OF THE SAME PSELLUS: MONODY ON THE COLLAPSE OF THE HAGIA SOPHIA
A It is, then, a calamity upon a calamity, a passion upon a passion, a grief upon a grief, a wailing upon a wailing, and a lamentation greater and more grievous than a lamentation. For the other calamities which memory brings—the razing of cities, the desolation of temples, the collapse of houses, the falling of statues, seditions, abductions, and captivities—we have known and understood. We have seen things which we did not hope for, nor expect, nor would we have ever imagined; and there was no greater evil to see nor to die before witnessing (before which it would have been absolutely necessary for anyone to have died) than this: our world, our heaven, our sun, our protection, our refuge, our hope, our sole comfort of souls, our sole succor, our support, our propitiatory, the most beautiful temple, the incomparable house which Wisdom built in her own name, and upon which she steadied those seven columns; upon which she also sacrificed her own victims and mixed the cup. B O the passion! O the calamity! O the magnitude of the evils! O the Iliad! Who would not have surrendered his own tongue, so as not to speak? Who would not have even willingly been suffocated, before expressing with his voice that very thing which God had chosen, which He frequented, in which, better to say, He dwelt, in which He was well-pleased, in which He abided, in which were stored the most precious things, the fragrant oil, the chrism—the royal, I say, and priestly, and shall I say the miraculous, the body and blood of God?—in which He Himself was sacrificed. Who will dare to speak of the event? What soul will have the heart to utter the word? That famous, that most celebrated, that inviolable [temple] has fallen—woe is me!—it has fallen, shaken by an earthquake, and pulled apart by the agitation of the earth. And He who looks upon the earth and makes it tremble C did not find favor, did not show reverence, and did not have pity on it as it fell. Yet to You, O Word, for you are the temple of God and the mound that was leveled and dissolved, and to the dust itself again rising and being lifted up, did the merciful One not turn away, and was He not pricked in heart? Was it for this that it shall be sacrificed and unaccepted? And shall it remain without singing, without psalm, without address, and without honor?
A For this cause, He suffered nothing at your collapse; but He set His face like a firm rock, that He might see whether even now—if I may speak as a man and with emotion—He has forgotten, since He became man and took upon Himself bodily things. But you, O dear sons of Sion, you ministers and priests and sacrificers of that great and new sacrifice, and whatever else is comprised in the deacons and subdeacons who lift up the vessels and purify, and the singers and those who modulate the chants, and the company and fullness of the psalmists—who, as Jeremiah says, carry about the exaltations of God in your throats—whither have you now migrated? Where do you now congregate? How has your joy been turned into mourning? How have your feasts been turned into lamentation? Was it not beautiful and holy for you, as it seemed to me and to all, to die before or to die together with this fall? But since God has granted us to live, and has placed us as a remnant among you, I ask: where does your sacred eloquence now sit or stand? Where is the assembly? Where is the investigation of the words of Scripture? What do you philosophize concerning that disaster? Concerning benevolence? Concerning concession? Concerning governance? Concerning the inaccessible words? If any discourse has been given or revealed to you, speak it, and do not leave us to rely only upon a single shred of the temple. There is not in this time B a prince, nor a prophet, nor a hegumen, nor a sacrifice of burnt offering, nor immolation, nor oblation, nor a burning of incense; how shall the fruit be brought before Thee and mercy be obtained? But you, indeed, be safe, and see the new Jerusalem brought into the heights and renewed; and occupy yourselves with prayers, and be glorified in her, and be made radiant. But you, O sun and moon and stars, where do you now shine? Where do you now beam? Where do you, holding back your rays, send them? What house now receives you or admits you? To whom do you shine in return? By what work are you glorified? Who, while looking up, would wish to see you? Who does not rather walk bowed down in darkness and turn away from the light? It was not fitting for you to be clothed in the mournful darkness of this one, now for the second time. O most excellent and greatest of the luminaries, O Sun—should not you, O full moon, have run into some dusty shadow and hidden yourself, or failed? But did you so overlook what happened as if it were unknown? And where will you be glorified? C I, for my part, have often seen you in that light-bearing temple, and seeing, I marveled, and I sought the cause why you underwent this, and I learned the reason for that lingering of your present beauty; I thought you were unfortunate lovers and devoid of love. Yet sometimes you appeared throughout the whole day, O Sun, loving that place, and remaining there and shining, and you did not willingly depart or withdraw, carrying the moon to succeed you. And I, seeing this, was reflecting—when the singer David heralded you as both a giant and a bridegroom coming out of the chamber, for he too saw this beforehand, loving that all-radiant temple; and he sang these things to you. And now you did not turn away from it falling, for which you were greater, for which you were more honorable, for which you shall be more radiant; and you, altogether glorious, shall be humbled a little D and...