Jesus, the Very Thought of Thee

Bernard of Clairvaux; translated by Edward Caswall

Sometimes the best form of prayer is thought. And that is why we’re revisiting “Jesus, the Very Thought of Thee” for our Hymn of the Week,

One of my favorite short stories of all time is Tolkien’s wonderful tale of mercy and redemption and artistic thought, “Leaf, by Niggle.” The title character is a painter in a small way — not an ambitious artist, but not one who has sold out his talent for popularity, either. He’s all taken up with an enormous painting of mountains and trees and the sky, that he hasn’t the talent to execute, but the more he devotes himself to a single leaf, with the dewdrops on it and the slender and miraculous veins that really do feed the world, the vision that seizes him grows bigger, deeper, more complicated; and in all this time, he’s got duties to perform in his neighborhood. Mainly those have to do with his troublesome neighbor Mr. Parish, who doesn’t care a fig about painting, but who is an excellent gardener, while Niggle himself lets his own garden go to weeds. Niggle and Parish barely put up with each other, and Mrs. Parish is always getting sick or at least she thinks she is, and since Parish is lame, that means Niggle’s got to go fetch the doctor or something from the chemist’s, and on one such trip on a rainy day, Niggle catches a very bad cold, and — well, he’s got a journey coming up, one he’d rather not take. When the time for this mysterious journey arrives, he’s hustled off to the train whether he likes it or not. He doesn’t like it. He’s not prepared.

“He hardly ever thought,” says one of the Voices reviewing Niggle’s case, after many days, or years, or it could be centuries — Niggle can’t reckon the time. He’s been painting boards all one color, or digging, or doing other manual labor, under the direction of a Doctor who seldom speaks. It’s for his own good. After all, what better treatment for somebody who “hardly ever thought”? But a second Voice, milder but not sentimental, intercedes on his behalf. “His heart was in the right place,” he says. Yes, the first Voice admits, though it hardly ever beat right. They decide that Niggle is ready for a gentler regimen, and the poor fellow — who is destined for real glory, by the way — is overcome with gratitude. That’s because he has spent these ages upon ages, or days upon days, doing a lot of thinking. It’s not just examination of conscience. It’s forgiveness for Parish. Tolkien encourages us to infer that Niggle’s thought is a matter getting himself right with his Maker. The author never utters the word “prayer,” but that is what it is.

Do children think? If you’ve ever seen a small boy lying on his back in a field and gazing up at the sky, you may wonder whether, aside from play, they do anything but think. Jesus has said that unless we become as little children, we shall not enter the kingdom of heaven — and you may remember our discussion here of the wonderful children’s hymn, It Fell Upon a Summer Day. The child does not talk theology, as important as that is to keep us from falling into confusion and craziness. He wants to be with Jesus. And that’s what moved the author of this week’s hymn, Bernard of Clairvaux. Bernard was a man of immense learning, surely one of the most brilliant Christian writers on prayer and the devotional life. But he was suspicious of people like Peter Abelard, who he thought came close to turning the truths of the faith into an intellectual game. That would be a kind of thinking without thinking. We might say that for Bernard, such men were charmers, dazzling the mind with words. Instead, our eyes must always look to Jesus, our ears be open to his words, and our feet ready to run to him with all the abandon of a child. To think, in this sense, is to be mindful, to remember, to hold in your heart.

People sometimes press me for proofs that there is a God, and I can oblige them, but such a proof is at best like the score of a symphony. You can see it, but you don’t hear it, and the earth does not tremble with the grandeur of the sound. We don’t want a description of Jesus. We want his friendship. We want to be in his presence. And that is where Bernard places us, in his Latin hymn Jesu dulcis memoria, which the great Edward Caswall has rendered into English as “Jesus, the Very Thought of Thee.” It is intensely personal. Beyond all that we hope Jesus does for us, we want the person, we want, as he has said, to abide in him, as we want him to abide in us. That goes beyond the most pious service of God. Then we may hear him say, “I no longer call you my servant, but my friend.” Think of it!

Jesus, the very thought of Thee
With sweetness fills the breast;
But sweeter far Thy face to see,
And in Thy presence rest.

Nor voice can sing, nor heart can frame,
Nor can the memory find
A sweeter sound than Thy blest Name,
O Savior of mankind!

O Hope of every contrite heart,
O Joy of all the meek,
To those who ask, how kind Thou art!
How good to those who seek!

But what to those who find?  Ah, this
Nor tongue nor pen can show:
The love of Jesus, what it is,
None but His loved ones know.

Jesus, our only joy be Thou,
As Thou our prize wilt be;
Jesus, be Thou our glory now,
And through eternity.

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Word & Song by Anthony Esolen is an online magazine devoted to reclaiming the good, the beautiful, and the true. We publish six essays each week, on words, classic hymns, poems, films, and popular songs, as well a weekly podcast, alternately Poetry Aloud or Anthony Esolen Speaks. To support this project, please join us as a free or paid subscriber. Learn more about our subscription tiers by clicking the button below.