Above, the purest September sky, joyful in a very soft dawn. Below, a small plateau in the midst of the descent of very high, woody, and rocky mountain slopes. A small plateau with short, emerald grass, still shining all over with the drops of dew, but already close to sparkling with gemmeous laughter at the kiss of the sun.
Above, in the pure sky, so blue and soft, I gaze fixedly at a blazing figure who seems to be made of nothing but incandescent fire. A fire whose flashing is more intense than that of the sun springing from behind a wooded mountain range with a magnificence of rays and splendors through which everything ignites with joy.
This being of fire is robed in feathers. I shall explain. He looks like an angel, for two immense wings hold him suspended and immobile in the immaterial cobalt blue of the September sky, two immense open wings setting off the arms of a cross which the shining body is supporting. Two immense wings which are an incandescent whiteness over the rutilant incandescence of the body, clothed in other wings enwrapping it entirely, gathered in as they are with their supernatural feathers of pearl, diamond, and pure silver, around the person. Even the head seems to be wrapped in this singular robe of plumage. For I do not see it. In the place where that seraphic face ought to be, I see only an emanation of such bright splendor that I am left as if bedazzled. I must think of the brightest radiance I have seen in visions of Paradise to find something comparable. But this is even brighter. The cross of inflamed feathers is set in the sky, with its mystery.
Below, an emaciated little brother, whom I recognize to be my Seraphic Father,696 is praying on his knees on the grass, not far from a bare, rough grotto as fearful as a crag in hell. The destroyed body does not seem to dwell in the somber frock, which is so large in relation to his limbs. His neck, a pale brown, emerges from the grayish cowl, a color between that of ash and that of certain slightly yellowish forms of sand. The hands - and thin wrists - emerge from the wide sleeves and are extended in prayer, with the palms turned outwards and upraised, as when “The Lord be with you” is said. Two hands that were once brownish and are now yellowish - the hands of a suffering, emaciated person. The face is thin and seems to be sculpted in old ivory - neither handsome nor even, but possessing a special beauty made up of spirituality.
His brown eyes are very beautiful. But they are not looking up. Wide open and fixed, they are looking at the things on earth. But I do not think they see. They remain open, resting on the dewcovered grass. They seem to be studying the grayish embroidery of a wild thistle or the feathery one of a wild fennel, which the dew has turned into a green, diamonded aigrette. But I am sure he does not see anything. Not even the robin that comes chirping down to look for some small seeds on the grass. He prays. His eyes reopen. But his gaze does not go outside, but inside himself.
I do not know how or why or when he becomes aware of the bright cross which is set in the sky. I do not know whether he has sensed it by an attraction or has seen it through an internal call. I know he raises his face and scans with his eyes, which now become animated with interest - confirming my conviction that his sight was previously not turned outwards.
My Seraphic Father’s gaze encounters the large, bright, blazing cross. An instant of astonishment. Then a cry: “My Lord! ” And Francis falls back a little on his heels, remaining ecstatic, with his face uplifted, smiling and shedding the first two tears of blessedness, with his arms open wider....
And the Seraph then moves his shining, mysterious figure. He comes down. He approaches. He does not come down to earth. No. He is still very high up. And the earth becomes even more luminous because of this bright sun, that, on this blessed dawn, unites to and surpasses the other one seen every day. On descending, with his wings still extended in the form of a cross, furrowing the air not by the motion of the wings, but by his own weight, he makes a sound proper to Paradise. I think of and recall the sound of the globe of Fire at Pentecost....697
And now, as Francis smiles and weeps and shines in ecstatic joy, the Seraph opens his two wings - I now understand clearly that they are wings - which are towards the middle of the cross. And the most holy feet of my Lord, nailed to the wood, appear, with his long legs, with a splendor, in this vision, that is as bright as his glorified members in Paradise.698 And then two other wings open, right at the top of the cross. And my sight and also Francis’, I believe, though he is assisted by divine grace, suffer with joy from the dazzling blaze.
Here we see the trunk of the Savior, pulsating with breath... and, oh, the Fire which only a grace enables one to look at! Here is the Fire of his face, which appears when the sudarium of sparkling feathers is entirely open. The fire of all volcanoes and stars and flames, surrounded by six sublime wings of pearls, silver, and diamond, would still be only a little light in comparison to this indescribable, inconceivable splendor of the Most Holy Humanity of the Redeemer, nailed to his scaffold.
Moreover, the face and the five holes of the wounds are beyond all comparison for the purposes of description. I think... I think of the most resplendent objects.... I even think of the mysterious light emitted by the radio. But, if what I have read is true, this light is bright, but the color of a starry silver blue, whereas the other is the condensation of sunlight multiplied an incalculable number of times. The summit of Verna must look as though a thousand volcanoes had opened around it to encircle it. The air, with the light and heat flaring but not burning which emanate from my crucified Lord, trembles with waves perceptible to the eye, and the light penetrates the opacity of bodies and turns them into light to such a degree that stems and fronds seem unreal....
I do not see myself. But I think that in the reflection of that light my poor person must look phosphorescent. Francis, upon whom the light pours, investing and penetrating him, no longer looks like a human body, but a lesser seraph, the brother of the one who has offered his wings at the service of the Redeemer.
Francis has bent so far backwards that he is almost on his back now, with his arms wide open, under his Sun, God Crucified! Light and joy penetrate him so much that he is immaterial in appearance. He does not speak or breathe materially. He would appear to be a glorified dead man if he were not in that position, which requires at least a minimum of life to continue. The tears falling down - which perhaps serve to temper the human burning of this mystical flame - shine like rivers of diamond on his slender cheeks.
I do not hear any words from either Francis or Jesus. Absolute, profound, amazed silence. A pause in the world which is around the mystery. So as not to disturb. So as not to profane this holy silence, where a God communicates Himself to his blessed one. Contrary to what one might assume, the birds do not burst in elation into sharper trills and happier flights because of this feast of light; butterflies and dragon flies do not dance; green lizards and others do not jump. Everything is still, in a waiting in which I feel the adoration of beings towards Him by whom they were made. There is no longer even that light breeze making a noise like a sigh in the fronds or that slow arpeggio sound of water hidden in some stony hollow which previously cast forth its notes on a thundering scale from time to time. Nothing. There is Love. And that’s all. Jesus looks and smiles at his Francis. Francis looks and smiles at his Jesus.... That’s all.
But now the glorified Face, so luminous that it almost looks like lines of light, like that of the Eternal Father, materializes a little. The eyes take on that radiance of bright sapphire they have when He works a miracle. The lines become severe, imposing, as always at those times which I would term imperious. A command of the Word must go to his Flesh, and the Flesh obeys. And from the five wounds He shoots forth five arrows, five little bolts of lightning, I would have to say, which descend through the air without zigzagging, but perpendicularly and very swiftly, five needles of unbearable light which pierce Francis....
Of course, I do not see his feet, covered by the robe and limbs, and his side, covered by the frock. But I see his hands. And I see that, after the points of fire have entered and pierced - I am somewhat behind Francis - the light, which come from the other side, towards his palms, passes through the holes on the back of his hands. They look like two small eyes opened in the metacarpus from which there descend two threads of blood slowly flowing down over his wrists and forearms, under his sleeves.
Francis only sighs so deeply that I am reminded of the last breath of the dying. But he does not fall. He remains as he was for some time still. Until the Seraph, whose face I have not seen - I have seen only his six wings - again extends these sublime wings as a veil over the Most Holy Body and conceals it, and with the initial two wings he goes back up, further and further into the sky, and the light diminishes, finally remaining just the light of a peaceful sunny morning. And the seraph disappears beyond the cobalt blue of the sky, which swallows him up and closes over the mystery which has descended to make a son of God blessed and has now gone back up to its kingdom.
Francis then feels the pain of the wounds, and, with a moan, without standing up, he shifts from the previous position and sits down on the ground. And he looks at his hands... and uncovers his feet. And half opens his robe over his chest. Five rivulets of blood and five cuts are the memory of God’s kiss. And Francis kisses his hands and caresses his side and feet, weeping and murmuring, “Oh, my Jesus! My Jesus! What love! What love, Jesus...! Jesus...! Jesus...!”
And he tries to get onto his feet, pushing his fists against the ground, and manages to with pain in his palms and soles and, staggering a bit, like someone who is wounded and cannot support himself on the ground and wavers with pain and the weakness of having lost blood, he heads towards his cave and falls to his knees on a stone, with his brow against a cross made of wood alone, two branches bound together, and there looks again at his hands, on which there seems to be forming the head of a nail which penetrates and pierces them. And he weeps. He weeps with love, beating his breast and saying, “Jesus, my gentle King! What have You done to me? Not because of the pain, but because of the praise of others this gift of yours is excessive! Why me, Lord, who am unworthy and poor? Your wounds! Oh, Jesus...!”
I do not see or hear anything else.
When I was among the living, I think I heard the vision described in another way. I think they said it was a Seraph with the face of Christ. I don’t know what to make of it. I saw it this way, and this is the way I describe it.
I have never been to Verna or to any Franciscan site, though I have always wished to. Consequently, I am totally ignorant of the topography of these places.
696 St. Francis of Assisi, towards whom the writer had felt a great attraction since she was a girl. She later entered the Franciscan Third Order.
697 In a vision on May 28, which is included in the Glorification cycle.
698 See the vision on January 10.