Other times, He would take me around together with Him. If there were sins of blasphemy, against charity and others, He would pour those poisonous bitters; if then there were sins of dishonesty, He would pour something of a stinking rottenness, and when I would return into myself, I could feel that stink so well, and the stench would be such, that it would revolt my stomach and I would feel faint. And sometimes, after taking food, when I would bring it up, I could feel that rot come out of my mouth, mixed with the food.
Sometimes, then, He would bring me into churches, and even there my good Jesus was offended. Oh! how awfully those works reached His Heart – holy works, yes, but done roughly; those prayers empty of interior spirit, that piety, false, apparent, which seemed to give more insult than honor to Jesus. Ah! yes, that holy, pure, upright Heart could not receive those works, done so badly. Oh! how many times He lamented, saying: “Daughter, see how many offenses I receive, even from those people who are said to be devout - even in the holiest places. In receiving the very Sacraments, instead of coming out purified, they come out dirtier.” Ah! yes, how much pain it was for Jesus to see people receiving Communion sacrilegiously, priests celebrating the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass in mortal sin, out of habit, and some – it is a horror to say it – even out of self-interest. Oh! how many times my Jesus made me see these scenes so sorrowful. How many times, while the priest was celebrating the Sacrosanct Mystery, Jesus is forced to go into his hands, because He is called by the priestly authority. One could see those hands dripping with rot, blood, or smeared with mud. Oh! how pitiful then, was the state of Jesus, so holy, so pure, in those hands which were horrifying to the mere sight. It seemed He wanted to escape from between those hands, but He was forced to stay until the species of bread and wine would be consumed.
Sometimes, while remaining there with the priest, He would come hurriedly to me, all lamenting, and before I could say it, He Himself would say to me: “Daughter, let me pour it into you, for I cannot take anymore. Have pity on my state, which is too sorrowful – have patience, let us suffer together.” And while saying this, He would pour from His mouth into mine. But who can tell what He poured? It seemed to be a bitter poison, a fetid rot, mixed with a food so hard, disgusting and nauseating, that sometimes it would not go down. Who can tell, then, the sufferings that this pouring of Jesus produced? If He Himself had not sustained me, I certainly would have died; yet, He would pour in me but the smallest part – what would it be for Jesus, who contained tons upon tons of it? Oh! how awful is sin! Ah! Lord, let everyone know it, so that all may flee from this monster so horrible.