Are you not moved to tears and bitter compassion, when you behold

In the trembling and compassionate words of Peter Abelard, “Are you not moved to tears and bitter compassion, when you behold the only Son of God seized by the most impious, dragged away, mocked, scourged, buffeted, spit upon, crowned with thorns, hung upon the infamous cross between two thieves, finally in such a horrible and execrable manner suffering death, for your salvation and that of the world?” we hear the cry of a soul awakened to the divine mystery of suffering and love. These are not the words of cold theology, but of a heart burning with reverence and sorrow—a heart that beholds the Cross not as a symbol of punishment, but as the deepest revelation of love’s agony. Abelard speaks here not as a scholar alone, but as a man pierced by the vision of God’s mercy, calling others to weep not from guilt alone, but from awe, gratitude, and love beyond comprehension.

The meaning of this quote lies in the transformation of the Cross from an instrument of shame into the altar of redemption. Abelard, unlike some of his contemporaries, saw the death of Christ not as the satisfaction of divine wrath, but as the ultimate act of divine compassion—a demonstration of love so pure that it could only express itself through suffering. The Cross, for Abelard, was the school of the heart. It was there that God taught mankind the language of self-giving, humility, and forgiveness. To stand before the crucified Christ, he says, is to see the very image of love’s cost—the Eternal made mortal, the Perfect made vulnerable, the Almighty made weak—all so that mankind might be reconciled not by fear, but by love awakened within the soul.

The origin of these words emerges from the theological revolution that Abelard himself began in the twelfth century. In an age when the Church often spoke of Christ’s sacrifice as a transaction to appease divine justice, Abelard offered a different vision—one born of tenderness and moral awakening. In his work Expositio in Epistolam ad Romanos, he wrote that Christ’s Passion was not meant to ransom humanity from an angry God, but to melt the hardness of the human heart. The sight of such love, he said, should “enkindle our hearts with affection,” stirring within us compassion, repentance, and gratitude. Thus, in the words of this quote, Abelard asks not for dogmatic assent, but for emotional awakening—that the believer should feel the sorrow and beauty of divine love made flesh.

There is a story that echoes the spirit of Abelard’s plea: the tale of Francis of Assisi, who, centuries after Abelard, prayed before a crucifix and heard the voice of Christ say, “Francis, rebuild my Church, which is falling into ruin.” Francis was overcome not by fear of divine judgment, but by tears of love and sorrow for the suffering of his Savior. He bore the image of the Cross not as a symbol of torment, but as a living call to compassion and service. He too was moved to tears, and those tears transformed him—they became the seed of a movement that restored to Christianity the heart of love and mercy. What Abelard sought through words, Francis lived through deeds: to see in Christ’s wounds the mirror of divine love, and in that vision, to awaken the soul to a life of tenderness and peace.

In Abelard’s question—“Are you not moved to tears?”—we are confronted with the call to empathy that transcends centuries. He compels us not to look upon suffering with indifference, whether divine or human. The sight of the crucified Christ becomes, in his teaching, the archetype of all compassion. To see the innocent suffer, to witness the unjustly condemned, to behold love betrayed, should awaken something eternal within the heart. For if one can look upon such agony and remain unmoved, one’s spirit has grown cold. Abelard thus teaches that to understand God, one must first learn to feel—to allow sorrow to open the gates of wisdom. The tears he calls for are not of despair, but of awakening; they wash away the blindness of pride and restore the sight of the soul.

This insight carries not only theological power, but moral force. In every age, the world repeats the crucifixion in new forms—the weak oppressed, the innocent mocked, the truth betrayed by power. Abelard’s words remind us that compassion is not passive feeling, but active participation in the redemption of the world. To be moved to tears is the beginning, but not the end. From those tears must come the resolve to love as Christ loved: to forgive, to serve, to bear others’ burdens. In this way, the Cross becomes not a relic of suffering, but a living command—to transform pity into action and faith into love.

So, dear listener, the lesson is this: do not gaze upon the Cross as a distant event, nor upon suffering as a mere spectacle. Let your heart be pierced as Abelard’s was, and from that wound, let love flow forth. When you encounter pain—whether divine or human—do not turn away; see instead the reflection of the One who bore it for love’s sake. Be moved to tears, for tears are the language of the soul when it recognizes the sacred. Let those tears cleanse you of indifference and pride, and bind you, as Abelard said, to the divine through compassion.

Thus, in the voice of Peter Abelard, we hear not theology alone, but the eternal heartbeat of divine love calling out across the ages. The Son of God, mocked and scourged, did not suffer merely to be pitied, but to awaken in every soul the power to love without limit, to forgive without end, and to weep where the world has grown too hard to feel. In that awakening lies the true salvation—not imposed from above, but born within, as the heart learns at last to mirror the compassion of the Cross.