“One night,” he [Nabil]
continues, “the ninth night of the waxing moon, I happened to be one of those
who watched beside His blessed tent. As the hour of midnight approached, I saw
Him issue from His tent, pass by the places where some of His companions were
sleeping, and begin to pace up and down the moonlit, flower-bordered avenues of
the garden. So loud was the singing of the nightingales on every side that only
those who were near Him could hear distinctly His voice. He continued to walk
until, pausing in the midst of one of these avenues, He observed: ‘Consider
these nightingales. So great is their love for these roses, that sleepless from
dusk till dawn, they warble their melodies and commune with burning passion
with the object of their adoration. How then can those who claim to be afire
with the rose-like beauty of the Beloved choose to sleep?’ For three successive
nights I watched and circled round His blessed tent. Every time I passed by the
couch whereon He lay, I would find Him wakeful, and every day, from morn till eventide,
I would see Him ceaselessly engaged in conversing with the stream of visitors
who kept flowing in from Baghdád. Not once could I discover in the words
He spoke any trace of dissimulation.”
(Shoghi Effendi, ‘God Passes By’)
