When the virgin soul, says Mechthild at the opening of her tale, has endured all the trials of mystical purification, she is very weary, and cries to her Love, saying, “Oh, beautiful youth! I long for thee. Where shall I find thee?” Then the Divine Youth answers: “A gentle voice I hear, Something of love sounds there: I have wooed her long and long, Yet not till now have I heard that song. It moveth me so, Towards her I must go. She is the soul who with pain is torn, And love, that is one with the pain. In the early dew of the morn, In the hidden depths, which are far below, The life of the soul is born.” Then her vassals, which are the five senses, say to the soul, “Lady, adorn thyself.” “We have heard the whisper clear; The Prince is coming towards thee here, In the morning dew, in the bird’s song. Ah, fair Bride, tarry not long!” So the soul adorns herself with the virtues, and goes out into the forest: and the forest, says Mechthild, is the company of the saints. Sweet nightingales sing there night and day of true union with God, and there in the thicket are heard the voices of the birds of holy wisdom. But the youth himself comes not to her. He sends messengers to the intent that she may dance: one by one he sends her the faith of Abraham, the aspirations of the Prophets, the pure humility of our Lady Saint Mary, all the virtues of Christ, and all the sanctity of His elect; and thus there is prepared a most noble dance. And then comes the youth and says to the soul, “Maiden, as gladly shouldst thou have danced, as mine elect have danced.” But she replies: “Unless thou lead me, Lord, I cannot dance; Would’st thou have me leap and spring, Thou thyself, dear Lord, must sing, So shall I spring into thy love, From thy love to understanding, From understanding to delight. Then, soaring human thought far, far above, There circling will I dwell, and taste encircling love.” So sings the Bride; and so the youth must sing, that she may dance. Then says he: “Maiden, thy dance of praise was well performed. Now thou shalt have thy will of the Virgin’s Son, for thou art weary. Come at midday to the shady fountain, to the resting-place of love: and with him thou shalt find refreshment.” And the maiden replies: “Oh Lord, it is too high, too great, That she should be thy chosen mate, Within whose heart no love can be Till she is quickened, Lord, by thee.”