The last chapter of St. Therese's “Story of a Soul” is one continuous prayer. The two following paragraphs come from the very end of her autobiography.
"I know that for You the Saints have also been foolish. Because they were eagles they have done great deeds. I am too small to do anything great, and so my folly is to hope that Your love will accept me as its victim; my folly is to rely on the angels and the saints so that I may fly to You, my adored Eagle, with Your own wings. For as long as You wish, I will stay with my eyes on You. I want to be fascinated by Your gaze. I want to be the prey of Your love. I hope that one day You will swoop down on me, carry me off to the furnace of love, and plunge me into its burning depths so that I can be its ecstatic victim for all eternity.
O Jesus, if only I could tell all little souls of your immeasurable condescension. I feel that if You found a soul feebler than mine -- though that's impossible -- You would delight in heaping even greater favors on it if it abandoned itself with supreme confidence to Your infinite mercy."
This passion appeals to my emotional Italian temperment. I fear, however, that I lack the sense of smallness that St. Therese possessed.
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