Chapter 8. The Almsgiving of Constantine’s Mother
1 Perhaps by now someone has been standing here a while, faulting my discourse for not going through her love of humanity and her mercy. My discourse itself wishes to, but hesitates before so vast a sea. For with what words, with what power, could I tell how many nooses of famine you have broken, how many you have clothed in their nakedness, how many bereft of children you have comforted, how many you have consoled for the loss of fathers, how many you have relieved of the deaths of husbands? Nor did you overlook that word of Isaiah’s voice[1] — you, thrice-blessed one — that of buying off those being put to death; rather, you turned the sword away from many a neck, and you, the sun of mercy, dispersed the darkness of death that was already pouring over their eyes.