, it was natural that people would begin seeing what analogies there were between gambling, an area where decision and argument was very easily mathematized, and other areas. Bernoulli explored a way to mathematize probably arguments by seeing them as analogous to a game of chance. A probable argument, Bernoulli suggested, can be broken down into 'cases of argument', where each case is a possible outcome of using the argument. So, as just one example, if I put forward a given argument, I could break this down into a case in which the argument yields A and a case in which the argument does not yield A. That is, if I have a probable argument, there will be cases in which the probable argument will give a given possible conclusion and cases in which it won't.
If we break down a probable argument into its cases, we can then combine arguments in an interesting probabilistic way. Here's an example. Suppose someone has been murdered. We know there was only one murderer, we have a profile of the murder, and we know that p people fit the profile. Since the profile fits p suspects, for each suspect we can regard the profile as a probable argument for the conclusion that that subject is the murderer. These are the cases of the argument. Suppose that one of the suspects is called Gracchus; then there are p-1 cases of the argument in which the argument does not prove Gracchus guilty, and 1 case in which it does. So far, so good; but let us add another argument, since we're interested here in the combination of arguments. Suppose that Gracchus, on being questioned about the murder, turns pale. Let's put on our sleuthing hats. Gracchus's pallor can form the basis of a probable argument about his participation in the murder. If we break this down into its cases, there would be a case in which this argument would prove his guilt, because the guilt and the pallor would actually be linked; and there would be cases in which it would not (because the pallor would not be linked to the guilt). Let the total number of these cases be called q; then the number of cases which leave the matter open is q-1.
By combining this argument with the previous one, we could reason in this way. We can use our first probable argument to divide the q-1 cases into cases in which Gracchus is guilty and cases in which he is innocent. In accordance with that first argument, proportion of these cases, 1/p, yield the conclusion of guilt, because one case out of p will lead to guilt; the rest, (p-1)/p, will yield the conclusion of innocence. So if we put together all the cases yielding the conclusion that Gracchus is guilty, we get the following number:
1 + (q-1)/p
Think it through a moment, and you'll see why: we have 1 case of guilt, and we add to that a proportion 1/p of the q-1 cases. The combined probability that Gracchus is guilty, then, is as follows:
[1 + (q-1)/p]/q
which can be simplified to:
(p + q -1)/pq
Suppose there were 20 suspects; and suppose that we judge on the basis of our experience that guilt can be inferred from pallor one out of every hundred times. Assuming I haven't made a stupid addition mistake, the probability of guilt is a little under 3/50 (more precisely, something like 119/2000). Suppose there were only 4 suspects, and we could corrrectly infer guilt from pallor one out of every ten times. Then the probability of guilt would be 13/40.
One of the interesting features of this approach is that, depending on the arguments we are combining, we can't assume that the probabilities for and against a conclusion sum to one. This isn't actually surprising, given that we are dealing with probable arguments; we would hardly expect it always to be the case that the arguments we are combining always cover all possible cases.
Bernoulli's work was only published poshumously in 1713; however, it was an attempt to bring mathematics to the understanding of probability that was then common. It's not surprising, then, that if we look at what people in the seventeenth and eighteenth century say about probabilities and chances, we find that they think of it in terms that are (broadly) like those of Bernoulli, and not really like the way we tend to think of them. Barry Gower had a nice article in the April 1990 Hume Studies in which he pointed out that recognizing this explains one of the common objections to Hume's argument against miracles. It was common for people to insist that whatever the probability against miracles may be, it has no effect on the probability for miracles. Their conception of probability is certainly not Bayesian; it is not even directly probability-theoretical (since it's based on a different, albeit related, notion of probability). Rather, it is much closer to the Bernoullian combination of arguments (as Hume's own argument also is). Pretty much everyone in the period has this view of the matter; they differ on details, but they tend to think along the same lines.
Glenn Shafer has a really good article on the significance of Bernoulli's Ars Conjectandi for probability theory (PDF format).
History Carnival 22
(My she's growing up fast!) The 22nd History Carnival is up at Frog in a Well: Korea. My criticism of Stark's essay was apparently nominated. There's a good mix this time around -- both light reading and heavy reading. Take a moment to browse.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
More Notes
* Critique of pure (Jedi) reason at "verbum ipsum"
* Interview with a Penitent: Anne Rice at Christianity Today (HT: Another Think) Also worth perusing is Rice's official website; she corrects common misconceptions about her recent writing of Christ the Lord here.
* The Philosopher's Carnival is up at "Right Reason"
* Apparently Daniel Dennett stuck his foot in his mouth recently. That's what he gets for lying about Darwin.
* James Madison's original proposal for the Ninth Amendment (HT: Stuart Buck):
* Some of you may have noticed that there was a period when accessing Siris would create a pop-up ad. It took me forever to figure out what was doing it (since I am a slow and naive country bumpkin in this land of wicked code-writers), but it was my Nedstat counter (now webstats4u). It was originally an awesome free webcounter (Danish, if I recall correctly), which I used to great effect to keep track of who was linking to me, etc. However, when the new management took over, they started using pop-up ads, so I took the counter off. Apparently a lot of people are very annoyed. The new management had put more ads in the statcounter dashboard itself, which would have been just fine; but coding pop-up ads into other people's websites without so much as a how-d'ye-do is a bit uncouth. I'll be experimenting a bit with StatCounter to see if I like it.
* My result in the Narnia Quiz (HT: Rebecca, who is also Tumnus):
* Interview with a Penitent: Anne Rice at Christianity Today (HT: Another Think) Also worth perusing is Rice's official website; she corrects common misconceptions about her recent writing of Christ the Lord here.
* The Philosopher's Carnival is up at "Right Reason"
* Apparently Daniel Dennett stuck his foot in his mouth recently. That's what he gets for lying about Darwin.
* James Madison's original proposal for the Ninth Amendment (HT: Stuart Buck):
The exceptions here or elsewhere in the constitution, made in favor of particular rights, shall not be so construed as to diminish the just importance of other rights retained by the people; or as to enlarge the powers delegated by the constitution; but either as actual limitations of such powers, or as inserted merely for greater caution.
* Some of you may have noticed that there was a period when accessing Siris would create a pop-up ad. It took me forever to figure out what was doing it (since I am a slow and naive country bumpkin in this land of wicked code-writers), but it was my Nedstat counter (now webstats4u). It was originally an awesome free webcounter (Danish, if I recall correctly), which I used to great effect to keep track of who was linking to me, etc. However, when the new management took over, they started using pop-up ads, so I took the counter off. Apparently a lot of people are very annoyed. The new management had put more ads in the statcounter dashboard itself, which would have been just fine; but coding pop-up ads into other people's websites without so much as a how-d'ye-do is a bit uncouth. I'll be experimenting a bit with StatCounter to see if I like it.
* My result in the Narnia Quiz (HT: Rebecca, who is also Tumnus):
Feast of St. John of the Cross
En una noche escura
con ansias en amores inflamada
¡o dichosa ventura!
salà sin ser notada
estando ya mi casa sosegada.
ascuras y segura
por la secreta escala, disfraçada,
¡o dichosa ventura!
a escuras y en celada
estando ya mi casa sosegada.
En la noche dichosa
en secreto que naide me veýa,
ni yo mirava cosa
sin otra luz y guÃa
sino la que en el coraçón ardÃa.
Aquésta me guiava
más cierto que la luz de mediodÃa
adonde me esperava
quien yo bien me savÃa
en parte donde naide parecÃa.
¡O noche, que guiaste!
¡O noche amable más que la alborada!
¡oh noche que juntaste
amado con amada,
amada en el amado transformada!
En mi pecho florido,
que entero para él solo se guardaba
allà quedó dormido
y yo le regalaba
y el ventalle de cedros ayre daba.
El ayre de la almena
quando yo sus cavellos esparcÃa
con su mano serena
en mi cuello herÃa
y todos mis sentidos suspendÃa.
Quedéme y olbidéme
el rostro recliné sobre el amado;
cessó todo, y dexéme
dexando mi cuydado
entre las açucenas olbidado.
An English translation to this masterpiece of Spanish theological poetry is here.
con ansias en amores inflamada
¡o dichosa ventura!
salà sin ser notada
estando ya mi casa sosegada.
ascuras y segura
por la secreta escala, disfraçada,
¡o dichosa ventura!
a escuras y en celada
estando ya mi casa sosegada.
En la noche dichosa
en secreto que naide me veýa,
ni yo mirava cosa
sin otra luz y guÃa
sino la que en el coraçón ardÃa.
Aquésta me guiava
más cierto que la luz de mediodÃa
adonde me esperava
quien yo bien me savÃa
en parte donde naide parecÃa.
¡O noche, que guiaste!
¡O noche amable más que la alborada!
¡oh noche que juntaste
amado con amada,
amada en el amado transformada!
En mi pecho florido,
que entero para él solo se guardaba
allà quedó dormido
y yo le regalaba
y el ventalle de cedros ayre daba.
El ayre de la almena
quando yo sus cavellos esparcÃa
con su mano serena
en mi cuello herÃa
y todos mis sentidos suspendÃa.
Quedéme y olbidéme
el rostro recliné sobre el amado;
cessó todo, y dexéme
dexando mi cuydado
entre las açucenas olbidado.
An English translation to this masterpiece of Spanish theological poetry is here.
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