Now and
again, it is true, some strange voice reaches us, keyed to a different
music. Shakespeare, for example, in his famous one hundred and sixteenth
sonnet, boldly states that
Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
But who listens, who believes? Yet, if it should happen to us to be
placed in the position of the offender, we need no one to convince us
that a true love should be, in its very nature, unalterable. How
astonished and dismayed are we, when eyes that have so many times met
ours in tenderness harden at our presence, and lips which have uttered so
many pledges of affection, speak harshly! We do not deny our fault,
indeed; but we think we can discern reasons why it should be regarded
mercifully, why the very memory and sacredness of old affection should
make harsh judgment impossible; nay, more, why a deeply generous love
should even rejoice in the opportunity to forgive, and so should sanctify
our very shame with the healing touch of pity, and pour our tears into
the sacramental cup which ratifies a new fidelity.
It is so the sinner argues, his vision of what love ought to be growing
clearer by his offense against love. It is he alone, the sinner, who can
really sympathize with Christ's conception of love, for he alone feels
that this is the kind of love he needs.
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