My Soul is not known. My Soul is not loved. Night and day I see lamps burning before My Altar. My Sacrament of love finds worshippers and victims; but My Soul does not meet with sympathising souls.
Every day I give Myself to My creatures, and, swallowed up in this union, they praise everything in Me, but My Soul and My Sacred Head crowned with thorns, the Seat of Divine Wisdom.
Each day My Cross is bathed with tears, and the daughters of Zion cannot be comforted, because they see Me without brightness and beauty, but few there are who compassionate the anguish of My Soul, sorrowful unto death.
My Heart has found thousands of hearts, but My Soul remains solitary, and My Thorn-crowned Brow unhonoured, My Face besmeared, and My Eyes and Mouth filled with congealing Blood, and no one is there to wipe It away and refresh My parched Lips and swollen Tongue.
"My Soul is sorrowful even unto death, and I have looked for some one to comfort Me and there is none."
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