Letters159 Letter CLIX. To the same, in the name of Stephen, bishop oe Paris, and on the same subject. (A.D. 1133)

To his most godly father, INNOCENT, Supreme Pontiff, STEPHEN, unhappy Bishop of the Church that is at Paris, sends greeting, praying for mercy and judgment.

1. A religious man, Master Thomas, Prior of S. Victor, while engaged in an office of charity, on a journey that piety had bidden him to undertake, in a holy work, in the midst of a company of saints, on the Lord's Day, has been cruelly murdered on my bosom, so to speak, and almost in my arms, for his righteousness, by the ungodly, and has been made obedient even unto death. There is no need for a lengthy petition, when tears flowing silently are better able to stir sympathy, and when love finds expression in sobs which interrupt my prayer. These surely, if they do not demand, at all events deserve compassion, inasmuch as they indicate and show a grief that is unfeigned, and banish all suspicion of simulation. I think, therefore, that, to touch the heart of my father with grief tor the disaster that has befallen us, it will be enough for me to simply mention the circumstances. A sad and pitiful story speaks for itself, especially before you, and needs no glossing appeals for sympathy. O, my eyes! run ye down with floods of tears, for my strength and the light of my eyes has failed me, and he is no more with me. For I do not mourn for him, but for myself. How should I weep for him, who, by a quick and glorious death, has passed into life?

2. Who would not pursue with praises rather than with lamentations him to whom to live was Christ, and to die is gain? I used to bear the name of Bishop; he performed the labours. Casting aside all thought of honour, he bore the burden with all his strength. And therefore he truly, though dead, is enjoying life, while I, though living, am in the midst of death. He did not fall into the snares of death, but escaped them; and lo! the sorrows of death compass me about, and the overflowings of ungodliness make me afraid. It is I, therefore, it is I that am to be pitied, now that you are dead, my sweetest brother Thomas, I am like a weaned child, without the sweet refreshment that you gave me, bereft of your wise counsel, and left desolate by the loss of your sure protection. Better would it have been for me to die than to live without you. Therefore, my life, is wasted away in grief, and my years in mourning. The Church grieves with me, but she grieves also for herself. Common is the loss, common the lamentation; the whole of the religious world deplores with me his loss, and all alike implore that they may receive consolation from their father. If Theobald Notier come before you let him feel to his cost that the Lord hath heard the voice of my weeping. His nephews were the perpetrators of the crime; he was its cause; whether he instigated it is a matter to be ascertained. Do not listen to anything that he may say, till our messenger arrive, who will put you more fully in possession of the truth, and preserve you from lying lips and a deceitful tongue.