Longinus

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Why was I reluctant?

I can only say it seemed so unnecessary.

I had been there for the whole ordeal.

We had already fulfilled the demands of hate,

Filled full, over flowed, spilled

The full measure of hate; killed Him.

Beat, flailed, threshed like grain of wheat,

Fresh flayed like meat, thorn-torn crownéd brow.

How brave He stood! How so silent?

Burdened, urged and cursed,

Tripped and whipped like a donkey,

Pushed, bullied and dragged;

Robe gripped and stripped, wounds ripped anew open;

Hung now-fresh bleeding flesh from stake

Nailed, travailed...

and now to be impaled?

Stuck like a pig with my lance?

Not a chance He is alive.

No breath detected,

No life suspected,

Elected to make sure, but

Need I? He is dead. Let Him be.

Behold the corpse!

Poor parched, dried out, bled out

Pale blue livid skin under red and black

Of wound and scab and muck.

I know the look of death!

Why have I not struck?

I had never paused before, human flesh is cheap

Insubordination steep. Why weep now?

Strange reluctance, ineluctable task

Final degradation, penetrating stab of hate.

“Give it to cold, old half-blind Longinus. Let him take care of it.”

So it must be, let pity die.

Hate welled up, swelled up, fell,

Black as coal, a hole of cold nothing in my soul,

Killed my pity.

I looked,

I hated,

I thrust.

Felt thunk of iron on blood soaked trunk

Of tree behind,

Even blind I,

Know to twist with wrist and rip

Free.

It is finished.

And in the act, the very act of pulling free:

Rushing counter-thrust of grace!

Riposte’ of Mercy burst unburdened out,

Frothed forth! Rushed eagerly, joyfully gushed,

Flushed my bat-blind eyes, and thrust me to my knees.

Defeated utterly!

Mercy filled my eyes (that looked on slaughter,

And red-rimmed laughed) with blood and water,

Filled them with tears, and washed those tears away.

Washed away the dry, grimy film

Through which I viewed the world,

All my life.

Of sinners worst, most accursed, who durst

Kill and mutilate mercy itself, I was the first!

First immersed in Mercy

Bursting forth to quench my thirst.

Not according to desert, but to my need

In heaping measure what I, unknowing, took,

He blithely gave for me who made Him bleed.

Mercy

Lord, I worship you, crucified

In the bodies of your children, and

Crucified still more terribly

In the souls of your children
Who crucify them,
And in the souls of your busy children
Who do not intervene.

In all these, still you abide,

In perfect love.

Whoever receives one such child in my name receives me

I saw a quote today from St. John Bosco (allegedly, one can never be 100% certain with these facebook things) that said, “It is not enough to love the children, it is necessary that they are aware that they are loved.”

On the same day I read this quote from Sr. Faustina:

“God's mercy sometimes touches the sinner at the last moment in a wondrous and mysterious way. Outwardly, it seems as if everything were lost, but it is not so. The soul, illumined by a ray of God's powerful, final grace, turns to God in the last moment with such a power of love that, in an instant, it receives from God forgiveness of sins and punishment, while outwardly it shows no signs either of repentance or contrition, because souls [at that stage] no longer react to external things. Oh, how beyond comprehension is God's mercy! (Diary, 1698).”

At the same time I was reading the book, “Not For Sale,” by David Batstone on one of my lifelong obsessions, the protection and care of abused, exploited or neglected children. Many of the activists, or abolitionists as he prefers to call them, emphasized the primary need of these children being the need to be loved.

It is a pattern that I have noticed in my life, that sometimes a number of different sources will all speak to me about the same thing at the same time. I try to pay attention to such things. The skeptic in me assumes that on some subconscious level I am looking for connections, and creating significance from random events. The man of faith in there somewhere likes to think that God is trying to speak to me.

(Oh, and Matthew 18:1-14 was emailed to me by my "Gospels in a year" subscription.)

 

There is a deep connection between the three sources above, which speaks to me very deep within my heart. There is a passage from 1 John 4:20 which I am fond of “misquoting.” The verse reads “Whoever claims to love God yet hates a brother or sister is a liar. For whoever does not love their brother and sister, whom they have seen, cannot love God, whom they have not seen.” I often misquote it saying, “How can anyone believe in the love of the God whom they have not seen if they have never known the love of the brother they can see.”

You see, I often think about all the children who will never know love. Most of them will probably end up dead, or as petty criminals, or perhaps not so petty. One has to wonder how much love was known in the Bin Laden or Hussein households, or the Stalin or Hitler households when those infamous men were growing up. I think also of the men who are not criminals, but who nevertheless take part in the subjugation, mutilation or sexual exploitation of women out of sheer ignorance. That is what they saw their fathers doing, that is all they know about manhood.

This is not a statement or even a speculation about their subjective guilt. On this level guilt or innocence is not of very much concern to me. My cousin and I were talking about C. S. Lewis the other day and he mentioned the hope that C. S. Lewis died in perfect intellectual honesty about his faith, given that he chose not to become Catholic. I countered that whether or not his intellectual honesty was perfect he died in need of mercy as we all will. The same is true of rapists, murderers, dictators and abusers. There is no human being who does not need mercy, and there is no person to whom mercy will not be offered at the moment of death. The question is whether or not we will be able to recognize and accept it.

Love can be a frightening thing. Even those who know what love is and have experienced it can very easily come to fear love, to feel unworthy of it, to become so caught up in their unworthiness that they refuse love, run away from it, deny it when it is offered. The technical word for that state of mind is “despair,” and a little imagination reveals it as not too far removed from pride.

Now imagine a terrible sinner, a crack whore who has been selling her body for drugs, who has aborted several of her own children and witnessed others of her children spiral into the same black pit she has lived in, raped and pimped by her boyfriends, starving, addicted, despairing, worse than dead. Lest you think that I am engaging in sensationalism, I am not. I am describing women that I have seen and treated, that my fiancée has seen and treated, and if you live in any major city in America I am describing your neighbor who lives within a few miles of you. I could as easily have described Pol Pot or St. Augustine or myself for all the difference it would have made.

This woman will die someday. In the moment of her death she will see God, and be exposed to pure, unadulterated love. As much as she may have loathed herself before, she will immediately see her sinfulness in all its ugliness, and if I may trust my own inclination, she will likely be overwhelmed with sorrow. The next question will be what she does with that sorrow. Will she recognize unconditional love and accept it, allow it to wash her clean, embrace it, even rejoice in her cleansing?

Will I be able to rejoice in my own shame, simply for the sake of the glory of God, for the opportunity it provides for Him to show His mercy?

I think that transition will be easier for those who have seen love. A few days ago in prayer with my fiancée (via video chat, which is an experience in and of itself) we prayed for those children who have never known love, that they would be shown enough love in their lives so that at the very end when God shows Himself they will recognize love. It will not be a total shock.

I suppose that is the whole purpose of human love.

What I did not realize until writing this last sentence is that in doing so we accomplished on some level what we were praying for. We loved them. I doubt they know that now, or knew it at the moment of our prayer (although you never know) but someday I have faith that they will know that they were loved even when they didn’t know it.

The Master

“What is your name, boy?”

The young slave looked up into the enigma of the man sitting upon the carved wooden chair. His face was hidden in the shadow of his hooded cloak, his form shrouded under the shadow of a canopy. Only his hands were visible, huge, callused, scarred and gnarled, clasped in absolute stillness before his face.

“My name is Daniel, My Lord.”

His Master remained silent and motionless. The boy went about his task, carefully pouring wine into the crystal goblet on the rough wooden tray. The Master had never spoken to him before. He did not know why he had spoken to him now. He arranged the towel upon the table and poured water from a bucket into the hand washing basin.

“Daniel.”

He stopped, half-frightened, unsure how or if to respond.

“How old are you, Daniel?”

“I do not know, My Lord.”

The Master spoke, “How long have you been my slave?”

“All my life, My Lord.” Daniel’s hands shook.

“Who gave you your name?”

“I do not know, My Lord.”

The Master snorted contemptuously. “What do you know, boy?”

Daniel had finished arranging the food, the drink, and the water for washing. It was time for him to leave now. He always left after arranging the food, the drink and the water for washing. The Master did not speak. The Master never spoke. In Daniel’s small world this was a breach of the laws of nature.

“Forget that question, Daniel,” The Master’s voice was quick and peremptory. “Sit.”

“My Lord?” Daniel struggled to keep his face blank, but his whole body was trembling.

“Sit.”

He had no alternative but to sit upon the floor. The Master brooded in silence, while Daniel sat and tried to stare at the wall, not let his mind wander, not let his face betray any emotion. Minutes trickled by uncounted.

“Do you know what happens today, Daniel?”

“Th- there will be a battle, My Lord?” the little slave boy wished he was safely in his cubby above the rafters in the scullery. He was never supposed to speak in front of the Master. He was not supposed to be seen by the Master at all.

“Have you ever seen a battle, Daniel?”

“No, My Lord.”

The huge, bony knuckles flexed and stretched like a cat arising from sleep. “I was your age when I saw my first battle.” He was silent for a long ten breaths. “Horsemen rode into my village with the morning sun. They slew every person they found there before the sun was halfway up the sky. Do you know what I did, Daniel?”

“N-No, My Lord.”

“I hid in the woods. I hid like a rat in a hole and I watched as they carved up my father, my mother, my brothers, and my sisters. Then they rode away. Do you know what I did then?”

“No, My Lord.”

“I found my father’s corn knife. I walked after the horsemen until I found where they made camp. I hid again in the forest until they fell asleep. Then I crept into their camp. Do you know what I did then?”

“N-No. No My Lord.”

The Master barked a single, coughing, mirthless laugh. “I slew one of them. Ha! I was trembling more piteously than you are now, and I felt as if my hands would slip upon the handle of that knife. As I stabbed him they did slip and I cut my own hand on the blade of that same knife. But I did not give up.” One fist pounded his knee. “I stabbed. I stabbed. I stabbed. Over and over again, until he stopped gurgling and squirming like a chicken.”

Daniel shivered. He was very afraid, but he did not know what he was afraid of. Why did the Master want to talk to him? Why?

“Have you ever seen a man killed, Daniel?” The Master asked after another silence.

“No, My Lord.”

“You have lived in this castle your whole life have you not?”

“I have, My Lord.”

“I fought in many battles after that. I fell in with outlaws and with them I wreaked vengeance on the riders who had slain my family. In time, I became the leader of those outlaws. What do you think of that, eh?”

He leaned forward as if inspecting Daniel’s face for an answer, and his head came out from the shadow of the canopy, but his face remained hidden under the overhanging hood. Daniel could see just the barest hint of the grizzled gray beard.

His tongue felt as if it were dry as cook’s dried fish, staked out on the fence in July. Fortunately he was spared replying, for he Master sat back into the shadow and spoke again.

“My band swelled from twenty, to thirty, to fifty. We defeated a small chieftain and put his village to the torch, and took his women and children as our own. I banded with other outlaws, and then I slew them and took their armies as my own. Village after village, town after town. I burned them all.

“I will never forget killing my first king. He came out to put a stop to my plunder, but I slew him. He was old and fat, and he died like a pig.” The Master laughed another short, barking syllable.

“I married his daughter. Did you know that? Of course you didn’t. You were not even born. You cannot be more than ten winters old. You know nothing of power, or wealth, or the governance of provinces. That witch tried to poison me but she bore me a son. Ha! A son. A mewling, puking, milksop of a brat. I loathe the sight of him.” A long exhalation of breath came from the depths of the shadow.

There was a silence again, so long that Daniel finally worked up the courage to say, “Sh- sh…”

“Speak up!” snapped the Master.

“Shall I go, My Lord?”

A sound not unlike a growl rumbled through the room. “You are afraid of me too? Have I ever struck you, boy? Have I ever done the least thing to you?”

Daniel shook his head, too terrified to answer.

The hands clenched, unclenched, softly pounded the knees, thick and knobbly as old oaks above the rough leather arming boots. “I have killed many men, Daniel.”

“Y- yes… My Lord?” Daniel shook.

“By the time this night falls I will have killed many more.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“I have killed women, and I have killed children. But I will kill no more of those.” The Master stood upright with a speed and suddenness all the more terrifying because of his vast, mountainous size. He towered over boy, and retrieved something from his belt. “Follow me,” he ordered.

Shivering, Daniel followed him around to the wall behind the dais. The Master swept aside a wall hanging and stood in front of a section of wooden paneling. Daniel could see nothing because of the man’s enormous bulk, but he heard the key turn in the lock. “Go through this doorway,” the Master ordered. “Follow the passage until it comes out on the river bank. Follow the river to the right until you reach a bridge. Get out onto the bridge and walk to your left until you reach the first town. After that your wits and luck will have to serve you. Starve, or freeze, or work, or beg. Live or die. It is all one to me.”

Daniel could not move. He dared not run away, but he could not obey because the Master was still standing in the doorway. The old man sighed and with a sound like the rushing wind swept off his cloak into a bundle of rich velvet, which he thrust hurriedly into Daniel’s arms. “Take this. Sell it for copper.”

Daniel looked up at the thighs, as round as kegs of mead, the powerful waist as high above the ground as his own head, circled with a massive leather belt. From there the man rose up even higher, a mountain of broad chest, square shoulders, and a jaw like the wall of the castle, solid, implacable, criss-crossed with scars and lines. A stern gray beard melded into a tangled hairline, which thinned to a few scatter, straggling wisps as it reached the top of his head. Great bushy eyebrows lowered at the boy. One hand picked Daniel up by the shoulder and tossed him savagely through the doorway with a strangled snarl, “Begone, I say! Live, damn you!” The door slammed behind him so hard that the oaken panels cracked.

There was no more sound from the other side. Daniel gathered up the velvet cloak and, wrapping it around his tiny frail body as best he could so that it would not trip him up, he began to follow the passage.

By nightfall, flames and smoke could be seen as far away as England, across the water, rising from the Master’s castle. Everyone who saw that smoke blessed God and cursed the tyrant’s name. Within a couple of years his memory was gone, and weeds and vines covered the ruins of his castle. To those who had hated him so implacably and so justly, it was as if he had never been.

But in the monastery on the riverbank, every day for sixty years, Brother Daniel, alone out of all the monks, humbly whispered the Master’s name in his Father’s ear.

Death Sentence

On the news today I saw that Major Nidal Hasan was sentenced to death. One of the guys in the bay mentioned it outloud this morning. He had just read it off his Iphone. I commented, "May God have mercy on his soul."

Another guy said, "Nah. I don't really care."

"I do," responded.

The implication was this guy is a traitor and a murderer of fellow soldiers. He doesn't deserve mercy, so why pray for it?

Well, of course, he doesn't deserve mercy. If he did, he wouldn't need it. The perequisite for needing mercy is that you do not deserve it! That is pretty much the definition of mercy.

But more troubling than that very universal human misunderstanding was the tone that accompanied it. It felt like the soldier was saying that this was a crime that should not be forgiven. He is a traitor. He killed our fellow soldiers. It almost sounded as if that was worse than the killing itself.

Why should we consider treachery a worse crime than murder? On the one hand, it makes the murder impersonal. He wasn't gunning for those particular people, he was striking at a symbol of the country he hated. But honestly, why does that matter? What does it matter why he killed them? Is hating America worthy of the death penalty? Or is it the murder?

Does it ever reeally matter? When someone kills people because they are Christians, or because they are homosexuals, or because they are prostitutes, or because they are black or because they are Muslim, or because they happened to be there, what does that matter? Is murder less murder if you do not particularly hate the group of people that the victim belongs to?

And why should murdering soldiers be worse than killing anyone else? Ostensibly, soldiers signed up willingly, knowing that there was a risk of impersonal death at the hands of someone who hated them simply because they wear an American flag. It is the attitude of flagrant nationalism, the hatred for anyone who hates America that troubles me. The kind of emotion that vents upon unknown, uncounted people in The Middle East, that insists we should turn the whole place into a parking lot for what they have done to our soldiers.

Let them hate America all they want. We must do what is required to protect ourselves, but why should we sink to their level and hate in return? Frankly, nationalism frightens me more than terrorism.

I do not think Maj. Hasan should receive the death penalty. He should be kept in prison and given
every opportunity to repent and make amends. Not because he deserves it, but because I want to see him in Heaven. It is as simple as that.

Sore Feet

Posts are going to be few and far between for a while. Right now there are three big things going on in my life. They are work, school and social life. Blogging may just fall by the wayside a bit.


Once upon a time I was out doing a long cross country ski movement with a group of army guys. We had done a similar movement the day prior, and were still feeling the effects of it. In particular, because of the new boots we were wearing, myself and one other guy had developed blisters. I had a blister the length and breadth of my thumb on the inside of my left ankle, just below the ankle bone. The other guy had a blister about an inch and a half across under the ankle bone on the inside of both ankles.

In addition to the blisters (which really weren't that serious, as blisters go), there was extensive bruising underneath the skin. Any pressure from ankle bone to heel was excruciatingly painful, and inversion of the foot was likewise painful.

As we were moving through the snow he kept falling farther and farther behind until finally I (being the medic) told the NCO in charge, "Hey, his feet are pretty torn up."

The NCOIC replied succinctly, "Faggot!" Just like that he dismissed the whole thing. Keep up. Do not be the slowest guy or else. We won't do anything to you, really. No adverse consequences, no paperwork, no punishment. We'll just ridicule you. Call you a pansy. Make jokes about your girly feet and your week genes.

At first I was irritated. I knew what the movement was doing to his feet. It wasn't damaging them permanently, but it was preventing them from healing. Any granulation tissue that had formed the night before was getting rubbed off with every step. The bandage he had put on wasn't the best and it was forming wrinkles and hot spots which might eventually turn into more blisters. Was it going to break a bone? No. Do nerve damage? Unlikely. Get infected? Probably not.

We were not out on patrol, we were just conducting a ski movement, for the express purpose of learning how to ski cross country and try out the new equipment. No one's life was in danger, there was no mission, no enemy, no legitimate reason why we had to keep going. Why do it? Why not just stop?

But we didn't stop. I rebandaged his feet at the next stop, and we kept going for hours. And he made it. He couldn't break snow, but he didn't fall behind.

Sometimes as a medic, or even as a human being, it seems pretty intuitive. If something is causing your patient pain, you stop doing that thing. But this event reminded me of the fact that my feet were hurting too, but I wasn't quitting. I didn't even want to ask. It reminded me of all the times I had wanted to stop, but would never have asked for it. There were so many times when I would have been half-insulted and half-overjoyed to have been told, "That's it, you've had enough. Sit this one out." On the one hand who are you to tell me when I have had enough? You don't know what I am capable of. On the other hand, I don't want to do this anymore. It hurts. Wouldn't it be amazing to have a legitimate excuse to stop?

But I didn't. I would not be who I am today if someone had had sympathy on me and taken me out when I wanted to be taken out. Instead they left me with two options; keep going or quit. For some reason I kept going. God only knows why. It made me into the person that I am.

When I wanted the NCOIC to let that guy off, I wanted to show him mercy, give him a way out. He wanted a way out. He didn't get one. And he got through it and became stronger.

In a way sore feet are a microcosm of my job. I deal with human sinfulness and evil. If it weren't for them I would have no job. There would be no war. God grant I see the day when there is no war and soldiers are all out of work, but on the other hand, what will we replace war with? The hell of war and the purgatory of training the readies men for war are ugly things, but they can bring out greatness. Without adversity, there is no greatness, it seems. But is there adversity without evil? How would Adam and Eve have acheived greatness?

It is an acedemic question only, because the fact is that there is evil and we have to deal with it. But on the other hand maybe there is something there. The NCOIC's ridicule didn't sit well with me, although I knew what he was doing, and he was right about it. That guy did make it, and it was better that he did. I like the virtue of courage and discipline that makes such men who they are, but I don't like the way it comes through. There should be a way to be tough and courageous without being unsympathetic. That is part of my lifelong pursuit of the Way of the Warrior; finding that way.

The Fate of Sin

And I ask, through angry tears, how can it be

That we who love still fall again and again?

In spite of prayers and acts and words of love, unfree

We daily fall to fear, and sin, and pain.

My Grandpa said, as his life began to wane,

“I sometimes ask, ‘Why did this happen to me?’

“But I know why, if I’m honest. The answer is plain

“I smoked for fifty years, and soaked up UV.”

Even at the end, in pain, eaten up by cancer,

He said “Without the pain I would never have come to know

How it is to float, embraced in a sea of love.”

Perhaps, under the Mercy, sin will have the same answer,

And that which beat and scarred us down below

Might yet, perhaps, be worship up above.

God's Tarnished Knight

A repost of a very, very old poem of mine. Sadly (or gladly with most Divine gladness, depending on how you look at it) this one never goes out of style.

God's Tarnished Knight

 

O Lord, Good Lord, I beg you turn your eye

And pour out yet again your Precious Blood

On me, your tarnished, fallen knight, for here I lie,

Wounded, trampled, crushed and smeared with mud,

But not, O Lord, Good Lord, a valiant hero, I.

 

These wounds I got, not in honorable brawl,

In noble triumph, nor in glorious defeat

But I quit my post, O Lord. I did not fall.

I stooped, laid down. I wasn’t on my feet

But on my back. I didn’t fight, I crawled.

 

And now I lie and grovel on the field

As if by further absence from my post

I might, somehow, pretend I didn’t yield.

I beg you, Lord, whom I have injured most

Forgive me, and restore to me my shield.

 

Without a word of blame you now renew

My strength, and raise me from the dirt

And every wound of mine appears on you.

You set me back at my post, as every hurt

I brought upon myself, I bring on you.

 

 

You lie down in my place upon the ground

And gaze at me, as a hundred demons lash

Your innocent flesh. They gibber as they pound

And kick you around the field like so much trash,

And all the while you love me without a sound.

 

How dare I ask forgiveness?! I have no right!

 And yet how dare I not, since you command?

I may not shirk your mercy, nor the fight,

In vain humility. So here I stand,

No hero, Lord, but just your tarnished knight.



70 X 7

Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?” Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.” Matthew 18:21-22

The namer was called unto the seventh day,

“Shabbat, my son.” But chose at length the sixth,

He and his wife.

And lived their life,

Between Monday morning and Saturday night

Grudging Sunday’s rest, clinging body and soul

To the thorns and sweat and pains of childbirth.

Nothing will induce me, so it seems

To rest.

At best

I slip back down,

From the sixth to the fifth;

And from carousing like a beast

I slide by slow degrees into the sloth

Of vegging out on youtube half the day.

Hardly worth

The blood and pain of birth

If I spend myself in becoming, step by step,

First a beast

(For there, at least,

Is strength to do!)

And then a vegetable in an armchair

And then a stone.

And when I’ve done,

My life’s ambition met,

As close to formless void as I can get.

Thank God for thorns.

For alarm clocks and early morns,
And all the harrying, hateful spurs of necessity

That drive me from the void. Some energy
At minimum I must spend to eat
To drive, to earn respect of all my peers.
And then, who knows? My ears
Attuned to frequencies beyond my normal ken
Hear the seventh faintly ringing through
The cacophony of egos, appetites and fears.

But Now I find myself back

Where I started this poem. My lack
Of rest.
Distaste
For any slackness in my rodent race.
I nervously sit through Sunday and my face
Betrays impatience for Monday.
“No rest for the wicked,” is not a punishment
But a simple statement of fact. When what is meant
Is understood, one might as well put forth
“No food for the hungry.” But of course!
That is why they are hungry.


And every seven days another chance
To put down spade and crackberry and learn to dance
So that on Monday, (On taking up once more
These workday dance partners) we might even up the score
And teach new steps to those who made us step
Like geese, in time to the rhythm of our clocks
Marching under orders from our sterile gods.
When drill sergeants learn to dance, they lend a measure
To what would otherwise be merely raucous pleasure.


And every seven years the land lies fallow
Untilled, unsown,
Left on its own
To see if it might
Yield in its own right.
The rest of the years are to learn from this year of rest
That all work is but a joining in, another way to divest
Myself of my self. Work is but another way to receive,
It has that in common with stillness. But I deceive
Myself when I think my work is mine, or grain
Or fruit or flocks or words in print. Once again
Working is just another form of begging
And sitting in prayer as much a form of legging
As commuting to work.


The Rock was taught a thing or two that day
How many times must Sunday come around?
Before I no longer need to work at rest?
But we are never lodger, always guest
And Monday is meant to vanish once for all.
Shabbat alone remains.
Live in the other six days all you want.
Stay there, if you wish, triple them up.
The beast, the vegetable, the rock, the void
Alike are destined for one thing: to be destroyed.
Only the human who has the strength to be
At peace in Him Who Is, can become like He.

How many times must I become at peace?

All of them.
Rest is stronger than work and so it costs
Everything. Not one thing less. All must be lost
In order to be found. But so it yields:
Peace times fullness of peace;
Rest times fullness of rest;
Joy times fullness of joy;
Life times fullness of life.
This is Heaven.
70 X 7.

See also Genesis 2:3, Leviticus 25.