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As often as I think of the Tears of Christ, and call to mind the weeping and the mourning of the saints, I cannot help being secretly displeased with myself and feeling utterly put to shame in the sight of God: I feel that I deserve to be beaten with many stripes, and to be overwhelmed with reproaches; I stand aghast at myself, for I am full of sores and I mourn not, I am smitten and I grieve not, I am mangy and I groan not, I am filthy and I wash not, I am poisoned and I seek no antidote; I am weak and feeble, but I seek not the timely help of the Physician of my soul.

Woe is me that the words and the deeds of Jesus move me not so quickly to tears as do the foolish tales of men to laughter. I sin daily, and in almost every moment of my life I go wrong in one way or another, and leave undone what I ought to have done, and yet I wear a cheerful countenance.

Woe is me that I do not fall with Mary Magdalene at Jesus' feet, and do not weep for sorrow of heart, that so with her I may win forgiveness. O Mary, remember me now, and lovingly plead for me to Jesus so long as I live in this frail body, and in so many ways offend.

Woe is me that, whether I am in choir or in my cell, I weep not with Peter when I hear the cock crow, or the birds warning me by their song to rise at once from my bed and pray for pardon of all the sins and negligences of which I have been guilty by day and by night.

Woe is me that with blessed Paul I do not con-