I was in wonder as I crossed the borders of Paradise
at how well-being, as though a companion,
turned round and remained behind.
And when I reached the shore of earth,
the mother of thorns,
I encountered all kinds of pain and suffering.
I learned how, compared to Paradise,
our abode is but a dungeon;
yet the prisoners within it weep when they leave it!
I was amazed at how even infants weep
as they leave the womb —
weeping because they come out from darkness into light
and from suffocation they issue forth into this world!
Likewise death, too, is for the world
a symbol of birth,
and yet people weep because they are born
out of this world, the mother of suffering,
into the Garden of splendors.
Have pity on me, O Lord of Paradise,
and if it is not possible for me to enter Your Paradise,
grant that I may graze outside, by its enclosure:
within, let there be spread the table for the diligent,
but may the fruits within its enclosure
drop outside like the crumbs
for sinners, so that, through Your grace, they may live!
St Ephrem the Syrian. from the Hymns on Paradise, 5:13-15. From Ephrem the Syrian: Select Poems, by Sebastian Brock and George Kiraz (Brigham Young University Press, 2006).