The Confessions of St. Augustine

BOOK XI

Lord, since eter­ni­ty is Thine, art Thou ig­no­rant of what I say to Thee? or dost Thou see in time, what pas­seth in time? Why then do I lay in or­der be­fore Thee so many re­la­tions? Not, of a truth, that Thou might­est learn them through me, but to stir up mine own and my read­ers’ de­vo­tions to­wards Thee, that we may all say, Great is the Lord, and great­ly to be praised. I have said al­ready; and again will say, for love of Thy love do I this. For we pray al­so, and yet Truth hath said, Your Fa­ther knoweth what you have need of, be­fore you ask. It is then our af­fec­tions which we lay open un­to Thee, con­fess­ing our own mis­eries, and Thy mer­cies up­on us, that Thou mayest free us whol­ly, since Thou hast be­gun, that we may cease to be wretched in our­selves, and be blessed in Thee; see­ing Thou hast called us, to be­come poor in spir­it, and meek, and mourn­ers, and hun­ger­ing and athirst af­ter righ­teous­ness, and mer­ci­ful, and pure in heart, and peace-​mak­ers. See, I have told Thee many things, as I could and as I would, be­cause Thou first wouldest that I should con­fess un­to Thee, my Lord God. For Thou art good, for Thy mer­cy en­dureth for ev­er.

But how shall I suf­fice with the tongue of my pen to ut­ter all Thy ex­hor­ta­tions, and all Thy ter­rors, and com­forts, and guid­ances, where­by Thou brought­est me to preach Thy Word, and dis­pense Thy Sacra­ment to Thy peo­ple? And if I suf­fice to ut­ter them in or­der, the drops of time are pre­cious with me; and long have I burned to med­itate in Thy law, and there­in to con­fess to Thee my skill and un­skil­ful­ness, the day­break of Thy en­light­en­ing, and the rem­nants of my dark­ness, un­til in­fir­mi­ty be swal­lowed up by strength. And I would not have aught be­sides steal away those hours which I find free from the ne­ces­si­ties of re­fresh­ing my body and the pow­ers of my mind, and of the ser­vice which we owe to men, or which though we owe not, we yet pay.

O Lord my god, give ear un­to my prayer, and let Thy mer­cy hear­ken un­to my de­sire: be­cause it is anx­ious not for my­self alone, but would serve broth­er­ly char­ity; and Thou seest my heart, that so it is. I would sac­ri­fice to Thee the ser­vice of my thought and tongue; do Thou give me, what I may of­fer Thee. For I am poor and needy, Thou rich to all that call up­on Thee; Who, in­ac­ces­si­ble to care, carest for us. Cir­cum­cise from all rash­ness and all ly­ing both my in­ward and out­ward lips: let Thy Scrip­tures be my pure de­lights: let me not be de­ceived in them, nor de­ceive out of them. Lord, hear­ken and pity, O Lord my God, Light of the blind, and Strength of the weak; yea al­so Light of those that see, and Strength of the strong; hear­ken un­to my soul, and hear it cry­ing out of the depths. For if Thine ears be not with us in the depths al­so, whith­er shall we go? whith­er cry? The day is Thine, and the night is Thine; at Thy beck the mo­ments flee by. Grant there­of a space for our med­ita­tions in the hid­den things of Thy law, and close it not against us who knock. For not in vain wouldest Thou have the dark­some se­crets of so many pages writ­ten; nor are those forests with­out their harts which re­tire there­in and range and walk; feed, lie down, and ru­mi­nate. Per­fect me, O Lord, and re­veal them un­to me. Be­hold, Thy voice is my joy; Thy voice ex­ceedeth the abun­dance of plea­sures. Give what I love: for I do love; and this hast Thou giv­en: for­sake not Thy own gifts, nor de­spise Thy green herb that thirsteth. Let me con­fess un­to Thee what­so­ev­er I shall find in Thy books, and hear the voice of praise, and drink in Thee, and med­itate on the won­der­ful things out of Thy law; even from the be­gin­ning, where­in Thou madest the heav­en and the earth, un­to the ev­er­last­ing reign­ing of Thy holy city with Thee.

Lord, have mer­cy on me, and hear my de­sire. For it is not, I deem, of the earth, not of gold and sil­ver, and pre­cious stones, or gor­geous ap­par­el, or hon­ours and of­fices, or the plea­sures of the flesh, or nec­es­saries for the body and for this life of our pil­grim­age: all which shall be added un­to those that seek Thy king­dom and Thy righ­teous­ness. Be­hold, O Lord my God, where­in is my de­sire. The wicked have told me of de­lights, but not such as Thy law, O Lord. Be­hold, where­in is my de­sire. Be­hold, Fa­ther, be­hold, and see and ap­prove; and be it pleas­ing in the sight of Thy mer­cy, that I may find grace be­fore Thee, that the in­ward parts of Thy words be opened to me knock­ing. I be­seech by our Lord Je­sus Christ Thy Son, the Man of Thy right hand, the Son of man, whom Thou hast es­tab­lished for Thy­self, as Thy Me­di­ator and ours, through Whom Thou sought­est us, not seek­ing Thee, but sought­est us, that we might seek Thee,- Thy Word, through Whom Thou madest all things, and among them, me al­so;- Thy On­ly-​Be­got­ten, through Whom Thou calledst to adop­tion the be­liev­ing peo­ple, and there­in me al­so;- I be­seech Thee by Him, who sit­teth at Thy right hand, and in­ter­cedeth with Thee for us, in Whom are hid­den all the trea­sures of wis­dom and knowl­edge. These do I seek in Thy books. Of Him did Moses write; this saith Him­self; this saith the Truth.

I would hear and un­der­stand, how “In the Be­gin­ning Thou madest the heav­en and earth.” Moses wrote this, wrote and de­part­ed, passed hence from Thee to Thee; nor is he now be­fore me. For if he were, I would hold him and ask him, and be­seech him by Thee to open these things un­to me, and would lay the ears of my body to the sounds burst­ing out of his mouth. And should he speak He­brew, in vain will it strike on my sens­es, nor would aught of it touch my mind; but if Latin, I should know what he said. But whence should I know, whether he spake truth? Yea, and if I knew this al­so, should I know it from him? Tru­ly with­in me, with­in, in the cham­ber of my thoughts, Truth, nei­ther He­brew, nor Greek, nor Latin, nor bar­bar­ian, with­out or­gans of voice or tongue, or sound of syl­la­bles, would say, “It is truth,” and I forth­with should say con­fi­dent­ly to that man of Thine, “thou sayest tru­ly.” Where­as then I can­not en­quire of him, Thee, Thee I be­seech, O Truth, full of Whom he spake truth, Thee, my God, I be­seech, for­give my sins; and Thou, who gavest him Thy ser­vant to speak these things, give to me al­so to un­der­stand them.

Be­hold, the heav­ens and the earth are; they pro­claim that they were cre­at­ed; for they change and vary. Where­as what­so­ev­er hath not been made, and yet is, hath noth­ing in it, which be­fore it had not; and this it is, to change and vary. They pro­claim al­so, that they made not them­selves; “there­fore we are, be­cause we have been made; we were not there­fore, be­fore we were, so as to make our­selves.” Now the ev­idence of the thing, is the voice of the speak­ers. Thou there­fore, Lord, madest them; who art beau­ti­ful, for they are beau­ti­ful; who art good, for they are good; who art, for they are; yet are they not beau­ti­ful nor good, nor are they, as Thou their Cre­ator art; com­pared with Whom, they are nei­ther beau­ti­ful, nor good, nor are. This we know, thanks be to Thee. And our knowl­edge, com­pared with Thy knowl­edge, is ig­no­rance.

But how didst Thou make the heav­en and the earth? and what the en­gine of Thy so mighty fab­ric? For it was not as a hu­man ar­ti­fi­cer, form­ing one body from an­oth­er, ac­cord­ing to the dis­cre­tion of his mind, which can in some way in­vest with such a form, as it seeth in it­self by its in­ward eye. And whence should he be able to do this, un­less Thou hadst made that mind? and he in­vests with a form what al­ready ex­is­teth, and hath a be­ing, as clay, or stone, or wood, or gold, or the like. And whence should they be, hadst not Thou ap­point­ed them? Thou madest the ar­ti­fi­cer his body, Thou the mind com­mand­ing the limbs, Thou the mat­ter where­of he makes any thing; Thou the ap­pre­hen­sion where­by to take in his art, and see with­in what he doth with­out; Thou the sense of his body, where­by, as by an in­ter­preter, he may from mind to mat­ter, con­vey that which he doth, and re­port to his mind what is done; that it with­in may con­sult the truth, which presideth over it­self, whether it be well done or no. All these praise Thee, the Cre­ator of all. But how dost Thou make them? how, O God, didst Thou make heav­en and earth? Ver­ily, nei­ther in the heav­en, nor in the earth, didst Thou make heav­en and earth; nor in the air, or wa­ters, see­ing these al­so be­long to the heav­en and the earth; nor in the whole world didst Thou make the whole world; be­cause there was no place where to make it, be­fore it was made, that it might be. Nor didst Thou hold any thing in Thy hand, where­of to make heav­en and earth. For whence shouldest Thou have this, which Thou hadst not made, there­of to make any thing? For what is, but be­cause Thou art? There­fore Thou spok­est, and they were made, and in Thy Word Thou madest them.

But how didst Thou speak? In the way that the voice came out of the cloud, say­ing, This is my beloved Son? For that voice passed by and passed away, be­gan and end­ed; the syl­la­bles sound­ed and passed away, the sec­ond af­ter the first, the third af­ter the sec­ond, and so forth in or­der, un­til the last af­ter the rest, and si­lence af­ter the last. Whence it is abun­dant­ly clear and plain that the mo­tion of a crea­ture ex­pressed it, it­self tem­po­ral, serv­ing Thy eter­nal will. And these Thy words, cre­at­ed for a time, the out­ward ear re­port­ed to the in­tel­li­gent soul, whose in­ward ear lay lis­ten­ing to Thy Eter­nal Word. But she com­pared these words sound­ing in time, with that Thy Eter­nal Word in si­lence, and said “It is dif­fer­ent, far dif­fer­ent. These words are far be­neath me, nor are they, be­cause they flee and pass away; but the Word of my Lord abideth above me for ev­er.” If then in sound­ing and pass­ing words Thou saidst that heav­en and earth should be made, and so madest heav­en and earth, there was a cor­po­re­al crea­ture be­fore heav­en and earth, by whose mo­tions in time that voice might take his course in time. But there was nought cor­po­re­al be­fore heav­en and earth; or if there were, sure­ly Thou hadst, with­out such a pass­ing voice, cre­at­ed that, where­of to make this pass­ing voice, by which to say, Let the heav­en and the earth be made. For what­so­ev­er that were, where­of such a voice were made, un­less by Thee it were made, it could not be at all. By what Word then didst Thou speak, that a body might be made, where­by these words again might be made?

Thou callest us then to un­der­stand the Word, God, with Thee God, Which is spo­ken eter­nal­ly, and by It are all things spo­ken eter­nal­ly. For what was spo­ken was not spo­ken suc­ces­sive­ly, one thing con­clud­ed that the next might be spo­ken, but all things to­geth­er and eter­nal­ly. Else have we time and change; and not a true eter­ni­ty nor true im­mor­tal­ity. This I know, O my God, and give thanks. I know, I con­fess to Thee, O Lord, and with me there knows and bless­es Thee, whoso is not un­thank­ful to as­sure Truth. We know, Lord, we know; since inas­much as any­thing is not which was, and is, which was not, so far forth it di­eth and ariseth. Noth­ing then of Thy Word doth give place or re­place, be­cause It is tru­ly im­mor­tal and eter­nal. And there­fore un­to the Word co­eter­nal with Thee Thou dost at once and eter­nal­ly say all that Thou dost say; and what­ev­er Thou sayest shall be made is made; nor dost Thou make, oth­er­wise than by say­ing; and yet are not all things made to­geth­er, or ev­er­last­ing, which Thou mak­est by say­ing.

Why, I be­seech Thee, O Lord my God? I see it in a way; but how to ex­press it, I know not, un­less it be, that what­so­ev­er be­gins to be, and leaves off to be, be­gins then, and leaves off then, when in Thy eter­nal Rea­son it is known, that it ought to be­gin or leave off; in which Rea­son noth­ing be­gin­neth or leaveth off. This is Thy Word, which is al­so “the Be­gin­ning, be­cause al­so It speaketh un­to us.” Thus in the Gospel He speaketh through the flesh; and this sound­ed out­ward­ly in the ears of men; that it might be be­lieved and sought in­ward­ly, and found in the eter­nal Ver­ity; where the good and on­ly Mas­ter tea­cheth all His dis­ci­ples. There, Lord, hear I Thy voice speak­ing un­to me; be­cause He speaketh us, who tea­cheth us; but He that tea­cheth us not, though He speaketh, to us He speaketh not. Who now tea­cheth us, but the un­change­able Truth? for even when we are ad­mon­ished through a change­able crea­ture; we are but led to the un­change­able Truth; where we learn tru­ly, while we stand and hear Him, and re­joice great­ly be­cause of the Bride­groom’s voice, restor­ing us to Him, from Whom we are. And there­fore the Be­gin­ning, be­cause un­less It abid­ed, there should not, when we went astray, be whith­er to re­turn. But when we re­turn from er­ror, it is through know­ing; and that we may know, He tea­cheth us, be­cause He is the Be­gin­ning, and speak­ing un­to us.

In this Be­gin­ning, O God, hast Thou made heav­en and earth, in Thy Word, in Thy Son, in Thy Pow­er, in Thy Wis­dom, in Thy Truth; won­drous­ly speak­ing, and won­drous­ly mak­ing. Who shall com­pre­hend? Who de­clare it? What is that which gleams through me, and strikes my heart with­out hurt­ing it; and I shud­der and kin­dle? I shud­der, inas­much as I un­like it; I kin­dle, inas­much as I am like it. It is Wis­dom, Wis­dom’s self which gleameth through me; sev­er­ing my cloudi­ness which yet again man­tles over me, faint­ing from it, through the dark­ness which for my pun­ish­ment gath­ers up­on me. For my strength is brought down in need, so that I can­not sup­port my bless­ings, till Thou, Lord, Who hast been gra­cious to all mine in­iq­ui­ties, shalt heal all my in­fir­mi­ties. For Thou shalt al­so re­deem my life from cor­rup­tion, and crown me with lov­ing kind­ness and ten­der mer­cies, and shalt sat­is­fy my de­sire with good things, be­cause my youth shall be re­newed like an ea­gle’s. For in hope we are saved, where­fore we through pa­tience wait for Thy promis­es. Let him that is able, hear Thee in­ward­ly dis­cours­ing out of Thy or­acle: I will bold­ly cry out, How won­der­ful are Thy works, O Lord, in Wis­dom hast Thou made them all; and this Wis­dom is the Be­gin­ning, and in that Be­gin­ning didst Thou make heav­en and earth.

Lo, are they not full of their old leav­en, who say to us, “What was God do­ing be­fore He made heav­en and earth? For if (say they) He were un­em­ployed and wrought not, why does He not al­so hence­forth, and for ev­er, as He did hereto­fore? For did any new mo­tion arise in God, and a new will to make a crea­ture, which He had nev­er be­fore made, how then would that be a true eter­ni­ty, where there ariseth a will, which was not? For the will of God is not a crea­ture, but be­fore the crea­ture; see­ing noth­ing could be cre­at­ed, un­less the will of the Cre­ator had pre­ced­ed. The will of God then be­longeth to His very Sub­stance. And if aught have arisen in God’s Sub­stance, which be­fore was not, that Sub­stance can­not be tru­ly called eter­nal. But if the will of God has been from eter­ni­ty that the crea­ture should be, why was not the crea­ture al­so from eter­ni­ty?”

Who speak thus, do not yet un­der­stand Thee, O Wis­dom of God, Light of souls, un­der­stand not yet how the things be made, which by Thee, and in Thee are made: yet they strive to com­pre­hend things eter­nal, whilst their heart flut­tereth be­tween the mo­tions of things past and to come, and is still un­sta­ble. Who shall hold it, and fix it, that it be set­tled awhile, and awhile catch the glo­ry of that ev­er­fixed Eter­ni­ty, and com­pare it with the times which are nev­er fixed, and see that it can­not be com­pared; and that a long time can­not be­come long, but out of many mo­tions pass­ing by, which can­not be pro­longed al­to­geth­er; but that in the Eter­nal noth­ing pas­seth, but the whole is present; where­as no time is all at once present: and that all time past, is driv­en on by time to come, and all to come fol­loweth up­on the past; and all past and to come, is cre­at­ed, and flows out of that which is ev­er present? Who shall hold the heart of man, that it may stand still, and see how eter­ni­ty ev­er still-​stand­ing, nei­ther past nor to come, ut­tereth the times past and to come? Can my hand do this, or the hand of my mouth by speech bring about a thing so great?

See, I an­swer him that as­keth, “What did God be­fore He made heav­en and earth?” I an­swer not as one is said to have done mer­ri­ly (elud­ing the pres­sure of the ques­tion), “He was prepar­ing hell (saith he) for pry­ers in­to mys­ter­ies.” It is one thing to an­swer en­quiries, an­oth­er to make sport of en­quir­ers. So I an­swer not; for rather had I an­swer, “I know not,” what I know not, than so as to raise a laugh at him who as­keth deep things and gain praise for one who an­swereth false things. But I say that Thou, our God, art the Cre­ator of ev­ery crea­ture: and if by the name “heav­en and earth,” ev­ery crea­ture be un­der­stood; I bold­ly say, “that be­fore God made heav­en and earth, He did not make any thing.” For if He made, what did He make but a crea­ture? And would I knew what­so­ev­er I de­sire to know to my prof­it, as I know, that no crea­ture was made, be­fore there was made any crea­ture.

But if any ex­cur­sive brain rove over the im­ages of forepassed times, and won­der that Thou the God Almighty and All-​cre­at­ing and All-​sup­port­ing, Mak­er of heav­en and earth, didst for in­nu­mer­able ages for­bear from so great a work, be­fore Thou wouldest make it; let him awake and con­sid­er, that he won­ders at false con­ceits. For whence could in­nu­mer­able ages pass by, which Thou madest not, Thou the Au­thor and Cre­ator of all ages? or what times should there be, which were not made by Thee? or how should they pass by, if they nev­er were? See­ing then Thou art the Cre­ator of all times, if any time was be­fore Thou madest heav­en and earth, why say they that Thou didst forego work­ing? For that very time didst Thou make, nor could times pass by, be­fore Thou madest those times. But if be­fore heav­en and earth there was no time, why is it de­mand­ed, what Thou then didst? For there was no “then,” when there was no time.

Nor dost Thou by time, pre­cede time: else shouldest Thou not pre­cede all times. But Thou pre­cedest all things past, by the sub­lim­ity of an ev­er-​present eter­ni­ty; and sur­pass­est all fu­ture be­cause they are fu­ture, and when they come, they shall be past; but Thou art the Same, and Thy years fail not. Thy years nei­ther come nor go; where­as ours both come and go, that they all may come. Thy years stand to­geth­er, be­cause they do stand; nor are de­part­ing thrust out by com­ing years, for they pass not away; but ours shall all be, when they shall no more be. Thy years are one day; and Thy day is not dai­ly, but To-​day, see­ing Thy To-​day gives not place un­to to-​mor­row, for nei­ther doth it re­place yes­ter­day. Thy To-​day, is Eter­ni­ty; there­fore didst Thou beget The Co­eter­nal, to whom Thou saidst, This day have I be­got­ten Thee. Thou hast made all things; and be­fore all times Thou art: nei­ther in any time was time not.

At no time then hadst Thou not made any thing, be­cause time it­self Thou madest. And no times are co­eter­nal with Thee, be­cause Thou abidest; but if they abode, they should not be times. For what is time? Who can read­ily and briefly ex­plain this? Who can even in thought com­pre­hend it, so as to ut­ter a word about it? But what in dis­course do we men­tion more fa­mil­iar­ly and know­ing­ly, than time? And, we un­der­stand, when we speak of it; we un­der­stand al­so, when we hear it spo­ken of by an­oth­er. What then is time? If no one asks me, I know: if I wish to ex­plain it to one that as­keth, I know not: yet I say bold­ly that I know, that if noth­ing passed away, time past were not; and if noth­ing were com­ing, a time to come were not; and if noth­ing were, time present were not. Those two times then, past and to come, how are they, see­ing the past now is not, and that to come is not yet? But the present, should it al­ways be present, and nev­er pass in­to time past, ver­ily it should not be time, but eter­ni­ty. If time present (if it is to be time) on­ly cometh in­to ex­is­tence, be­cause it pas­seth in­to time past, how can we say that ei­ther this is, whose cause of be­ing is, that it shall not be; so, name­ly, that we can­not tru­ly say that time is, but be­cause it is tend­ing not to be?

And yet we say, “a long time” and “a short time”; still, on­ly of time past or to come. A long time past (for ex­am­ple) we call an hun­dred years since; and a long time to come, an hun­dred years hence. But a short time past, we call (sup­pose) of­ten days since; and a short time to come, of­ten days hence. But in what sense is that long or short, which is not? For the past, is not now; and the fu­ture, is not yet. Let us not then say, “it is long”; but of the past, “it hath been long”; and of the fu­ture, “it will be long.” O my Lord, my Light, shall not here al­so Thy Truth mock at man? For that past time which was long, was it long when it was now past, or when it was yet present? For then might it be long, when there was, what could be long; but when past, it was no longer; where­fore nei­ther could that be long, which was not at all. Let us not then say, “time past hath been long”: for we shall not find, what hath been long, see­ing that since it was past, it is no more, but let us say, “that present time was long”; be­cause, when it was present, it was long. For it had not yet passed away, so as not to be; and there­fore there was, what could be long; but af­ter it was past, that ceased al­so to be long, which ceased to be.

Let us see then, thou soul of man, whether present time can be long: for to thee it is giv­en to feel and to mea­sure length of time. What wilt thou an­swer me? Are an hun­dred years, when present, a long time? See first, whether an hun­dred years can be present. For if the first of these years be now cur­rent, it is present, but the oth­er nine­ty and nine are to come, and there­fore are not yet, but if the sec­ond year be cur­rent, one is now past, an­oth­er present, the rest to come. And so if we as­sume any mid­dle year of this hun­dred to be present, all be­fore it, are past; all af­ter it, to come; where­fore an hun­dred years can­not be present. But see at least whether that one which is now cur­rent, it­self is present; for if the cur­rent month be its first, the rest are to come; if the sec­ond, the first is al­ready past, and the rest are not yet. There­fore, nei­ther is the year now cur­rent present; and if not present as a whole, then is not the year present. For twelve months are a year; of which what­ev­er by the cur­rent month is present; the rest past, or to come. Al­though nei­ther is that cur­rent month present; but one day on­ly; the rest be­ing to come, if it be the first; past, if the last; if any of the mid­dle, then amid past and to come.

See how the present time, which alone we found could be called long, is abridged to the length scarce of one day. But let us ex­am­ine that al­so; be­cause nei­ther is one day present as a whole. For it is made up of four and twen­ty hours of night and day: of which, the first hath the rest to come; the last hath them past; and any of the mid­dle hath those be­fore it past, those be­hind it to come. Yea, that one hour pas­seth away in fly­ing par­ti­cles. What­so­ev­er of it hath flown away, is past; what­so­ev­er re­maineth, is to come. If an in­stant of time be con­ceived, which can­not be di­vid­ed in­to the small­est par­ti­cles of mo­ments, that alone is it, which may be called present. Which yet flies with such speed from fu­ture to past, as not to be length­ened out with the least stay. For if it be, it is di­vid­ed in­to past and fu­ture. The present hath no space. Where then is the time, which we may call long? Is it to come? Of it we do not say, “it is long”; be­cause it is not yet, so as to be long; but we say, “it will be long.” When there­fore will it be? For if even then, when it is yet to come, it shall not be long (be­cause what can be long, as yet is not), and so it shall then be long, when from fu­ture which as yet is not, it shall be­gin now to be, and have be­come present, that so there should ex­ist what may be long; then does time present cry out in the words above, that it can­not be long.

And yet, Lord, we per­ceive in­ter­vals of times, and com­pare them, and say, some are short­er, and oth­ers longer. We mea­sure al­so, how much longer or short­er this time is than that; and we an­swer, “This is dou­ble, or tre­ble; and that, but once, or on­ly just so much as that.” But we mea­sure times as they are pass­ing, by per­ceiv­ing them; but past, which now are not, or the fu­ture, which are not yet, who can mea­sure? un­less a man shall pre­sume to say, that can be mea­sured, which is not. When then time is pass­ing, it may be per­ceived and mea­sured; but when it is past, it can­not, be­cause it is not.

I ask, Fa­ther, I af­firm not: O my God, rule and guide me. “Who will tell me that there are not three times (as we learned when boys, and taught boys), past, present, and fu­ture; but present on­ly, be­cause those two are not? Or are they al­so; and when from fu­ture it be­cometh present, doth it come out of some se­cret place; and so, when re­tir­ing, from present it be­cometh past? For where did they, who fore­told things to come, see them, if as yet they be not? For that which is not, can­not be seen. And they who re­late things past, could not re­late them, if in mind they did not dis­cern them, and if they were not, they could no way be dis­cerned. Things then past and to come, are.”

Per­mit me, Lord, to seek fur­ther. O my hope, let not my pur­pose be con­found­ed. For if times past and to come be, I would know where they be. Which yet if I can­not, yet I know, wher­ev­er they be, they are not there as fu­ture, or past, but present. For if there al­so they be fu­ture, they are not yet there; if there al­so they be past, they are no longer there. Where­so­ev­er then is what­so­ev­er is, it is on­ly as present. Al­though when past facts are re­lat­ed, there are drawn out of the mem­ory, not the things them­selves which are past, but words which, con­ceived by the im­ages of the things, they, in pass­ing, have through the sens­es left as traces in the mind. Thus my child­hood, which now is not, is in time past, which now is not: but now when I re­call its im­age, and tell of it, I be­hold it in the present, be­cause it is still in my mem­ory. Whether there be a like cause of fore­telling things to come al­so; that of things which as yet are not, the im­ages may be per­ceived be­fore, al­ready ex­ist­ing, I con­fess, O my God, I know not. This in­deed I know, that we gen­er­al­ly think be­fore on our fu­ture ac­tions, and that that fore­think­ing is present, but the ac­tion where­of we fore­think is not yet, be­cause it is to come. Which, when we have set up­on, and have be­gun to do what we were fore­think­ing, then shall that ac­tion be; be­cause then it is no longer fu­ture, but present.

Which way so­ev­er then this se­cret fore-​per­ceiv­ing of things to come be; that on­ly can be seen, which is. But what now is, is not fu­ture, but present. When then things to come are said to be seen, it is not them­selves which as yet are not (that is, which are to be), but their caus­es per­chance or signs are seen, which al­ready are. There­fore they are not fu­ture but present to those who now see that, from which the fu­ture, be­ing forecon­ceived in the mind, is fore­told. Which fore-​con­cep­tions again now are; and those who fore­tell those things, do be­hold the con­cep­tions present be­fore them. Let now the nu­mer­ous va­ri­ety of things fur­nish me some ex­am­ple. I be­hold the day-​break, I fore­show, that the sun, is about to rise. What I be­hold, is present; what I fore­sig­ni­fy, to come; not the sun, which al­ready is; but the sun-​ris­ing, which is not yet. And yet did I not in my mind imag­ine the sun-​ris­ing it­self (as now while I speak of it), I could not fore­tell it. But nei­ther is that day-​break which I dis­cern in the sky, the sun-​ris­ing, al­though it goes be­fore it; nor that imag­ina­tion of my mind; which two are seen now present, that the oth­er which is to be may be fore­told. Fu­ture things then are not yet: and if they be not yet, they are not: and if they are not, they can­not be seen; yet fore­told they may be from things present, which are al­ready, and are seen.

Thou then, Ruler of Thy cre­ation, by what way dost Thou teach souls things to come? For Thou didst teach Thy Prophets. By what way dost Thou, to whom noth­ing is to come, teach things to come; or rather of the fu­ture, dost teach things present? For, what is not, nei­ther can it be taught. Too far is this way of my ken: it is too mighty for me, I can­not at­tain un­to it; but from Thee I can, when Thou shalt vouch­safe it, O sweet light of my hid­den eyes.

What now is clear and plain is, that nei­ther things to come nor past are. Nor is it prop­er­ly said, “there be three times, past, present, and to come”: yet per­chance it might be prop­er­ly said, “there be three times; a present of things past, a present of things present, and a present of things fu­ture.” For these three do ex­ist in some sort, in the soul, but oth­er­where do I not see them; present of things past, mem­ory; present of things present, sight; present of things fu­ture, ex­pec­ta­tion. If thus we be per­mit­ted to speak, I see three times, and I con­fess there are three. Let it be said too, “there be three times, past, present, and to come”: in our in­cor­rect way. See, I ob­ject not, nor gain­say, nor find fault, if what is so said be but un­der­stood, that nei­ther what is to be, now is, nor what is past. For but few things are there, which we speak prop­er­ly, most things im­prop­er­ly; still the things in­tend­ed are un­der­stood.

I said then even now, we mea­sure times as they pass, in or­der to be able to say, this time is twice so much as that one; or, this is just so much as that; and so of any oth­er parts of time, which be mea­sur­able. Where­fore, as I said, we mea­sure times as they pass. And if any should ask me, “How know­est thou?” I might an­swer, “I know, that we do mea­sure, nor can we mea­sure things that are not; and things past and to come, are not.” But time present how do we mea­sure, see­ing it hath no space? It is mea­sured while pass­ing, but when it shall have passed, it is not mea­sured; for there will be noth­ing to be mea­sured. But whence, by what way, and whith­er pass­es it while it is a mea­sur­ing? whence, but from the fu­ture? Which way, but through the present? whith­er, but in­to the past? From that there­fore, which is not yet, through that, which hath no space, in­to that, which now is not. Yet what do we mea­sure, if not time in some space? For we do not say, sin­gle, and dou­ble, and triple, and equal, or any oth­er like way that we speak of time, ex­cept of spaces of times. In what space then do we mea­sure time pass­ing? In the fu­ture, whence it pas­seth through? But what is not yet, we mea­sure not. Or in the present, by which it pass­es? but no space, we do not mea­sure: or in the past, to which it pass­es? But nei­ther do we mea­sure that, which now is not.

My soul is on fire to know this most in­tri­cate enig­ma. Shut it not up, O Lord my God, good Fa­ther; through Christ I be­seech Thee, do not shut up these usu­al, yet hid­den things, from my de­sire, that it be hin­dered from pierc­ing in­to them; but let them dawn through Thy en­light­en­ing mer­cy, O Lord. Whom shall I en­quire of con­cern­ing these things? and to whom shall I more fruit­ful­ly con­fess my ig­no­rance, than to Thee, to Whom these my stud­ies, so ve­he­ment­ly kin­dled to­ward Thy Scrip­tures, are not trou­ble­some? Give what I love; for I do love, and this hast Thou giv­en me. Give, Fa­ther, Who tru­ly know­est to give good gifts un­to Thy chil­dren. Give, be­cause I have tak­en up­on me to know, and trou­ble is be­fore me un­til Thou open­est it. By Christ I be­seech Thee, in His Name, Holy of holies, let no man dis­turb me. For I be­lieved, and there­fore do I speak. This is my hope, for this do I live, that I may con­tem­plate the de­lights of the Lord. Be­hold, Thou hast made my days old, and they pass away, and how, I know not. And we talk of time, and time, and times, and times, “How long time is it since he said this”; “how long time since he did this”; and “how long time since I saw that”; and “this syl­la­ble hath dou­ble time to that sin­gle short syl­la­ble.” These words we speak, and these we hear, and are un­der­stood, and un­der­stand. Most man­ifest and or­di­nary they are, and the self-​same things again are but too deeply hid­den, and the dis­cov­ery of them were new.

I heard once from a learned man, that the mo­tions of the sun, moon, and stars, con­sti­tut­ed time, and I as­sent­ed not. For why should not the mo­tions of all bod­ies rather be times? Or, if the lights of heav­en should cease, and a pot­ter’s wheel run round, should there be no time by which we might mea­sure those whirlings, and say, that ei­ther it moved with equal paus­es, or if it turned some­times slow­er, oth­er­whiles quick­er, that some rounds were longer, oth­er short­er? Or, while we were say­ing this, should we not al­so be speak­ing in time? Or, should there in our words be some syl­la­bles short, oth­ers long, but be­cause those sound­ed in a short­er time, these in a longer? God, grant to men to see in a small thing no­tices com­mon to things great and small. The stars and lights of heav­en, are al­so for signs, and for sea­sons, and for years, and for days; they are; yet nei­ther should I say, that the go­ing round of that wood­en wheel was a day, nor yet he, that it was there­fore no time.

I de­sire to know the force and na­ture of time, by which we mea­sure the mo­tions of bod­ies, and say (for ex­am­ple) this mo­tion is twice as long as that. For I ask, See­ing “day” de­notes not the stay on­ly of the sun up­on the earth (ac­cord­ing to which day is one thing, night an­oth­er); but al­so its whole cir­cuit from east to east again; ac­cord­ing to which we say, “there passed so many days,” the night be­ing in­clud­ed when we say, “so many days,” and the nights not reck­oned apart;- see­ing then a day is com­plet­ed by the mo­tion of the sun and by his cir­cuit from east to east again, I ask, does the mo­tion alone make the day, or the stay in which that mo­tion is com­plet­ed, or both? For if the first be the day; then should we have a day, al­though the sun should fin­ish that course in so small a space of time, as one hour comes to. If the sec­ond, then should not that make a day, if be­tween one sun-​rise and an­oth­er there were but so short a stay, as one hour comes to; but the sun must go four and twen­ty times about, to com­plete one day. If both, then nei­ther could that be called a day; if the sun should run his whole round in the space of one hour; nor that, if, while the sun stood still, so much time should over­pass, as the sun usu­al­ly makes his whole course in, from morn­ing to morn­ing. I will not there­fore now ask, what that is which is called day; but, what time is, where­by we, mea­sur­ing the cir­cuit of the sun, should say that it was fin­ished in half the time it was wont, if so be it was fin­ished in so small a space as twelve hours; and com­par­ing both times, should call this a sin­gle time, that a dou­ble time; even sup­pos­ing the sun to run his round from east to east, some­times in that sin­gle, some­times in that dou­ble time. Let no man then tell me, that the mo­tions of the heav­en­ly bod­ies con­sti­tute times, be­cause, when at the prayer of one, the sun had stood still, till he could achieve his vic­to­ri­ous bat­tle, the sun stood still, but time went on. For in its own al­lot­ted space of time was that bat­tle waged and end­ed. I per­ceive time then to be a cer­tain ex­ten­sion. But do I per­ceive it, or seem to per­ceive it? Thou, Light and Truth, wilt show me.

Dost Thou bid me as­sent, if any de­fine time to be “mo­tion of a body?” Thou dost not bid me. For that no body is moved, but in time, I hear; this Thou sayest; but that the mo­tion of a body is time, I hear not; Thou sayest it not. For when a body is moved, I by time mea­sure, how long it moveth, from the time it be­gan to move un­til it left off? And if I did not see whence it be­gan; and it con­tin­ue to move so that I see not when it ends, I can­not mea­sure, save per­chance from the time I be­gan, un­til I cease to see. And if I look long, I can on­ly pro­nounce it to be a long time, but not how long; be­cause when we say “how long,” we do it by com­par­ison; as, “this is as long as that,” or “twice so long as that,” or the like. But when we can mark the dis­tances of the places, whence and whith­er goeth the body moved, or his parts, if it moved as in a lathe, then can we say pre­cise­ly, in how much time the mo­tion of that body or his part, from this place un­to that, was fin­ished. See­ing there­fore the mo­tion of a body is one thing, that by which we mea­sure how long it is, an­oth­er; who sees not, which of the two is rather to be called time? For and if a body be some­times moved, some­times stands still, then we mea­sure, not his mo­tion on­ly, but his stand­ing still too by time; and we say, “it stood still, as much as it moved”; or “it stood still twice or thrice so long as it moved”; or any oth­er space which our mea­sur­ing hath ei­ther as­cer­tained, or guessed; more or less, as we use to say. Time then is not the mo­tion of a body.

And I con­fess to Thee, O Lord, that I yet know not what time is, and again I con­fess un­to Thee, O Lord, that I know that I speak this in time, and that hav­ing long spo­ken of time, that very “long” is not long, but by the pause of time. How then know I this, see­ing I know not what time is? or is it per­chance that I know not how to ex­press what I know? Woe is me, that do not even know, what I know not. Be­hold, O my God, be­fore Thee I lie not; but as I speak, so is my heart. Thou shalt light my can­dle; Thou, O Lord my God, wilt en­light­en my dark­ness.

Does not my soul most tru­ly con­fess un­to Thee, that I do mea­sure times? Do I then mea­sure, O my God, and know not what I mea­sure? I mea­sure the mo­tion of a body in time; and the time it­self do I not mea­sure? Or could I in­deed mea­sure the mo­tion of a body how long it were, and in how long space it could come from this place to that, with­out mea­sur­ing the time in which it is moved? This same time then, how do I mea­sure? do we by a short­er time mea­sure a longer, as by the space of a cu­bit, the space of a rood? for so in­deed we seem by the space of a short syl­la­ble, to mea­sure the space of a long syl­la­ble, and to say that this is dou­ble the oth­er. Thus mea­sure we the spaces of stan­zas, by the spaces of the vers­es, and the spaces of the vers­es, by the spaces of the feet, and the spaces of the feet, by the spaces of the syl­la­bles, and the spaces of long, by the space of short syl­la­bles; not mea­sur­ing by pages (for then we mea­sure spaces, not times); but when we ut­ter the words and they pass by, and we say “it is a long stan­za, be­cause com­posed of so many vers­es; long vers­es, be­cause con­sist­ing of so many feet; long feet, be­cause pro­longed by so many syl­la­bles; a long syl­la­ble be­cause dou­ble to a short one. But nei­ther do we this way ob­tain any cer­tain mea­sure of time; be­cause it may be, that a short­er verse, pro­nounced more ful­ly, may take up more time than a longer, pro­nounced hur­ried­ly. And so for a verse, a foot, a syl­la­ble. Whence it seemed to me, that time is noth­ing else than pro­trac­tion; but of what, I know not; and I mar­vel, if it be not of the mind it­self? For what, I be­seech Thee, O my God, do I mea­sure, when I say, ei­ther in­def­inite­ly “this is a longer time than that,” or def­inite­ly “this is dou­ble that”? That I mea­sure time, I know; and yet I mea­sure not time to come, for it is not yet; nor present, be­cause it is not pro­tract­ed by any space; nor past, be­cause it now is not. What then do I mea­sure? Times pass­ing, not past? for so I said.

Courage, my mind, and press on might­ily. God is our helper, He made us, and not we our­selves. Press on where truth be­gins to dawn. Sup­pose, now, the voice of a body be­gins to sound, and does sound, and sounds on, and list, it ceas­es; it is si­lence now, and that voice is past, and is no more a voice. Be­fore it sound­ed, it was to come, and could not be mea­sured, be­cause as yet it was not, and now it can­not, be­cause it is no longer. Then there­fore while it sound­ed, it might; be­cause there then was what might be mea­sured. But yet even then it was not at a stay; for it was pass­ing on, and pass­ing away. Could it be mea­sured the rather, for that? For while pass­ing, it was be­ing ex­tend­ed in­to some space of time, so that it might be mea­sured, since the present hath no space. If there­fore then it might, then, to, sup­pose an­oth­er voice hath be­gun to sound, and still soundeth in one con­tin­ued tenor with­out any in­ter­rup­tion; let us mea­sure it while it sounds; see­ing when it hath left sound­ing, it will then be past, and noth­ing left to be mea­sured; let us mea­sure it ver­ily, and tell how much it is. But it sounds still, nor can it be mea­sured but from the in­stant it be­gan in, un­to the end it left in. For the very space be­tween is the thing we mea­sure, name­ly, from some be­gin­ning un­to some end. Where­fore, a voice that is not yet end­ed, can­not be mea­sured, so that it may be said how long, or short it is; nor can it be called equal to an­oth­er, or dou­ble to a sin­gle, or the like. But when end­ed, it no longer is. How may it then be mea­sured? And yet we mea­sure times; but yet nei­ther those which are not yet, nor those which no longer are, nor those which are not length­ened out by some pause, nor those which have no bounds. We mea­sure nei­ther times to come, nor past, nor present, nor pass­ing; and yet we do mea­sure times.

“Deus Cre­ator om­ni­um,” this verse of eight syl­la­bles al­ter­nates be­tween short and long syl­la­bles. The four short then, the first, third, fifth, and sev­enth, are but sin­gle, in re­spect of the four long, the sec­ond, fourth, sixth, and eighth. Ev­ery one of these to ev­ery one of those, hath a dou­ble time: I pro­nounce them, re­port on them, and find it so, as one’s plain sense per­ceives. By plain sense then, I mea­sure a long syl­la­ble by a short, and I sen­si­bly find it to have twice so much; but when one sounds af­ter the oth­er, if the for­mer be short, the lat­ter long, how shall I de­tain the short one, and how, mea­sur­ing, shall I ap­ply it to the long, that I may find this to have twice so much; see­ing the long does not be­gin to sound, un­less the short leaves sound­ing? And that very long one do I mea­sure as present, see­ing I mea­sure it not till it be end­ed? Now his end­ing is his pass­ing away. What then is it I mea­sure? where is the short syl­la­ble by which I mea­sure? where the long which I mea­sure? Both have sound­ed, have flown, passed away, are no more; and yet I mea­sure, and con­fi­dent­ly an­swer (so far as is pre­sumed on a prac­tised sense) that as to space of time this syl­la­ble is but sin­gle, that dou­ble. And yet I could not do this, un­less they were al­ready past and end­ed. It is not then them­selves, which now are not, that I mea­sure, but some­thing in my mem­ory, which there re­mains fixed.

It is in thee, my mind, that I mea­sure times. In­ter­rupt me not, that is, in­ter­rupt not thy­self with the tu­mults of thy im­pres­sions. In thee I mea­sure times; the im­pres­sion, which things as they pass by cause in thee, re­mains even when they are gone; this it is which still present, I mea­sure, not the things which pass by to make this im­pres­sion. This I mea­sure, when I mea­sure times. Ei­ther then this is time, or I do not mea­sure times. What when we mea­sure si­lence, and say that this si­lence hath held as long time as did that voice? do we not stretch out our thought to the mea­sure of a voice, as if it sound­ed, that so we may be able to re­port of the in­ter­vals of si­lence in a giv­en space of time? For though both voice and tongue be still, yet in thought we go over po­ems, and vers­es, and any oth­er dis­course, or di­men­sions of mo­tions, and re­port as to the spaces of times, how much this is in re­spect of that, no oth­er­wise than if vo­cal­ly we did pro­nounce them. If a man would ut­ter a length­ened sound, and had set­tled in thought how long it should be, he hath in si­lence al­ready gone through a space of time, and com­mit­ting it to mem­ory, be­gins to ut­ter that speech, which sounds on, un­til it be brought un­to the end pro­posed. Yea it hath sound­ed, and will sound; for so much of it as is fin­ished, hath sound­ed al­ready, and the rest will sound. And thus pas­seth it on, un­til the present in­tent con­veys over the fu­ture in­to the past; the past in­creas­ing by the diminu­tion of the fu­ture, un­til by the con­sump­tion of the fu­ture, all is past.

But how is that fu­ture di­min­ished or con­sumed, which as yet is not? or how that past in­creased, which is now no longer, save that in the mind which en­acteth this, there be three things done? For it ex­pects, it con­sid­ers, it re­mem­bers; that so that which it ex­pecteth, through that which it con­sid­ereth, pas­seth in­to that which it re­mem­bereth. Who there­fore de­ni­eth, that things to come are not as yet? and yet, there is in the mind an ex­pec­ta­tion of things to come. And who de­nies past things to be now no longer? and yet is there still in the mind a mem­ory of things past. And who de­ni­eth the present time hath no space, be­cause it pas­seth away in a mo­ment? and yet our con­sid­er­ation con­tin­ueth, through which that which shall be present pro­ceedeth to be­come ab­sent. It is not then fu­ture time, that is long, for as yet it is not: but a long fu­ture, is “a long ex­pec­ta­tion of the fu­ture,” nor is it time past, which now is not, that is long; but a long past, is “a long mem­ory of the past.”

I am about to re­peat a Psalm that I know. Be­fore I be­gin, my ex­pec­ta­tion is ex­tend­ed over the whole; but when I have be­gun, how much so­ev­er of it I shall sep­arate off in­to the past, is ex­tend­ed along my mem­ory; thus the life of this ac­tion of mine is di­vid­ed be­tween my mem­ory as to what I have re­peat­ed, and ex­pec­ta­tion as to what I am about to re­peat; but “con­sid­er­ation” is present with me, that through it what was fu­ture, may be con­veyed over, so as to be­come past. Which the more it is done again and again, so much the more the ex­pec­ta­tion be­ing short­ened, is the mem­ory en­larged: till the whole ex­pec­ta­tion be at length ex­haust­ed, when that whole ac­tion be­ing end­ed, shall have passed in­to mem­ory. And this which takes place in the whole Psalm, the same takes place in each sev­er­al por­tion of it, and each sev­er­al syl­la­ble; the same holds in that longer ac­tion, where­of this Psalm may be part; the same holds in the whole life of man, where­of all the ac­tions of man are parts; the same holds through the whole age of the sons of men, where­of all the lives of men are parts.

But be­cause Thy lov­ing-​kind­ness is bet­ter than all lives, be­hold, my life is but a dis­trac­tion, and Thy right hand up­held me, in my Lord the Son of man, the Me­di­ator be­twixt Thee, The One, and us many, many al­so through our man­ifold dis­trac­tions amid many things, that by Him I may ap­pre­hend in Whom I have been ap­pre­hend­ed, and may be re-​col­lect­ed from my old con­ver­sa­tion, to fol­low The One, for­get­ting what is be­hind, and not dis­tend­ed but ex­tend­ed, not to things which shall be and shall pass away, but to those things which are be­fore, not dis­tract­ed­ly but in­tent­ly, I fol­low on for the prize of my heav­en­ly call­ing, where I may hear the voice of Thy praise, and con­tem­plate Thy de­lights, nei­ther to come, nor to pass away. But now are my years spent in mourn­ing. And Thou, O Lord, art my com­fort, my Fa­ther ev­er­last­ing, but I have been sev­ered amid times, whose or­der I know not; and my thoughts, even the in­most bow­els of my soul, are rent and man­gled with tu­mul­tuous va­ri­eties, un­til I flow to­geth­er in­to Thee, pu­ri­fied and molten by the fire of Thy love.

And now will I stand, and be­come firm in Thee, in my mould, Thy truth; nor will I en­dure the ques­tions of men, who by a pe­nal dis­ease thirst for more than they can con­tain, and say, “what did God be­fore He made heav­en and earth?” Or, “How came it in­to His mind to make any thing, hav­ing nev­er be­fore made any thing?” Give them, O Lord, well to be­think them­selves what they say, and to find, that “nev­er” can­not be pred­icat­ed, when “time” is not. This then that He is said “nev­er to have made”; what else is it to say, than “in ‘no have made?” Let them see there­fore, that time can­not be with­out cre­at­ed be­ing, and cease to speak that van­ity. May they al­so be ex­tend­ed to­wards those things which are be­fore; and un­der­stand Thee be­fore all times, the eter­nal Cre­ator of all times, and that no times be co­eter­nal with Thee, nor any crea­ture, even if there be any crea­ture be­fore all times.

O Lord my God, what a depth is that re­cess of Thy mys­ter­ies, and how far from it have the con­se­quences of my trans­gres­sions cast me! Heal mine eyes, that I may share the joy of Thy light. Cer­tain­ly, if there be mind gift­ed with such vast knowl­edge and fore­knowl­edge, as to know all things past and to come, as I know one well-​known Psalm, tru­ly that mind is pass­ing won­der­ful, and fear­ful­ly amaz­ing; in that noth­ing past, noth­ing to come in af­ter-​ages, is any more hid­den from him, than when I sung that Psalm, was hid­den from me what, and how much of it had passed away from the be­gin­ning, what, and how much there re­mained un­to the end. But far be it that Thou the Cre­ator of the Uni­verse, the Cre­ator of souls and bod­ies, far be it, that Thou shouldest in such wise know all things past and to come. Far, far more won­der­ful­ly, and far more mys­te­ri­ous­ly, dost Thou know them. For not, as the feel­ings of one who singeth what he knoweth, or heareth some well-​known song, are through ex­pec­ta­tion of the words to come, and the re­mem­ber­ing of those that are past, var­ied, and his sens­es di­vid­ed, -not so doth any thing hap­pen un­to Thee, un­change­ably eter­nal, that is, the eter­nal Cre­ator of minds. Like then as Thou in the Be­gin­ning knewest the heav­en and the earth, with­out any va­ri­ety of Thy knowl­edge, so madest Thou in the Be­gin­ning heav­en and earth, with­out any dis­trac­tion of Thy ac­tion. Whoso un­der­standeth, let him con­fess un­to Thee; and whoso un­der­standeth not, let him con­fess un­to Thee. Oh how high art Thou, and yet the hum­ble in heart are Thy dwelling-​place; for Thou rais­est up those that are bowed down, and they fall not, whose el­eva­tion Thou art.