By Thy Passion, Cure My Passions

Learning to Pray from the Wounds of Christ

“I have not a mournful heart wherewith to seek Thee.” 

— St. Isaac the Syrian, Homily 16

This prayer of St. Isaac is unlike many of our prayers because it contains almost no demands, explanations, or arguments. It is a cry. It is the speech of one who has reached the end of himself and has finally discovered that every part of him is wounded and that only Christ Himself can heal what has been broken.

The desert fathers would say that this prayer is born from self-knowledge. One does not pray it because he despises himself, nor because he wishes to punish himself with religious sorrow. He prays it because he has seen the truth.

The passions have entered deeply into him.

His mind has become darkened.

His heart has grown cold.

His understanding has been dragged downward.

His countenance has been stained.

He cannot even repent as he desires.

He cannot even weep.

The fathers knew this experience intimately. After years in the desert, they did not become impressed with themselves. They became astonished by their need for mercy. The closer they drew to God, the more they perceived the depth of their poverty.

That is why this prayer has such remarkable honesty. It does not pretend to possess tears. It does not manufacture repentance. It does not claim spiritual feelings that are absent.

“I have not a mournful heart.”

“I have no repentance.”

“I have no compunction.”

“My mind is darkened.”

“My heart is grown cold.”

This is not despair. This is truthfulness before God.

The fathers considered such truthfulness to be the beginning of salvation.

Abba Moses said, “Sit in your cell and your cell will teach you everything.” And what does the cell teach first? It teaches a man that he cannot save himself. He cannot produce tears. He cannot manufacture love. He cannot generate repentance by force of will.

He is poor.

And therefore he begins to cry.

This prayer is the cry of evangelical poverty.

Every petition turns toward Christ’s Passion because the supplicant knows that salvation lies entirely outside himself. He has nothing with which to heal himself. Therefore he brings every wound to Christ’s wounds.

“By Thy Passion, cure my passions.”

“By Thy Wounds, heal my wounds.”

“By Thy Blood, purge my blood.”

This is extraordinary theology.

The passions are not conquered by our strength but by participation in Christ’s suffering and life. The wounds of Christ become medicine. The Blood of Christ becomes purification. The bitterness of His gall becomes sweetness for our poisoned souls.

Everything in Christ becomes remedy.

His bowed head raises my head.

His outstretched body extends my understanding toward heaven.

His nailed hands draw me out of perdition.

His spit-covered face brightens my stained countenance.

His soul, commended to the Father, guides my own soul home.

Nothing in Christ’s suffering is wasted. Every wound becomes healing for our wounds.

The fathers would tell us to pray this prayer slowly, gently, and personally.

Not as poetry.

Not as religious literature.

But as beggars.

One says:

“Lord, my thoughts are disordered. Stretch my understanding toward Thee.”

“Lord, I am embittered. Sweeten my soul.”

“Lord, I have become cold and distracted. Warm my heart.”

“Lord, I cannot even pray. Give me prayer.”

There is immense tenderness here.

The most painful line in the entire prayer may be:

“I have not a comforting tear.”

Anyone who has lived a life of prayer knows this suffering. There are periods when one sees his sins, sees his need of God, and yet cannot weep. The heart seems frozen.

The fathers did not consider this a sign of abandonment.

Rather, it becomes another petition.

“I cannot repent. Therefore, grant me repentance.”

“I cannot love. Therefore, grant me love.”

“I cannot weep. Therefore, grant me tears.”

This is why St. Isaac calls Christ “the Treasury of good gifts.”

Even repentance is a gift.

Even tears are grace.

Even the desire to seek God is already His work within us.

Finally, notice where the prayer ends.

It does not end with forgiveness.

It ends with communion.

“I have forsaken Thee; do not forsake me.”

“Come out to seek me.”

“Lead me up to Thy pasture.”

“Number me among the sheep of Thy chosen flock.”

“Nourish me with them on the verdure of Thy Divine Mysteries.”

This is the heart of the desert tradition. The goal is not self-improvement. The goal is to be found by Christ, gathered by Christ, nourished by Christ, and brought into His own life.

The prayer begins in darkness and ends in illumination.

It begins with coldness and ends with pasture.

It begins with wounds and ends at the Divine Mysteries.

It begins with “I have nothing” and ends with “Thou art everything.”

And perhaps this is how the fathers would counsel us to pray it: kneeling interiorly before the Crucified One, making no claims, offering no achievements, simply placing every poverty before Him and saying:

“Lord Jesus Christ, I cannot heal myself. I cannot raise myself. I cannot even seek Thee as I ought. Therefore, by Thy Passion cure my passions. By Thy wounds heal my wounds. Come out to seek me, and lead me home.”