The feast of Saint Agnes is celebrated on January 21st. The life of this teenager martyred in Rome and the revelations of Jesus to Maria Valtorta that speak of her wonderful courage.
Saint Agnes is the patron saint of the virgins, chastity, those betrothed in marriage, of the purity as well as gardeners. The custom of the white lambs, whose wool is used to make the palios of the archbishops arose in relation to this saint.
Her latin name is “Agnes”, related to “agnus” which means lamb.
Agnes of Rome (c. 291 – c. 304) is a roman virgin who suffered martyrdom during Diocletian’s persecution. Details about her life appear on the document “Acts of the Martyrs“. Agnes was beheaded while she was just twelve or thirteen years old for refusing to adore the gods and keeping her faith in Christ. She is venerated as one of the greatest martyrs in the history of the Church. Agnes feast day is 21 January.
Next we explore the revelations to María Valtorta about this great saint of the Church. Space and time location is fourth century AD, Rome.
SAINT AGNES MARTYRDOM
Written January 13, 1944
Jesus says:
“It is said, ‘God, having infinitely loved man, loved him until death.’
“My truest followers are not and were not unlike their God, and, in keeping with his example and for his glory, they have given Him and men measureless love extending to the point of death.
“I have already told you that the death of Agnes, like that of Therese has a single name: love. Regardless of whether the sword or illness appears to be the cause of the death of these creatures, who were able to love with that relative ‘infinity’ of the creature (I speak this way for quibblers over words), which is a lesser copy of God’s perfect infinity, the true and exclusive agent is love.
“A single word should be affixed as an epigraph upon these ‘saints’ of mine. The one which is used for Me: Dilexit. ‘He loved.’ Agnes the girl and the young Cecilia loved; the group of Symphorus’ children loved; the tribune Sebastian loved; the deacon Lawrence loved; the slave Julia loved; Cassian the teacher loved; Rufus the carpenter loved; Linus the pontiff loved; the white flowerbed of the virgins, the tender meadow of the children, the delicate company of the mothers, the virile one of the fathers, the iron- hard cohort of the soldiers, and the sacerdotal procession of bishops, pontiffs, priests, and deacons loved; the humble and twice- redeemed mass of slaves loved.
“This purple court of mine, which confessed Me in the midst of torments, loved. And, in gentler times, the host of those consecrated in cloisters and convents loved, and the virgins in all convents, and the earthly heroes who, while living in the world, have been able to make love a cloister for the spirit so that it will live loving only the Lord, for the Lord’s sake, and men through the Lord. “‘He loved.’ This little word, which is greater than the universe- for in its brevity it contains God’s most forceful force, God’s most characteristic, and God’s most powerful power- this word, whose sound, when spoken supernaturally to describe a life led, fills creation with itself and makes mankind start with admiration and the Heavens with rejoicing, is the key, the secret which opens up and explains the resistance, generosity, fortitude, and heroism of so many creatures who on account of age or family conditions and position seemed to be the least suited for such heroic perfection. For, if it still does not cause amazement that Sebastian, Alexander, Mario, and Speditus should have been able to defy death for the sake of Christ- just as they had defied death for Caesar- it is astonishing that some who were little more than girls, like Agnes, and loving mothers should have been able to cast their lives into the midst of tortures, agreeing, as their first torment, to wrest themselves away from the embrace of relatives and children out of love for Me.
“But to the human and superhuman generosity of the martyr to love there corresponds the divine generosity of the God of love. It is I who give my strength to these heroes of mine and to all the victims of the unbloody, but long and no less heroic martyrdom. I make Myself strength in them. It is I who infuse fortitude into the lamb Agnes and the feeble old man, the young mother and the soldier, the master and the slave, and, in addition, over the centuries, into the cloistered nun and the statesman who dies for the faith, the unknown victim and the spiritual leader.
“In the depths of their hearts and on their lips, do not seek any other pearl or savor except this: ‘Jesus.’ I, Jesus, am wherever holiness shines and charity pours itself out.”
It is midnight. Jesus has just finished dictating this passage, which I connect with my vision tonight.
The sentence “God, having loved man infinitely, loved him until death” had been sounding in my heart since this morning. To the point that I leafed through the whole New Testament to see if I could find it. But I did not find it. Either it escaped me, or it’s not there. Almost blinded, I resigned myself to terminating the search, convinced that Jesus would certainly speak on that subject. And I was not wrong. But before speaking about it, my Lord granted me a sweet vision, and with that in my heart I abandoned myself to my usual… rest, later encountering it once more, as fresh as in the first instant, on my return among the living.
It seemed, then, that I was seeing a kind of portico (either a peristyle or a forum), a portico in ancient Rome. I say “portico” because there was a beautiful marble mosaic floor and white marble columns supporting a vaulted ceiling, decorated with mosaics. It might have been the portico of a pagan temple, or of a Roman palace, either the Curia or the Forum. I don’t know.
Against a wall there was a sort of throne, composed of a marble platform supporting a seat. On this seat was an ancient Roman wearing a toga. I then understood he was the Imperial Prefect. Against the other walls were statues and statuettes of gods and tripods for incense. In the middle of the room or portico was an empty space with a large slab of white marble. In the wall facing the seat of that magistrate there opened the real portico, by way of which the square and street were visible.
While I observed these details and the Prefect’s surly expression, three young women entered the vestibule, portico, or room (whichever you prefer).
One was very young- practically a child. Dressed completely in white- a tunic which entirely covered her, leaving only her thin neck and small hands with a girl’s wrists visible. Her head was uncovered, and she was blond. Simply combed hair, with a part in the middle of her head and two long, heavy braids over her shoulders. Her hair weighed so much that it made her bend her head slightly backwards, giving her a queenly bearing, without her so desiring. A little lamb a few days old was frolicking at her feet, bleating- entirely white, with a pink little nose like a child’s mouth.
A few steps behind the girl were the other two young women. One was almost the same age as the first one mentioned, but more sturdily built and with a more lower- class appearance. The other was more adult- about sixteen or eighteen years old at most. They, too, were dressed in white, with their heads covered. But more modestly dressed. They seemed to be servants, for they behaved respectfully towards the first one. I understood that the latter was Agnes, and the one her age, Emerentiana- I don’t know who the other was.
Agnes, smiling and secure, went right up to the Magistrate’s dais. And here I heard the following dialogue.
“Did you wish for me? Here I am.”
“When you find out why I wanted you, I don’t think you will still call this gesture of mine a ‘wish.’ Are you a Christian?”
“Yes, by the grace of God.”
“Do you realize what this assertion can bring to you?”
“Heaven.
“Be careful! Death is ugly, and you are a child. Don’t smile, because I’m not joking.”
“And I’m not, either. I am smiling at you because you are the pronubus of my eternal wedding, and I am grateful to you.”
“Think of an earthly wedding, instead. You are beautiful and wealthy. Many are already thinking of you. You have only to choose to become a happy patrician.”
“my choice has already been made. I love the Only One worthy of being loved, and this is the hour of my wedding; this is the temple for it. I am hearing the voice of the Spouse who is coming and am already seeing his look of love. I am sacrificing my virginity to Him so that He will make it into an eternal flower.”
“If you are concerned about your virginity and about your life as well, sacrifice at once to the gods. This is what the law requires.”
“I have one true God and will sacrifice to Him willingly.” And here it seemed that some of the Prefect’s assistants gave Agnes a vase with incense in it so that she could scatter it before a god over the tripod chosen by her.
“These are not the gods I love. My God is our Lord Jesus Christ. To Him, whom I love, I will sacrifice myself.”
It seemed to me at this point that the angered Prefect ordered his assistants to place chains around Agnes’ wrists to keep her from fleeing or committing some offensive act against the images, since from that moment on she was regarded as guilty and a prisoner.
But the smiling virgin turned to her executioner, saying, “Don’t touch me. I came here spontaneously because I am called here by the voice of the Spouse, who from Heaven is inviting me to the eternal wedding. I have no need for your bracelets or your chains. Only if I wanted to be moved towards evil would you have to place them on me. And- perhaps- they would be of no use, for my Lord God would make them more useless than a linen thread on a giant’s wrist. But to go out to meet death, joy, and marriage with Christ- no, your chains are of no use, O brother. I bless you if you give me martyrdom. I do not flee. I love you and pray for your spirit.”
As beautiful, white, and upright as a lily, Agnes was a heavenly vision in the vision…
The Prefect gave the sentence, which I did not hear clearly. There seems to have been a kind of gap during which I lost sight of Agnes, intent as I was on the multitude that had crowded into that place.
I then came across the martyr again, even more beautiful and cheerful. In front of her was a little golden statue of Jove and a tripod. At her side was the executioner, with his sword already unsheathed. They seemed to be making a last attempt to bend her will. But Agnes, with flashing eyes, was shaking her head and, with her small hand, refusing the statue. The little lamb was no longer at her feet, but, rather, in the arms of the weeping Emerentiana.
I saw they were having Agnes kneel down on the floor, in the middle of the room, where the large slab of white marble was located, The martyr recollected herself, with her arms over her chest and her gaze uplifted to the sky. Her eyes, in the rapture of a delicate contemplation, became flooded with tears of superhuman joy. There was a smile on her face, which was not paler than before.
One of the assistants took hold of her braids, as if they were a rope, to keep her head still. But there was no need to.
“I love Christ!” she cried when she saw the executioner lift the sword, and I saw it penetrate between the shoulder blade and collarbone and open her right carotid, and the martyr fell, still maintaining her kneeling position, to her left, like someone cuddling up to sleep, in a blessed sleep, for the smile did not leave her face and was hidden only by the stream of blood gushing from her slashed throat as if from a beaker.
This was my vision tonight. I could not wait to be alone to write it down and take joy in it once more in peace.
It was so lovely that while I was experiencing it- and tears were falling which I think the faint light in the room hid from those present, and I remained with my eyes closed, partly because I was so absorbed in contemplation that I needed to concentrate and partly to make them think I was sleeping, although I don’t like people to know… where I am- I could not bear to hear bits of ordinary, very human phrases drifting like flotsam amidst the beauty of the vision, and I said, “Hush, hush,” as if the noise bothered me. But it was not that. The fact was that I wanted to remain alone to contemplate in peace. As I indeed managed to.
Then, afterwards, Jesus spoke to me.
THE DEPOSITION OF AGNES
Written January 20, 1944
As a comfort for my sadness, the good Jesus grants me the following vision, which I hasten to describe for you, with the thought that you may be pleased with it.
I am witnessing the deposition of Agnes.
I see the garden of a patrician’s house. I do not know if it is the house of Agnes’ father or of another Christian family. After all, that is not very important. In short, I see a very ample garden with roads and lanes, flowerbeds, fishponds, and plants with long stems.
It is evening- I might say night, since there are already thick shadows. The place is illuminated by lovely moonlight and scattered torches or lamps of some kind. I see the flames curving from time to time before the slight evening wind. The moon is in the first quarter, and I thus think it is 8 p.m. or even before 8, since the moon has barely risen above the horizon and in January it rises early, especially when in its initial phase.
At first I see nothing else. The scene then becomes livelier. Many people with lamps and torches enter the garden, and the light grows. They are undoubtedly men and women Christians led by their priests and deacons to the burial of Agnes.
At a certain moment one of the doors of the house opens, and a brightly illuminated peristyle appears, parallel to the street, of course, for facing this door- towards the inside, shall we say- there is another one, which also opens as if someone had knocked outside, and a group of people enters, bearing a body wrapped in a shroud on a stretcher.
After the stretcher has been set down in the middle of this peristyle and the door alongside the street closed, the body is uncovered, reverently lifted up and placed on another kind of stretcher resembling a cot without panels, covered with very opulent dark- red cloth which I would describe as embroidery.
I see that the martyr has already been washed and laid out. There is no longer blood on her face and hair or her clothing. They must have dressed her in a clean tunic since there is no stain on it.
The young martyr’s face is so pale that she looks like a marble statue. But she is very peaceful. She is smiling. Her hair is loose under the white veil entirely covering her. But she is veiled first of all by her long blond hair. A real cloak of gold enveloping her down to her knees. Her hands are joined over her breast and are holding a palm. The wound on her neck is not visible. They have mercifully covered it with the golden locks and white veil.
Around her is a throng of relatives who are soundlessly weeping and kissing her waxen face and marble brow- family members, companions in faith, and priests.
A venerable old man comes in, flanked by two others. They are all dressed like Romans at that time. From what is taking place I understand that the old man is the Pontiff or one of his vicars. But I would say he is the Pontiff, for they all kneel when he enters and blesses. He, too, draws near the martyr and prays over her. He then puts on his liturgical vestments, as do the two deacons accompanying him and many of the priests scattered among the Christians, and the funeral train is formed.
A group of virgins, including Emerentiana, draw close to the stretcher and lift it up. Though Agnes, on being viewed stretched out, seems taller than when alive, the weight must not be excessive- she is a child and not very buxom. The virgins are all dressed and veiled in white: a hedge of lilies around a faded lily laid out on the purple of the funeral cloth. At the forefront are the Pontiff and the priests, preceded and flanked by ushers with torches; behind them are the virgins with the martyr; then the parents, relatives, and Christians- all of them with lamps- proceed along the paths towards the place where the garden borders on what (I think) is open countryside. It is clear that there are no other houses afterwards, but other plants and meadows.
The scene is placid and solemn. The moon is kissing the snow- white body, and the wind is caressing it. I see a blond lock waving tenuously in the slight breeze.
The Christians are singing in a low voice. At first I find it hard to understand, perhaps because I am distracted on seeing so many things. I then make out the words of the sacred melody in Latin and remember having known it. I wonder where I have heard or read it.
In the meantime they have arrived at a sort of shaft which is quite wide at its mouth and into which one can descend by a little stairway cut into the tufa or sandstone, as the case may be. The leading figures gradually go down, and in the underground cavity, which has been dug in a circular shape, with many tunnels running off in different directions which seem to have barely been begun, the voices become louder and more solemn.
Now I remember clearly. They are the words of the Apocalypse, at the point where there is mention of that “canticle” which may be sung only by those who did not contaminate themselves on earth. But not all of it is uttered. It is uttered in that way. They were singing that hymn so slowly that I was able to transcribe it, and I then checked to see if my asininity had made a lot of mistakes in Latin.
Et vidi supra montem Sion Agnum stantem, the men were singing.
Et audivi vocem de caelo, tamquam vocem aquarum multarum, the women responded.
Sicut citharoedorum citharizantium in citharis suis.
Et cantabant quasi canticum novum.
Et nemo poterat dicere canticum, nisi illa 144,000 qui empti sunt de terra.
Hi sunt qui cum milieribus non sunt coinquinati: virgines enim, sunt.
Hi sequuntur Agnum, quocumque ierit.
Hi empti sunt ex hominibus primitiae Deo et Agno.
Sine macula enim, sunt ante thronum Dei.
The men and the women were singing the lines alternately.
A heavenly harmony! There were tears in my eyes, and there is still a kind of river of sweetness in me which soothes everything. I hear it above all the noises around me…
A last farewell by the relatives, and the body is then upraised and carried towards the long, narrow burial niche scooped out of the sandstone, sidelong and not lengthwise. The Pontiff accompanies the deposition with the following words: “Veni, sponsa Christi. Veni, Agne sanctissima. Requiescant in pace.”
A stone is positioned and secured over the opening.
The vision comes to a halt there.
I feel at peace as if I, too, had been carried into that little burial niche alongside the sweet child, waiting to rise again with her in Christ after the martyrdom, as if I, like her, had already emerged from the torments and wickedness of the world and were singing at her side the canticle which only those who have been rescued from the earth sing.
It is indeed beautiful to die for Jesus! It is indeed beautiful to be able to say to oneself, “My pain obtains Paradise for me! ”
I now recollect myself, waiting for you to come. I recollect myself in the echo of that sweet song so full of promises for those who have given themselves to the service of the Lamb and follow Him in all He wills.
Written again on the morning of the 23rd, out of fear that those detached pages might get lost.
I see the garden of a patrician’s house. There are roads, flowerbeds, fishponds, little meadows, and long- stemmed plants. It seems vast and must border on the open countryside or other enormous gardens, as I later observe, for where it ends there are no houses, but other meadows and plants.
At the beginning of the vision there are no people in the garden. I see it in the brightness of the light provided here and there by oil lanterns or torches set at different points. I see the reddish flames, which bend from time to time in the light evening wind. There is also moonlight. The moon is in its initial phase, for the illuminated section is thin and facing westward. Given the season and the position of the moon, which has barely risen in the sky, I think it must be the early hours of the night, which comes on very soon at this time of year.
Later on I observe near the house- which seems to be entirely closed up as if it were empty- many groups of men and women dressed as in that time, accompanied by other men who seem to be invested with a special role and dignity and whom all obey respectfully. I understand that they are Christians who have come to Agnes’ funeral.
Many have little oil lanterns, and this fact enables me to see that there are some among the men with short- I would say “close-shaven”- hair and short grayish robes and others with better groomed hair, which is also short, however, and long, light- colored robes with cloaks; one of the edges of each cloak passes over their heads as a hood. Among the women, too, some are dressed modestly and in dark colors while others are better dressed, wearing light colors; a large group is dressed in white, with white veils on their heads.
As I observe all of these details, an enormous door to the house opens, in the facade overlooking the garden, and a bright light emerges from within. It proceeds from a peristyle which is brilliantly illuminated. Facing this door is another one which is certainly in the facade overlooking the street. At a given moment it is opened, as if someone had knocked outside.
A group of people enters, surrounding a stretcher carried by four stout men dressed in a dark color (resembling gray wool). They set their burden down in the midst of the peristyle as the door to the house is immediately closed again with care. When the cloth covering the stretcher is lifted, I see it contains a body lying extended, entirely wrapped in a shroud. This body is reverently raised up and laid out- without the shroud, which remains on the stretcher-on a kind of cot covered with a precious purple cloth which seems to be embroidered as if it were damask. It was certainly prepared in advance to receive its burden.
I see the martyr Agnes, stiffened in death. Her face, little hands, and small feet bearing sandals are so pale that she looks like a snow- white marble statue. She is dressed entirely in white, with a snow- white veil which totally envelops her. But her first veil is provided by her shining blond, knee- length hair, which is now completely loose, like a golden cloak. It is not curly, but soft and slightly wavy, very abundant, and most beautiful. She is smiling as if before a peaceful vision. Her hands are joined over her abdomen, and she is holding a palm- her only ornament- in her stiffened fingers.
She is totally spotless. It is clear that they have washed away the blood and dressed her in clean clothing before bringing her here, for there is no longer blood on her face, hair, and robe. The wound on her neck is not visible. They have reverently covered it with her hair and veil.
Her relatives approach her and kiss her, weeping over her waxen little hands and frozen brow. But their sorrow is orderly and dignified. None of the manifestations of hysteria which are common in such cases. A Christian sorrow. After the relatives her friends and brothers and sisters in faith throng around her. I see Emerentiana at once weeping and smiling before the foster sister who has preceded her into glory. All bid farewell to the martyr and pray.
Here I get the impression- which I forgot to write down in the first version, limiting myself to telling you orally-of a great love among the Christians, the sensation of what the “communion of the saints” is, just as it was understood by the early Christians, from whom we could learn so much. They had come, defying all dangers, to pay homage to Christ’s martyr, to implore her, now raised into Heaven, to be a source of intercession for all of them before God in the upcoming combats for the Faith, and it seemed to me that she was already gliding in spirit over those present, infusing her heroic sentiments and protection into them. Heaven and Earth were communicating.
At this point the outer door opens again, and an old man enters, accompanied by two men between twenty- five and thirty- five years of age. The old man has a sweetly serious expression. He is very thin- I would say he’s in pain- and quite pale. He must be a very influential person among the Christians, for all kneel when he appears, and he passes, blessing, between two rows of bowed heads. I get the impression that he is a bishop or the Pontiff himself.
He draws near the stretcher and blesses the dead girl and prays over her. He then dons his priestly robes (I see the pallium- I don’t know if this is the term- which is a white band forming a sort of circle over his shoulders and chest and then descending in back and in front in two bands. The entire surface is adorned with little dark crosses). Those accompanying him also don their robes, putting on the vestments for deacons (a knee- length tunic and sleeves extending to slightly above their elbows).
The funeral procession then forms. In front are the clergy- that is, the elderly man, the two deacons, and the other priests, who were previously scattered among the throng of Christians and who have also put on their priestly stoles. Around them men bearing lit torches position themselves. They are wearing short dark robes. I would say they are servants and Christians, for I get the impression that all in the house are followers of Jesus. Around the stretcher as well, a row of lamps borne by the virgins dressed and veiled in white is formed- a veritable hedge of lilies around the clipped lily The stretcher is easily lifted by four virgins, including Emerentiana. It must not weigh very much, for, though Agnes, laid out as she is, seems taller than when alive, she is still a teenager and, in addition, not very buxom.
The funeral procession heads towards the tomb along the garden paths. All are carrying lit torches or lanterns. And they are singing. In a low voice. A hymn full of sweetness and hope which I do not recognize at first. I seem to have heard those words before, but I don’t know where. The evening wind bends the flames, which then straighten up, more beautiful than before. I distinctly see a lock of Agnes’ hair which has emerged from underneath the veil and is moving under a puff of breeze. The procession is very orderly and reverent.
They reach the edge of the garden. A sort of shaft is there, with a very large opening. A little stairway, cut into the sandstone or tufa, leads downwards. Many descend. Those who are unable remain on the edge of the shaft and continue to sing, responding to the singing below. In the hollow of the shaft the voices resonate, and I clearly understand what they involve. They are verses from the Apocalypse at the point where it speaks of the virgins who follow the Lamb. One verse is sung by the men, the next, alternately, by the women, the way I wrote them in the first account.
I see that the shaft is semicircular- rather, horseshoeshaped- and passages start from it radially. It is like this: 
Where I have marked the cross there is a burial niche dug into the sandstone. Prepared for Agnes. The first one in this sepulcher, the future tomb of many martyrs and a catacomb. The first of the burial niches, to the right of the cross (as you look, the one I have marked with a “V”), is the deepest. It runs some five or six meters into the earth, whereas the others are less profound, and one, the first on the left as you look, beside the stairway, has barely been begun. 
I get the impression that it is a hypogeum which has just been started, almost as if Agnes’ death had caught it unprepared.
The relatives and those closest draw near for a final farewell. The edges of the purple cloth on which the martyr is lying are then raised over her, and she is wrapped in this precious cloth from head to foot.
The Pontiff bids farewell to her for the last time; “Veni, sponsa Christi. Veni, Agne sanctissima. Requiescant in pace!” as if he were receiving her in the name of the Church. And the body is lifted with devotion and laid out in the burial niche, over which a stone closing it is rolled in place.
And the vision comes to a halt like this.
There remain in me the sweetness of the singing and the religiosity of the whole scene in its smallest details, in which the union of the ancient Christians and their fervor are evident.
I have written this vision down again at the behest of Jesus, who says to me, “This is another probatory fact. Only someone who has viewed a scene which has made a powerful impression on him can repeat the account of it exactly after some days’ time.”
He tells me this tonight, January 23, at 12 o’clock- that is, when I have written for the reason given to me at the outset.
Still January 20, at 11:30 p.m., to be written after the narration of the vision.
The virgin Agnes says:
“Do not look just at my body. Rather, look at my spirit, blessed in the place where the canticle you like so much is sounding.
“There I am happy. No more of what was a momentary pain for me on earth came with me into the dwelling of the Spouse. But I encountered only ineffable rejoicing.
“There, in the light emanating from God, our joy, we live in peace. The harmonies of the blessed are interlaced with those of the angels. All is light and harmony. On high the Most Holy Trinity shines and the Mother of God smiles.
“You cannot conceive of what Paradise is, even though you received a flash of it. To know it in its full rejoicing would be to die, for it is blessedness unbearable for the flesh, which dies of it. God gives you a taste of it to encourage you in the face of trial. As He did with us, who suffered for Him.
“Come. Pain ceases, and joy lasts forever. Pain, when seen from this place, is an instant of time; the glory which pain gives us is eternal. Here it is He who loves us, and in loving Him we do not commit a sin, but deserve a reward.
“Jesus has rescued you with his love. Love Him with your love to deserve to join the choir filling blessed Paradise.”
After she departed, at 6 p.m., I remained in the joy of that harmony and that vision.
But it then changed into the presence of the glorified body of Agnes- most beautiful, dressed in white, and with an enraptured gaze. And I seemed to feel two small hands sweetly caressing me, the little hands of a girl. I drifted into drowsiness that way. A wearisome drowsiness, for the tremendous pains (it is the night between Thursday and Friday) give me no rest.
Having regained awareness, as my pains become sharper and sharper and I think of what I saw in order to relieve them, the young martyr says these words to me.
I now lie back, feeling her close to me to console my martyrdom in flesh and heart. Only my spirit is blessed. But it strikes midnight, and Friday begins. I think of my Lord on his tragic Friday of passion and do not complain about suffering. I ask only that He enable me to suffer well: for Him and for souls.
