in honorem Hans Memling

Can it be the doing of man, dear Lord, to extol your greatness with such delicate means? How is it possible for man ever to express thee in mere colours?

It's not man's doing, o Unspeakable, when he makes things of true beauty, but you are the steersman of his hands. This true artist laid his hands in infinity and let Brahman take the lead. For it's you, o Lord, that wants to sing and wants to be beautiful in beautiful things.

This Memling knew.

Thus this great man from Bruges was kissed by thee. He rested in thy Arms while painting. You took his brush and gently caressed the canvas. His artwork was his prayer. Singing and celebrating your great name he went back to his house in the Saint-Jorisstreet, knowing he had slain the dragon of his sorrow: nothing could hurt him anymore, because he had made something of extraordinary worth.

He had made Thee on canvas.

Look not with your eyes, onlooker! The message comes not from the eyes. It's a message from inside that goes to your inside.

Look, beholder! You don't see what you see. It's not the face of a girl that you see! It's eternity speaking to your eternity. It's Beauty speaking to your Beauty.

How is it possible that a man can walk all by himself in a museum, hold still before a painting and then begin to shiver inside? Was it not you, you alone, the Birthless One, that made me weep inside there that morning in the Hospital of St. John?

I wanted to communicate this to my friend but I remained silent. Because thou art for ever inexpressible. The work of Memling (no, it's your work, to be sure) remains a mystery and a secret not fit for words.

But by then I loved my friend even more.

Because there is beauty on the face of the earth.