XIII. The abstract, or sum of all, for the use of the weak

XIII. The abstract, or sum of all, for the use of the weak

therefore, to the work, till something be done; till thy graces be acted, thy affections raised, and thy soul refreshed with the delights above; or if thou canst not obtain these ends at once, ply it the closer the next time, and let it not go till thou feel the blessing. "Blessed is that servant whom his Lord when he comes shall find so doing." (Matt.

24:46.)

CHAP. XIII

The Abstract, or Sum of all, for the Use of the Weak SECT. I. Thus I have, by the gracious assistance of the Spirit, directed you in this work of heavenly contemplation, and lined you out the best way that I know for your successful performance; and led you into the path where you may walk with God. But because I would bring it down to the capacity of the meanest, and help their memories who are apt to let slip the former particulars, and cannot well lay together the several branches of this method, that they may reduce them to practice, I shall here contract the whole into a brief sum, and lay it all before you in a narrower compass. But still, reader, I wish thee to remember, that it is the practice of a duty that I am directing thee in, and therefore, if thou wilt not practise it, do not read it.

The sum is this,—As thou makest conscience of praying daily, so do thou of the acting of thy graces in meditation; and more especially in meditating on the joys of heaven. To this end, set apart one hour or half an hour every day, wherein thou mayest lay aside all worldly thoughts, and with all possible seriousness and reverence, as if thou wert going to speak with God himself, or to have a sight of Christ, or of that blessed place; so do thou withdraw thyself into some secret place, and set thyself wholly to the following work; if thou canst, take

Isaac's time and place, who went forth into the field in the evening to meditate: but if thou be a servant, or poor man, that cannot have that

leisure, take the fittest time and place that thou canst, though it be when thou art private about thy labours.

When thou settest to the work, look up toward heaven; let thine eye lead thee as near as it can: remember that there is thine everlasting rest: study its excellency, study its reality, till thy unbelief be silenced, and thy faith prevail. If thy judgment be not yet drawn to admiration, use those sensible helps and advantages which were even now laid down. Compare thy heavenly joys with the choicest on earth, and so rise up from sense to faith; if yet this mere consideration prevail not (which yet hath much force, as is before expressed), then fall a-pleading the case with thy heart: preach upon this text of heaven to thyself; convince, inform, confute, instruct, reprove, examine, admonish, encourage, and comfort, thy own soul from this celestial doctrine: draw forth those several considerations of thy rest, on which thy several affections may work, especially that affection or grace which thou intendest to act. If it be love which thou wouldst act, show it the loveliness of heaven, and how suitable it is to thy condition: if it be desire, consider of thy absence from this lovely object: if it be hope, consider the possibility and probability of obtaining it: if it be courage, consider the singular assistance and encouragements which thou mayest receive from God, the weakness of the enemy, and the necessity of prevailing: if it be joy, consider of its excellent ravishing glory, of the interest in it, and of its certainty, and the nearness of the time when thou mayest possess it. Urge these considerations home to thy heart; whet them with all possible seriousness upon each affection. If thy heart draw back, force it to the work: if it loiter, spur it on; if it step aside, command it in again: if it would slip away, and leave the work, use thine authority; keep it close to the business, till thou have obtained thine end: stir not away, if it may be, till thy love do flame, till thy joy be raised, or till thy desire or other graces be livelily acted. Call in assistance also from God; mix ejaculations with thy cogitations and soliloquies; till having seriously pleaded the case with thy heart, and reverently pleaded the case with God, thou hast pleaded thyself from a clod to a flame; from a forgetful sinner to a mindful lover; from a lover of the world, to a

thirster after God; from a fearful coward, to a resolved Christian; from an unfruitful sadness, to a joyful life. In a word, what will not be done one day, do it the next, till thou have pleaded thy heart from earth to heaven; from conversing below, to a walking with God; and till thou canst lay thy heart to rest, as in the bosom of Christ, in this meditation of thy full and everlasting rest.

And this is the sum of these precedent directions.

CHAP. XIV

An Example of this Heavenly Contemplation, for the Help of the Unskilful There remaineth a Rest for the People of God

SECT. I. Rest; how sweet a word is this to mine ears! Methinks the sound doth turn to substance, and having entered at the ear, doth possess my brain; and thence descendeth down to my very heart: methinks I feel it stir and work, and that through all my parts and powers, but with a various work upon my various parts. To my wearied senses and languid spirits it seems a quieting, powerful opiate; to my dulled powers it is spirit and life; to my dark eyes it is both eye-salve and a prospective; to my taste it is sweetness; to mine ears it is melody; to my hands and feet it is strength and nimbleness.

Methinks I feel it digest as it proceeds, and increase my native heat and moisture; and, lying as a reviving cordial at my heart, from thence doth send forth lively spirits, which beat through all the pulses of my soul. Rest,—not as the stone that rests on the earth, nor as these clods of flesh shall rest in the grave; so our beasts must rest as well as we: nor is it the satisfying of our fleshly lusts, nor such rest as the carnal world desireth: no, no; we have another kind of rest than these: rest we shall from all our labours, which were but the way and means to rest, but yet that is the smallest part. O blessed rest, where we shall never rest day or night, crying "Holy, holy, holy, Lord

God of sabbaths:" when we shall rest from sin, but not from worship; from suffering and sorrow, but not from solace! O blessed day, when

I shall rest with God; when I shall rest in the arms and bosom of my Lord; when I shall rest in knowing, loving, rejoicing, and praising; when my perfect soul and body together, shall in these perfect things perfectly enjoy the most perfect God; when God also, who is love itself, shall perfectly love me; yea, and rest in his love to me, as I shall rest in my love to him, and rejoice over me with joy and singing,

(Zeph. 3:17,) as I shall rejoice in him! How near is that most blessed, joyful day! It comes apace; even that comes will come, and will not tarry. Though my Lord do seem to delay his coming, yet a little while and he will be here. What is a few hundred years when they are over!

How surely will his sign appear, and how suddenly will he seize upon the careless world! Even as the lightning that shines from east to west in a moment, he who has gone hence will even so return.

Methinks I even hear the voice of his foregoers; methinks I see him coming in the clouds, with the attendance of his angels, in majesty and in glory. O poor, secure sinners, what will you now do? Where will you hide yourselves, or what shall cover you? Mountains are gone; the earth and heavens that were, are passed away; the devouring fire hath consumed all except yourselves, who must be the fuel for ever. Oh, that you could consume as soon as the earth, and melt away as did the heavens! Ah, these wishes are now but vain; the Lamb himself would have been your friend; he would have loved you and ruled you, and now have saved you; but you would not then, and now is too late. Never cry, 'Lord, Lord:' too late, too late, man; why dost thou look about? Can any save thee? Whither dost thou run?

Can any hide thee? O wretch, that hast brought thyself to this! Now blessed saints that have believed and obeyed, this is the end of faith and patience; this is it for which you prayed and waited; do you now repent your sufferings and sorrows; your self-denying, and holy walking? Are your tears of repentance now bitter or sweet? Oh, see how the Judge doth smile upon you; there is love in his looks; the titles of Redeemer, Husband, Head, are written in his amiable, shining face. Hark, doth he not call you? He bids you stand here on his right-hand; fear not, for there he sets his sheep. O joyful sentence pronounced by that blessed mouth: "Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundations of the world." See how your Saviour takes you by the hand; go along you must, the door is open, the kingdom is his, and therefore yours.

There is your place before his throne; the Father receiveth you as the spouse of his Son; he bids you welcome to the crown of glory: never so unworthy, crowned you must be. This was the project of free redeeming grace, and this was the purpose of eternal love. O blessed

grace! O blessed love! Oh, the frame that my soul will then be in! Oh, how love and joy will stir! But I cannot express it; I cannot conceive it.

This is that joy which was procured by sorrow: this is that crown which was procured by the cross. My Lord did weep, that now my tears might be wiped away; he did bleed, that I might now rejoice; he was forsaken, that I might not now be forsaken; he did then die, that I might now live. This weeping, wounded Lord shall I behold; this bleeding Saviour shall I see, and live in him that died for me. Oh, free mercy, that can exalt so vile a wretch! Free to me, though dear to Christ; free grace that hath chosen me, when thousands were forsaken; when my companions in sin must burn in hell, and I must here rejoice in rest. Here must I live with all these saints: O comfortable meeting of my old acquaintance, with whom I prayed, and wept, and suffered; with whom I spake of this day and place. I see the grave could not contain you; the sea and earth must give up their dead; the same love hath redeemed and saved you also. This is not like our cottages of clay, nor like our prisons, or earthly dwellings; this voice of joy is not like our old complainings, our groans, our sighs, our impatient moans; nor this melodious praise like our scorns and revilings, nor like the oaths and curses which we heard on earth; this body is not like the body we had, nor this soul like the soul we had, nor this life like the life that then we lived. We have changed our place, we have changed our state, our clothes, our thoughts, our looks, our language; we have changed our company for the greater part, and the rest of our company is changed itself.

Before, a saint was weak and despised, so full of pride, and peevishness, and other sins, that we could scarcely ofttimes discern their graces; but now how glorious a thing is a saint! Where is now their body of sin which wearied themselves and those about them?

Where are now our different judgments, our reproachful titles, our divided spirits, our exasperated passions, our strange looks, our uncharitable censures? Now we are all of one judgment, of one name, of one heart, of one house, and of one glory. O sweet reconcilement!

O happy union! which makes us first to be one with Christ, and then

to be one among ourselves. Now, our differences shall be dashed in our teeth no more, nor the Gospel reproached through our folly or scandal. O my soul, thou shalt never more lament the sufferings of the saints, never more condole the church's ruins, never bewail thy suffering friends, nor lie wailing over their deathbeds, or their graves; thou shalt never suffer thy old temptations from Satan, the world, or thy flesh; thy body will no more be such a burden to thee; thy pains and sicknesses are all now cured; thou shalt be troubled with weakness and weariness no more; thy head is not now an aching head, nor thy heart now an aching heart; thy hunger, and thirst, and cold, and sleep, thy labour and study, are all gone. O what a mighty change is this: from the dunghill to the throne; from persecuting sinners to praising saints; from a body as vile as the carrion in the ditch, to a body as bright as the sun in the firmament; from complainings under the displeasure of God, to the perfect enjoyment of him in love; from all my doubts and fears of my condition to this possession which hath put me out of doubt; from all my fearful thoughts of death to this most blessed, joyful life! O what a blessed change is this! Farewell, sin and suffering, for ever; farewell, my hard and rocky heart; farewell, my proud and unbelieving heart; farewell, atheistical, idolatrous, worldly heart; farewell, my sensual, carnal heart: and now welcome most holy, heavenly nature, which, as it must be employed in beholding the face of God, so is it full of God alone, and delighteth in nothing else but him. Oh, who can question the love which he doth so sweetly taste, or doubt of that which with such joy he feeleth! Farewell, repentance, confession, and supplication; farewell, the most of hope and faith, and welcome love, and joy, and praise. I shall now have my harvest without ploughing or sowing, my wine without the labour of the vintage, my joy without a preacher, or a promise, even all from the face of God himself. That is the sight that is worth the seeing; that is the book that is worth the reading. Whatever mixture is in the streams, there is nothing but pure joy in the fountain. Here shall I be encircled with eternity, and come forth no more; here shall I live, and ever live, and praise my

Lord, and ever, ever, ever praise him. My face will not wrinkle, nor my hair be gray; but this mortal shall have put on immortality, and

this corruptible, incorruption, and death shall be swallowed up in victory. O death! where is now thy sting? O grave! where is thy victory? The date of my lease will no more expire, nor shall I trouble myself with thoughts of death, nor lose my joys through fear of losing them. When millions of ages are past, my glory is but beginning; and when millions more are past, it is no nearer ending. Every day is all noontide, and every month is May or harvest, and every year is there a jubilee, and every age is full manhood; and all this is one eternity.

O blessed eternity! the glory of my glory! the perfection of my perfection!

Ah, drowsy, earthy, blockish heart, how coldly dost thou think of this reviving day! Dost thou sleep, when thou thinkest of eternal rest? Art thou hanging earthward, when heaven is before thee? Hadst thou rather sit thee down in dirt and dung, than walk in the court of the palace of God? Dost thou now remember thy worldly business; art thou looking back to the Sodom of thy lusts; art thou thinking of thy delights and merry company? Wretched heart! is it better to be there, than above with God; is the company better; are the pleasures greater? Come away, make no excuse, make no delay, God commands, and I command thee, come away; gird up thy loins; ascend the mount, and look about thee with seriousness and with faith. Look thou not back upon the way of the wilderness, except it be when thine eyes are dazzled with the glory, or when thou wouldst compare the kingdom with that howling desert, that thou mayest more sensibly perceive the mighty difference. Fix thine eye upon the sun itself, and look not down to earth as long as thou art able to behold it; except it be to discern more easily the brightness of the one, by the darkness of the other. Yonder, far above yonder, is thy

Father's glory; yonder must thou dwell when thou leavest this earth; yonder must thou remove, O my soul, when thou departest from this body; and when the power of thy Lord hath raised it again, and joined thee to it, yonder must thou live with God for ever.z There is the glorious New Jerusalem, the gates of pearl, the foundations of pearl, the streets and pavements of transparent gold. Seest thou that sun which lighteth all this world? Why, it must be taken down as

useless there, or the glory of heaven will darken it, and put it out: even thyself shall be as bright as yonder shining sun. God will be the sun, and Christ the light, and in his light shalt thou have light.

What thinkest thou, O my soul, of this most blessed state? What! dost thou stagger at the promise of God through unbelief? Though thou say nothing, or profess belief, yet thou speakest so coldly and so customarily, that I much suspect thee. I know thy infidelity is thy natural vice. Didst thou believe indeed, thou wouldst be more affected with it. Why, hast thou not it under the hand, and seal, and oath of God? Can God lie; or he that is the truth itself, be false?

Foolish wretch! What need hath God to flatter thee, or deceive thee; why should he promise thee more than he will perform? Art thou not his creature, a little crumb of dust, a crawling worm; ten thousand times more below him, than this fly or worm is below thee? Wouldst thou flatter a flea, or a worm? What need hast thou of them? If they do not please thee, thou wilt crush them dead, and never accuse thyself of cruelty: why, yet they are thy fellow-creatures, made of as good metal as thyself, and thou hast no authority over them but what thou hast received: how much less need hath God of thee; or why should he care, if thou perish in thy folly? Cannot he govern thee without either flattery or falsehood? Cannot he easily make thee obey his will, and as easily make thee suffer for thy disobedience?

Wretched, unbelieving heart! tell a fool, or tell a tyrant, or tell some false and flattering man, of drawing their subjects by false promises, and procuring obedience by deceitful means; but do thou not dare to charge the wise, almighty, faithful God with this. Above all men, it beseems not thee to doubt, either of this Scripture being his infallible word, or of the performance of this word to thyself. Hath not argument convinced thee; may not thy own experience utterly silence thee? How oft hath this Scripture been verified for thy good! how many of the promises have been performed to thee! hath it not quickened thee, and converted thee; hast thou not felt in it something more than human? Would God perform another promise; or would he so powerfully concur with a feigned word? if thou hadst seen the miracles that Christ and his apostles wrought, thou wouldst

never surely have questioned the truth of their doctrine: why, they delivered it down by such undoubted testimony, that it may be called divine as well as human. Nay, hast thou not seen its prophecies fulfilled; hast thou not lived in an age wherein such wonders have been wrought, that thou hast now no cloak for thy unbelief; hast thou not seen the course of nature changed, and works beyond the power of nature wrought; and all this in the fulfilling of the Scripture? Hast thou so soon forgotten since nature failed me, and strength failed me, and blood, and spirits, and flesh, and friends, and all means did utterly fail; and how art and reason had sentenced me for dead: and yet how God revoked the sentence; and at the request of praying, believing saints, did turn thee to the promise which he verified to thee: and canst thou yet question the truth of this Scripture? Hast thou seen so much to confirm thy faith, in the great actions of seven years past, and canst thou yet doubt? Thou hast seen signs and wonders, and art thou yet so unbelieving? O wretched heart! hath

God made thee a promise of rest, and wilt thou come short of it, and shut out thyself through unbelief? Thine eyes may fail thee, thy ears deceive thee, and all thy senses prove delusions, sooner than a promise of God can delude thee. Thou mayest be surer of that which is written in the word, than if thou see it with thine eyes, or feel it with thy hands. Art thou sure thou livest, or sure that this is earth which thou standest on? Art thou sure thine eyes do see the sun? As sure is all this glory to the saints, as sure shall I be higher than yonder stars, and live for ever in the holy city, and joyfully sound forth the praise of my Redeemer, if I be not shut out by this evil heart of unbelief, causing me to depart from the living God.

And is this rest so sweet, and so sure? O, then, what means the careless world? Do they know what it is they so neglect; did they ever hear of it, or are they yet asleep, or are they dead! Do they know for certain that the crown is before them, while they thus sit still, or follow trifles? Undoubtedly they are quite beside themselves, to mind so much their provision in the way, and strive, and care, and labour for trifles, when they are hasting so fast to another world, and their eternal happiness lies at stake. Were there left one spark of wit or

reason, they would never sell their rest for toil, or sell their glory for worldly vanities, nor venture heaven for the pleasure of a sin. Ah, poor men! that you would once consider what you hazard, and then you would scorn these tempting baits. O blessed for ever be that love that hath rescued me from this mad, bewitehing darkness!

Draw nearer yet, then, O my soul, bring forth thy strongest burning love; here is matter for it to work upon; here is something truly worth thy loving. O see what beauty presents itself! is it not exceeding lovely? is not all the beauty in the world contracted here? is not all other beauty deformity to it? dost thou need to be persuaded how to love? Here is a feast for thine eyes; a feast for all the powers of thy soul: dost thou need to be entreated to feed upon it; canst thou love a little shining earth; canst thou love a walking piece of clay; and canst thou not love that God, that Christ, that glory, which is so truly and unmeasurably lovely? Thou canst love thy friend, because he loves thee: and is the love of thy friend like the love of Christ? Their weeping or bleeding for thee, doth not case thee, nor stay the course of thy tears or blood: but the tears and blood that fell from thy Lord, have all a sovereign healing virtue, and are waters of life, and balsam to thy faintings and thy sores. O my soul, if love deserve and should procure love, what incomprehensible love is here before thee! Pour out all the store of thy affections here; and all is too little. O that it were more! O that it were many thousand times more!

Let him be first served, that served thee first. Let him have the firstborn and strength of thy love, who parted with strength and life in love to thee. If thou hast any to spare when he hath his part, let it be imparted then to standers-by. See what a sea of love is here before thee; cast thyself in, and swim with the arms of thy love in this ocean of his love. Fear not lest thou shouldst be drowned or consumed in it.

Though it seem as the scalding furnace of lead, yet thou wilt find it but mollifying oil: though it seem a furnace of fire, and the hottest that ever was kindled upon earth, yet it is the fire of love and not of wrath; a fire most effectual to extinguish fire; never intended to consume, but to glorify thee: venture into it, then, in thy believing meditations, and walk in these flames with the Son of God: when

thou art once in, thou wilt be sorry to come forth again.c O my soul! what wantest thou here to provoke thy love? Dost thou love for excellency? Why, thou seest nothing below but baseness, except as they relate to thy enjoyments above. Yonder is the Goshen, the region of light; this is a land of palpable darkness. Yonder twinkling stars, that shining moon, the radiant sun, are all but as the lanterns hanged out at thy Father's house, to light thee while thou walkest in the dark streets of the earth: but little dost thou know (ah, little indeed!) the glory and blessed mirth that is within! Dost thou love for suitableness? Why, what person more suitable than Christ? His godhead, his manhood, his fulness, his freeness, his willingness, his constancy; do all proclaim him thy most suitable friend. What state more suitable to thy misery, than that of mercy; or to thy sinfulness and baseness, than that of honour and perfection? What place more suitable to thee than heaven? Thou hast had a sufficient trial of this world. Dost thou find it agree with thy nature or desires; are these common abominations, these heavy sufferings, these unsatisfying vanities, suitable to thee? Or dost thou love for interest and near relation? Why, where hast thou better interest than in heaven; or where hast thou nearer relation than there? Dost thou love for acquaintance and familiarity? Why, though thine eyes have never seen thy Lord, yet he is never the further from thee; if thy son were blind, yet he would love thee his father, though he never saw thee.

Thou hast heard the voice of Christ to thy very heart; thou hast received his benefits: thou hast lived in his bosom, and art thou not yet acquainted with him? It is he that brought thee seasonably and safely into the world: it is he that nursed thee up in thy tender infancy, and helped thee when thou couldst not help thyself: he taught thee to go, to speak, to read, to understand: he taught thee to know thyself and him: he opened thee that first window whereby thou sawest into heaven. Hast thou forgotten since thy heart was careless, and he did quicken it; and hard and stubborn, and he did soften it, and make it yield; when it was at peace, and he did trouble it; and whole, till he did break it; and broken, till he did heal it again?

Hast thou forgotten the time, nay, the many, very many times, when he found thee in secret all in tears; when he heard thy dolorous sighs

and groans, and left all to come and comfort thee; when he came in upon thee, and took thee up, as it were in his arms, and asked thee,

Poor soul, what aileth thee? Dost thou weep, when I have wept so much? Be of good cheer; thy wounds are saving, and not deadly. It is

I that have made them, who mean thee no hurt: though I let out thy blood, I will not let out thy life.

O methinks I remember yet his voice, and feel those embracing arms that took me up: how gently did he handle me! how carefully did he dress my wounds, and bind them up! Methinks I hear him still saying to me, Poor sinner, though thou hast dealt unkindly with me, and cast me off, yet will not I do so by thee; though thou hast set light by me and all my mercies, yet both I and all are thine; what wouldst thou have, that I can give thee; and what dost thou want that I cannot give thee? If any thing I have will pleasure thee, thou shalt have it: if any thing in heaven or earth will make thee happy, why it is all thine own. Wouldst thou have pardon? thou shalt have it; I freely forgive thee all the debt. Wouldst thou have grace and peace? thou shalt have them both. Wouldst thou have myself? why, behold I am thine, thy friend, thy lord, thy brother, thy husband, and thy head.

Wouldst thou have the Father? why I will bring thee to him; and thou shalt have him in and by me. These were my Lord's reviving words: these were the melting, healing, raising, quickening passages of love.

After all this, when I was doubtful of his love, methinks I yet remember his overcoming and convincing arguments. Why, sinner, have I done so much to testify my love, and yet dost thou doubt!

Have I made thy believing it the condition of enjoying it, and yet dost thou doubt! Have I offered thee myself and love so long, and yet dost thou question my willingness to be thine! Why, what could I have done more than I have done; at what dearer rate should I tell thee that I love thee; read yet the story of my bitter passion, wilt thou not believe that it proceeded from love? Did I ever give thee cause to be so jealous of me, or to think so hardly of me, as thou dost? Have I made myself in the Gospel a lion to thine enemies, and a lamb to thee: and dost thou so overlook my lamb-like nature? Have I set mine arms and heart there open to thee, and wilt thou not believe

but they are shut? Why, if I had been willing to let thee perish, I could have done it at a cheaper rate. What need I then have done and suffered so much; what need I follow thee with so long patience, and entreating? What dost thou tell me of thy wants; have I not enough for me and thee; and why dost thou so foolishly tell me of thy unworthiness, and thy sin? I had not died, if man had not sinned; if thou wert not a sinner, thou wert not for me; if thou wert worthy thyself, what shouldst thou do with my worthiness? Did I ever invite the worthy and the righteous; or did I ever save or justify such; or is there any such on earth? Hast thou nothing; art thou lost and miserable; art thou helpless and forlorn? Dost thou believe that I am a sufficient Saviour, and wouldst thou have me? Why then take me; lo! I am thine; if thou be willing, I am willing, and neither sin nor devils shall break the match.

These, O these were the blessed words which his Spirit from his Gospel spoke unto me, till he made me cast myself at his feet, yea, into his arms, and to cry out, 'My Saviour and my Lord, thou hast broke my heart, thou hast revived my heart, thou hast overcome, thou hast won my heart; take it, it is thine: if such a heart can please thee, take it; if it cannot, make it such as thou wouldst have it.' Thus,

O my soul, mayest thou remember the sweet familiarity thou hast had with Christ; therefore, if acquaintance will cause affection, O then let out thy heart unto him; it is he that hath stood by thy bed of sickness, that hath cooled thy heats, and cased thy pains, and refreshed thy weariness, and removed thy fears; he hath been always ready, when thou hast earnestly sought him; he hath given thee the meeting in public and in private; he hath been found of thee in the congregation, in thy house, in thy chamber, in the field, in the way as thou wast walking, in thy waking nights, in thy deepest dangers. Oh, if bounty and compassion be an attractive of love, how unmeasurably, then, am I bound to love him! All the mercies that have filled up my life do tell me this; all the places that ever I did abide in, all the societies and persons that I have had to deal with, every condition of life that I have passed through, all my employments, and all my relations, every change that hath befallen

me, all tell me that the fountain is overflowing goodness. Lord! what a sum of love am I indebted to thee, and how doth my debt continually increase! How should I love again for so much love! But what! shall I dare to think of making thee requital; or of recompensing all thy love with mine? Will my mite requite thee for thy golden mines; my seldom wishes for thy constant bounty; or mine which is nothing, or not mine, for thine which is infinite, and thine own? Shall I dare to contend in love with thee; or set my borrowed, languid spark, against the element and sun of love? Can I love as high, as deep, as broad, as long as love itself! As much as he that made me, and that made me love, that gave me all that little which I have: both the heart, the hearth where it is kindled, the bellows, the fire, the fuel, and all were his; as I cannot match thee in the works of thy power, nor make, nor preserve, nor guide the world, so why should I think any more of matching thee in love. No, Lord, I yield, I am unable, I am overcome. O blessed conquest! go on victoriously, and still prevail, and triumph in thy love; the captive of love shall proclaim thy victory when thou leadest me in triumph from earth to heaven, from death to life, from the tribunal to the throne. Myself, and all that see it, shall acknowledge that thou hast prevailed, and all shall say, "Behold, how he loved him!" yet let me love thee in subjection to thy love, as thy redeemed captive, though not thy peer. Shall I not love at all, because I cannot reach thy measure? Or at least, let me heartily wish to love thee. O that I were able! O that I could feelingly say, 'I love thee,' even as I feel I love my friend and myself! Lord, that I could do it, but, alas! I cannot; fain I would, but, alas! I cannot. Would I not love thee, if I were but able?

Though I cannot say, as thy apostle, 'Thou knowest that I love thee,' yet can I say, 'Lord, thou knowest that I would love thee.' But I speak not this to excuse my fault; it is a crime that admits of no excuse, and it is my own; it dwelleth as near me as my very heart; if my heart be my own, this sin is my own, yea, and more my own than my heart is.

Lord, what shall this sinner do; the fault is my own, and yet I cannot help it. I am angry with my heart that it doth not love thee, and yet I feel it love thee never the more; I frown upon it, and yet it cares not;

I threaten it, but it doth not feel; I chide it, and yet it doth not mend;

I reason with it, and would fain persuade it, and yet I do not perceive it stir: I rear it up as a carcass upon its legs, but it neither goes nor stands. I rub and chafe it in the use of thine ordinances, and yet I feel it not warm within me. O miserable man that I am! Unworthy soul! is not thine eye now upon the only lovely object? and art thou not beholden to the ravishing glory of the saints? and yet dost thou not love? and yet dost thou not feel the fire break forth? Why, art thou not a soul; a living spirit? And is not thy love the choicest piece of thy life? Art thou not a rational soul? and shouldst thou not love according to reason's conduct? And doth it not tell thee that all is dirt and dung to Christ; that earth is a dungeon to the celestial glory? Art thou not a spirit thyself, and shouldst thou not love spiritually; even

God, who is a Spirit, and the Father of spirits? Doth not every creature love their like? Why, my soul, art thou like to flesh, or gold, or stately buildings! Art thou like to meat and drink, or clothes? wilt thou love no higher than thy horse or swine? Hast thou nothing better to love than they? What is the beauty that thou hast so admired? Canst thou not even wink or think it at all into darkness or deformity? When the night comes, it is nothing to thee; while thou hast gazed on it, it hath withered away; a botch or scab, the wrinkles of consuming sickness, or of age, do make it as loathsome as it was before delightful. Suppose but that thou sawest that beautiful carcass lying on the bier, or rotting in the grave, the skull dug up, and the bones scattered, where is now thy lovely object? Couldst thou sweetly embrace it when the soul is gone; or take any pleasure in it, when there is nothing left that is like thyself! Ah! why then dost thou love a skinful of dirt, and canst love no more the heavenly glory? What thinkest thou? Shalt thou love when thou comest there; when thou seest; when thou dost enjoy; when the Lord shall take thy carcass from the grave, and make thee shine as the sun in glory, and when thou shalt everlastingly dwell in the blessed presence? Shalt thou then love, or shalt thou not? Is not the place a meeting of lovers? Is not the life a state of love? Is it not the great marriage-day of the Lamb, when he will embrace and entertain his spouse with love? Is not the employment there the work of love, where the souls with Christ do take their fill? Oh, then, my soul, begin it here. Be sick of

love now, that thou mayest be well with love there; (Cant. 5:8; Rom.

8:35;) keep thyself now in the love of God, (Jude 21,) and let neither life nor death nor any thing separate thee from it, and thou shalt be kept in the fulness of love for ever, and nothing shall embitter or abate thy pleasure; for the Lord hath prepared a city of love, a place for the communicating of love to his chosen, and those that love his name shall dwell there. (Psalm 107:36.) Awake, then, O my drowsy soul! Who but an owl or mole would love this world's uncomfortable darkness, when they are called forth to live in light? To sleep under the light of grace is unreasonable, much more in the approach of the light of glory. The night of thy ignorance and misery is past, the day of glorious light is at hand; this is the daybreak betwixt them both. Though thou see not yet the sun itself appear, methinks the twilight of promise should revive thee. Come forth, then, O my dull, congealed spirits, and leave these earthly cells to dumpish sadness, and hear thy Lord that bids thee rejoice, and again rejoice! Thou hast lain here long enough in thy prison of flesh, where Satan hath been thy gaoler, and the things of this world have been the stocks for the feet of thy affections; where cares have been thy irons, and fears thy scourge, and the bread and water of affliction thy food; where sorrows have been thy lodging, and thy sins and foes have made the bed; and a carnal, hard, unbelieving heart have been the iron gates and bars that have kept thee in, that thou couldst scarce have leave to look through the lattices, and see one glimpse of the immortal light. The Angel of the covenant now calls thee, and strikes thee, and bids thee arise and follow him. Up, O my soul, and cheerfully obey, and thy bolts and bars shall all fly open. Do thou obey, and all will obey; follow the Lamb which way soever he leads thee. Art thou afraid because thou knowest not whither? Can the place be worse than where thou art? Shouldst thou fear to follow such a guide? Can the sun lead thee to a state of darkness; or can he mislead thee, that is the light of every man that cometh into the world? Will he lead thee to death, who died to save thee from it; or can he do thee any hurt, who for thy sake did suffer so much? Follow him, and he will show thee the paradise of God; he will give thee a

sight of the New Jerusalem; he will give thee a taste of the tree of life.

Sit no longer, then, by the fire of earthly, common comforts, whither the cold of carnal fears and sorrows did drive thee; thy winter is past, and wilt thou house thyself still in earthly thoughts, and confine thyself to drooping and dulness? Even the silly flies will leave their holes when the winter is over, and the sun draws near them; the ants will stir, the fishes rise, the birds will sing, the earth look green, and all with joyful note will tell thee the spring is come. Come forth, then,

O my drooping soul, and lay aside thy winter mourning robes; let it be seen in thy believing joys and praise, that the day is appearing, and the spring is come, and as now thou seest thy comforts green, thou shalt shortly see them white and ripe for harvest; and then thou who art now called forth to see and taste, shalt be called forth to reap, and gather, and take possession. Shall I suspend and delay my joys till then? Should not the joys of the spring go before the joys of harvest? Is title nothing before possession? Is the heir in no better a state than the slave? My Lord hath taught me to rejoice in hope of his glory, and to see it through the bars of a prison; and even when I am persecuted for righteousness' sake, when I am reviled and all manner of evil sayings are said against me falsely for his sake, then he hath commanded me to rejoice, and be exceeding glad, because of this my great reward in heaven. (Rom. 5:2; Matt. 5:10–12.) How justly is an unbelieving heart possessed by sorrow, and made a prey to cares and fears, when itself doth create them, and thrust away its offered peace and joy! I know, it is the pleasure of my bounteous Lord, that none of his family should want for comfort, nor live such a poor and miserable life, nor look with such a famished, dejected face. I know, he would have my joys exceed my sorrows; and as much as he delights in the humble and contrite, yet doth he more delight in the soul as it delighteth in him. I know, he taketh no pleasure in my selfprocured sadness; nor would he call on me to weep and mourn but that it is the only way to these delights. Would I spread the table before my guest, and bring him forth my best provision, and bid him sit down and eat and welcome, if I did not unfeignedly desire he should do so? Hath my Lord spread me a table in this wilderness, and furnished it with the promises of everlasting glory, and set

before me angels' food, and broached for me the side of his beloved Son, that I might have a better wine than the blood of the grape?

Doth he so frequently, importunately invite me to sit down, and draw forth my faith, and feed, and spare not; nay, hath he furnished me to that end with reason, and faith, and a rejoicing disposition; and yet is it possible that he should be unwilling of my joys? Never think it, O my unbelieving soul, nor dare to charge him with thy uncomfortable heaviness, who offered thee the foretaste of the highest delight that heaven doth afford, and God can bestow. Doth he not bid thee delight thyself in the Lord, and promise to give thee then the desires of thy heart? (Psal. 37:4.) Hath he not charged thee to rejoice evermore; (1 Thess. 5:16;) yea, to sing aloud and shout for joy?

(Psalm 32:11; 47:1.) Why should I then draw back discouraged? My God is willing, if I were but willing. He is delighted in my delights.

He would fain have it my constant frame and daily business, to be near to him in my believing meditations, and to live in the sweetest thoughts of his goodness, and to be always delighting my soul in himself. O blessed work; employment fit for the sons of God!

But, ah! my Lord, thy feast is nothing to me without an appetite; thou must give a stomach as well as meat. Thou hast set the dainties of heaven before me, but alas! I am blind, and cannot see them; I am sick, and cannot relish them; I am so benumbed, that I cannot put forth a hand to take them. What is the glory of sun and moon to a clod of earth? Thou knowest I need thy subjective grace, as well as thine objective, and that thy work upon mine own distempered soul, is not the smallest part of my salvation; I therefore humbly beg this grace, that as thou hast opened heaven unto me in thy blessed word, so thou wouldest open mine eyes to see it, and my heart to affect it; else heaven will be no heaven to me. Awake, therefore, O thou Spirit of life, and breathe upon thy graces in me; blow upon the garden of my heart, that the spices thereof may flow out. Let my Beloved come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits; (Cant. 4:16;) and take me by the hand, and lift me up from earth thyself; that I may fetch one walk in the garden of glory, and see by faith what thou hast laid up for them that love thee and wait for thee.

Away, then, you soul-tormenting cares and fears! Away, you importunate heart-vexing sorrows! At least forbear me a little while; stand by, and trouble not my aspiring soul; stay here below whilst I go up, and see my rest. The way is strange to me, but not to Christ.

There was the eternal dwelling of his glorious deity, and thither hath he also brought his assumed glorified flesh. It was his work to purchase it; it is his work to prepare it, and to prepare me for it, and to bring me to it. The eternal God of truth hath given me his promise, his seal, and his oath to assure me, that believing in Christ, I shall not perish, but have everlasting life. (John 3:16.) Thither shall my soul be speedily removed, and my body very shortly follow. It is not so far but he that is everywhere can bring me thither; nor so difficult and unlikely, but omnipotency can effect it. And though this unbelief may diminish my delights, and much abate my joys in the way, yet shall it not abate the love of my Redeemer, nor make the promise of none effect. And can my tongue say, that I shall shortly and surely live with God, and yet my heart not leap within me? Can I say it believingly, and not rejoicingly? Ah! faith, how sensible do I now perceive thy weakness! Ah! unbelief, if I had never heard or known it before, yet how sensibly now do I perceive thy malicious tyranny?

But though thou darken my light, and dull my life, and suppress my joys, yet shalt thou not be able to conquer and destroy me. There shall I and my joys survive when thou art dead; and though thou envy all my comforts, yet some in despite of thee I shall even here receive; but were it not for thee, what abundance might I have! The light of heaven would shine into my heart, and I might be as familiar there as I am on earth.

Come away, my soul, then, stop thine ears to the ignorant language of infidelity. Thou art able to answer all its arguments, or if thou be not, yet tread them under thy feet. Come away, stand not looking on that grave, nor turning those bones, nor reading thy lesson now in the dust. Those lines will soon be wiped out, but lift up thy head and look to heaven, and read thy instructions in those fixed stars. Or yet look higher than those eyes can see, into that foundation which standeth sure, and see thy name in golden letters, written before the

foundations of the world, in the book of life, of the slain Lamb. What if an angel from heaven should tell thee that there is a mansion prepared for thee; that it shall certainly be thine own, and thou shalt possess it for ever, would not such a message make thee glad; and dost thou make light of the infallible word of promises, which were delivered by the Spirit, and by the Son himself? Suppose thou hadst seen a fiery chariot come for thee, and fetch thee up to heaven like

Elias, would not this rejoice thee? Why, my Lord hath acquainted me, and assured me, that the soul of a Lazarus, a beggar, goes not forth of its corrupted flesh, but a convoy of angels are ready to attend it, and bring it to the comforts in Abraham's bosom. Shall a drunkard be so merry among his cups; and a glutton in his delicious fare; and the proud in his bravery and dignity; and the lustful wanton in the enjoyment of his mate? And shall not I rejoice who must shortly be in heaven? How glad is voluptuous youth of their playtimes and holidays? Why, in heaven, I shall have an everlasting holiday of pleasure. Can meat and drink delight me when I hunger and thirst?

Can I find pleasure in walks, and gardens, and convenient dwellings?

Can beauteous sights delight mine eyes, and odours my smell, and melody mine ears? and shall not the forethought of the celestial bliss delight me? My beast is glad of his fresh pasture, and his liberty, and his rest; and shall not I? What delight have I found in my private studies, especially when they have prospered to the increase of my knowledge? Methinks I could bid the world farewell, and immure myself among my books, and look forth no more (were it a lawful course) but, as Heinsius, in his library at Leyden, shut the doors upon me, and as in the lap of eternity, among those divine souls, employ myself in sweet content, and pity the rich and great ones who know not this happiness. Sure then it is a high delight indeed which in the true lap of eternity is enjoyed. If Lipsins thought, when he did but read Seneca, that he was even upon Olympus' top, above mortality and human things; what a case shall I be in, when I am beholding Christ? If Julius Scaliger thought twelve verses in Lucan better than the whole German empire, what shall I think mine inheritance worth? If the mathematics alone are as delectable as their students do profess, that they should think it sweet to live and

die in those studies, how delectable, then, will my life be, when I shall fully and clearly know those things which the learned do not know but doubtfully and darkly? In one hour shall I see all difficulties vanish; and all my doubts in physics, metaphysics, politics, medicine, &c. shall be resolved; so happy are the students of that university! Yea, all the depths of divinity will be uncovered to me, and all difficult knots untied, and the book unsealed, and mine eyes opened. For in knowing God, I shall know all things that are fit or good for the creature to know. There Commenius's attempt is perfected, and all the sciences reduced to one. Seneca thought that he who lived without books, was buried alive: but had he known what it is to enjoy God in glory, he would have said indeed, that to live without him is to be buried alive in hell.

If Apollonius travelled into Ethiopia and Persia to consult with the learned there; and if Plato and Pythagoras left their country to see those wise Egyptian priests; and if, as Hierom saith, many travelled a thousand miles to see and speak with eloquent Livy; and if the Queen of Sheba came from Ethiopia to hear the wisdom of Solomon, and see his glory; O how gladly should I leave this country, how cheerfully should I pass from earth to heaven, to see the glory of that eternal Majesty; and to attain myself that height of wisdom, in comparison of which the most learned on earth are but silly, brutish fools and idiots! If Bernard were so ravished with the delights of his monastery, where he lived in poverty, without the common pleasures of the world, because of its green banks and shady bowers, and herbs, and trees, and various objects to feed the eyes, and fragrant smells, and sweet and various tunes of birds, together with the opportunity of devout contemplations, that he cries out in admiration, 'Lord! what abundance of delights dost thou provide, even for the poor!' how then shall I be ravished with the description of the court of heaven, where, instead of herbs and trees and birds and bowers, I shall enjoy God and my Redeemer, angels, saints, and inexpressible pleasures: and therefore should, with more admiration, cry out, 'Lord, what delights hast thou provided for us miserable and unworthy wretches that wait for thee!' If the heaven of glass, which

the Persian emperor framed, were so glorious a piece; and the heaven of silver, which the emperor Ferdinand sent to the great

Turk, because of their rare artificial representations and motions; what will the heaven of the heavens then be, which is not formed by the art of man, nor beautified like these childish toys, but is the matchless palace of the great King, built by himself for the residence of his glory, and the perpetual entertainment of his beloved saints!

Can a poor deluded Mahometan rejoice in expectation of a feigned, sensual paradise; and shall not I rejoice in expectation of a certain glory? If the honour of the ambitious or the wealth of the covetous person do increase, his heart is lifted up with his estate, as a boat that riseth with the rising of the water. If they have but a little more land or money than their neighbours, how easily you may see it in their countenance and carriage! How high do they look; how big do they speak; how stately and lofty do they demean themselves! and shall not the heavenly loftiness and height of my spirit discover my title to this promised land? Shall I be the adopted son of God, and coheir with Christ of that blessed inheritance, and daily look when I am put into possession; and shall not this be seen in my joyful countenance? What if God had made me commander of the earth?

What if the mountains would remove at my command? What if I could heal all diseases with a word or a touch? What if the infernal spirits were all at my command? Should I not rejoice in such privileges and honours as these? Yet is it my Saviour's command not to rejoice that the devils are subject to us; but in this to rejoice, that our names are written in heaven.

I cannot here enjoy my parents, or my near and beloved friends, without some delight; especially when I did too freely let out my affections to my friend, how sweet was that very exercise of my love!

O, what will it then be to live in the perpetual love of God! For brethren here to live together in unity, how good and pleasant a thing is it! To see a family live in love; husbands, wife, parents, children, servants, doing all in love to one another. To see a town live together in love, without any envyings, brawlings, heart-burnings, or contentions, scorns, law-suits, factions, or divisions: but every man

loving his neighbour as himself, and thinking they can never do too much for one another, but striving to go beyond each other in love.

Oh! how happy and delectable a sight is this! O, sweetest hands, saith Seneca, which bind so happily, that those who are so bound do love their binders, and desire still to be bound more closely, and even reduced into one! Oh! then, what a blessed society will be the family of heaven, and those peaceable inhabitants of the New Jerusalem; where is no division, nor dissimilitude, nor differing judgments, nor disaffection, nor strangeness, nor deceitful friendship; never an angry thought or look, never a cutting, unkind expression; but all are one in Christ, who is one with the Father, and live in the love of Love himself. Cato could say that the soul of a lover dwelleth in the person whom he loveth: and therefore we say, The soul is not more where it liveth and enliveneth, than where it loveth.k How near, then, will my soul be closed to God, and how sweet must that conjunction be, when

I shall so heartily, strongly, and incessantly love him. As the bee lies sucking and satiating herself with the sweetness of the flower; or rather, as the child lies sucking the mother's breast, inclosed in her arms, and sitting in her lap; even so shall my loving soul be still feeding on the sweetness of the God of love. Ah! wretched, fleshly, unbelieving heart, that can think of such a day, and work, and life as this, with so low, and dull, and feeble joys, but my enjoying joys will be more lively.

How delectable is it to me to behold and study these inferior works of God! to read those anatomical lectures of Du Bartas, upon this great dissected body! What a beautiful fabric is this great house which here we dwell in! The floor so dressed with various herbs, and flowers, and trees, and watered with springs, and rivers, and seas! The roof so wide expanded, so admirably adorned, such astonishing workmanship in every part! The studies of an hundred ages more, if the world should last so long, would not discover the mysteries of divine skill, which are to be found in the narrow compass of our bodies. What anatomist is not amazed in his search and observations! What wonders, then, do sun, and moon, and stars, and orbs, and seas, and winds, and fire, and air, and earth, &c. afford us!

And hath God prepared such a house for our silly, sinful, corruptible flesh, and for a soul imprisoned! And doth he bestow so many millions of wonderful rarities, even upon his enemies! O, then, what a dwelling must that needs be, which he prepared for pure, refined, spiritual, glorified ones; and which he will bestow only upon his dearly beloved children, whom he hath chosen out, to make his mercy on them glorified and admired! As far as our perfected glorified bodies will excel this frail and corruptible flesh, so far will the glory of the New Jerusalem exceed all the present glory of the creatures. The change upon our mansion will be proportionable to the change upon ourselves. Arise, then, O my soul, by these steps in thy contemplation, and let thy thoughts of that glory, were it possible, as far in sweetness exceed thy thoughts of the excellencies below. Fear not to go out of this body, and this world, when thou must make so happy a change as this; but say as Zuingerus, when he was dying, "I am glad, and even leap for joy, that at last the time is come, wherein that, even that mighty Jehovah, whose majesty, in my search of nature, I have admired; whose goodness I have adored; whom in faith I have desired, whom I have sighed for; will now show himself to me face to face:" and let that be the unfeigned sense of my heart, which Camerarius left in his will should be written on his monument, "Vita mihi mors est, mors mihi vita nova est;" "Life is to me a death, death is to me a new life."

Moreover, how wonderful and excellent are the works of Providence, even in this life! To see the great God to engage himself, and set awork his attributes, for the safety and advancement of a few humble, despicable praying persons! O what a joyful time will it then be, when so much love, and mercy, and wisdom, and power, and truth, shall be manifested and glorified in the saint's glorification!'

How delightful is it to my soul, to review the working of Providence for myself, and to read over the records and catalogues of those special mercies wherewith my life hath been adorned and sweetened!

How oft have my prayers been heard! and my tears regarded, and my groaning, troubled soul relieved, and my Lord hath bid me be of

good cheer! He hath healed me when in respect of means I was incurable. He hath helped me when I was helpless. In the midst of my supplications hath he eased and revived me. He hath taken me up from my knees, and from the dust where I have lain in sorrow and despair: even the cries which have been occasioned by distrust, hath he regarded; what a support are these experiences to my faithful unbelieving heart! These clear testimonies of my Father's love, do put life into my afflicted, drooping spirit.

Oh, then, what a blessed day will that be, when I shall have all mercy, perfection of mercy, nothing but mercy, and fully enjoy the Lord of mercy himself! When I shall stand on the shore, and look back upon the raging seas which I have safely passed! When I shall, in safe and full possession of glory, look back upon all my pains and troubles, and fears and tears, and upon all the mercies which I here received; and then shall behold the glory enjoyed there, which was the end of all this. O, what a blessed view will that be! O glorious prospect which I shall have on the celestial Mount Zion! Is it possible that there should be any defect of joy; or my heart not raised, when I am so raised? If one drop of lively faith were mixed with these considerations, Oh! what work would they make in my breast; and what a heaven-ravished heart should I carry within me! Fain would I believe; "Lord, help my unbelief."

Yet further, consider, O my soul, how sweet have the very ordinances been unto thee; what raptures hast thou had in prayer, and under heavenly sermons; what gladness in days of thanksgiving, after eminent deliverances to the church, or to thyself; what delight do I find in the sweet society of the saints; to be among my humble faithful neighbours and friends; to join with them in the frequent worship of God; to see their growth and stability, and soundness of understanding; to see those daily added to the church which shall be saved! O then what delight shall I have to see the perfected church in heaven, and to join with these and all the saints in another kind of worship than we can here conceive of! How sweet is it to join in the high praises of God in the solemn assemblies! How glad have I been

to go up to the house of God, especially after long restraint by sickness, when I have been as Hezekiah released, and re-admitted to join with the people of God, and to set forth the praises of my great

Deliverer! How sweet is my work in preaching the Gospel, and inviting sinners to the marriage-feast of the Lamb, and opening to them the treasures of free grace? Especially when God blesseth my endeavours with plenteous success, and giveth me to see the fruit of my labours; even this alone hath been a greater joy to my heart, than if I had been made the lord of all the riches on earth.

O how can my heart then conceive that joy, which I shall have in my admittance into the celestial temple, and into the heavenly host, that shall do nothing but praise the Lord for ever! when we shall say to Christ, "Here am I, and the children thou hast given me;" and when

Christ shall present us all to his Father, and all are gathered, and the body completed! If the very word of God were sweeter to Job than his necessary food, (Job 23:12;) and to Jeremy, was the very joy and rejoicing of his heart, (Jer. 15:16;) and to David, was sweeter than the honey and honeycomb, so that he crieth out, O how I love thy law; it is my meditation continually: and if thy law had not been my delight,

I had perished in my troubles, (Psal. 119:97; 92, 70, 77, &c.) O then how blessed a day will that be, when we shall fully enjoy the Lord of this word; and shall need these written precepts and promises no more; but shall, instead of these love-letters, enjoy our Beloved, and instead of these promises, have the happiness in possession, and read no book but the face of the glorious God! How far would I go to see one of those blessed angels, which appeared to Abraham, to Lot, to John, &c., or to speak with Enoch, or Elias, or any saint, who had lived with God; especially if he would resolve all my doubts, and describe to me the celestial habitations! How much more desirable must it needs be to live with these blessed saints and angels, and to see and possess as well as they! It is written of Erastus, that he was so desirous to learn, that it would be sweet to him even to die, so he might but be resolved of those doubtful questions wherein he could not satisfy himself. How sweet then should it be to me to die, that I may not only be resolved of all my doubts, but also know what I

never before did think of, and enjoy what before I never knew! It was a happy dwelling that the twelve apostles had with Christ; to be always in his company, and see his face, and hear him open to them the mysteries of the kingdom: but it will be another kind of happiness to dwell with him in glory. It was a rare privilege of Thomas to put his fingers into his wounds to confirm his faith; and of John to be called the disciple whom Jesus loved, on whose breast at supper he was wont to lean. But it will be another kind of privilege which I shall enjoy when I shall see him in his glory, and not in his wounds; and shall enjoy a fuller sense of his love than John then did; and shall have the most hearty entertainment that heaven affordeth.

If they that heard Christ speak on earth, were astonished at his wisdom and answers, and wondered at the gracious words which proceeded from his mouth; how shall I be affected then to behold him in his majesty!

Rouse up thyself, O my soul, and consider; can the foresight of this glory make others embrace the stake, and kiss the faggot, and welcome the cross, and refuse deliverance? And can it not make thee cheerful under lesser sufferings; can it sweeten the flames to them; and can it not sweeten thy life, or thy sickness, or natural death? If a glimpse could make Moses's face to shine, and Peter on the mount so transported, and Paul so exalted, and John so wrapt up in the Spirit, why should it not somewhat revive me with delight? Doubtless it would, if my thoughts were more believing: is it not the same heaven which they and I must live in; is not their God, their Christ, their crown and mine, the same? Nay, how many a weak woman, or poor despised Christian have I seen, mean in parts, but rich in faith, who could rejoice and triumph in hope of this inheritance: and shall I look upon it with so dim an eye; so dull a heart; so dejected a countenance? Some small foretastes also I have had myself, though indeed small and seldom, through mine unbelief, and how much more delightful have they been than ever was any of these earthly things? The full enjoyment then will sure be sweet. Remember then this bunch of grapes which thou hast tasted of, and by them

conjecture the fruitfulness of the land of promise. A grape in a wilderness cannot be like the plentiful vintage.

Consider also, O my soul, what a beauty is there in the imperfect graces of the Spirit here; (Col. 3:10;) so great that they are called the image of God. And can any created excellency have a more honourable title? Alas, how small a part are these of what we shall enjoy in our perfect state! O how precious a mercy should I esteem it, if God would but take off my bodily infirmities, and restore me to any comfortable measure of health and strength, that I might be able with cheerfulness to go through his work! How precious a mercy then will it be, to have all my corruptions quite removed, and my soul perfected, and my body also raised to so high a state as I now can neither desire nor conceive! Surely, as health of body so health of soul doth carry an inexpressible sweetness along with it. Were there no rewards besides, yet every gracious act is a reward and comfort.

Never had I the least stirring of loving God, but I felt a heavenly sweetness accompany it; even the very act of loving was inexpressibly sweet. What a happy life should I here live, could I but love as much as I would, and as oft, and as long as I would! Could I be all love, and always loving, O my soul, what wouldst thou give for such a life! O had I such true and clear apprehensions of God, and such a true understanding of his word as I desire; could I but trust him as fully in all my straits; could I have that life which I would have in every duty; could I make God my constant desire and delight; I would not then envy the world their honours or pleasures; nor change my happiness with a Cæsar or Alexander. O my soul, what a blessed state wilt thou shortly be in, when thou shalt have far more of these than thou canst now desire! and shalt exercise all thy perfect graces upon God in presence and open sight, and not in the dark, and at a distance, as now!

And as there is so much worth in one gracious soul, so much more in a gracious society, and most of all in the whole body of Christ on earth: if there be any true beauty on earth, where should it be so likely as in the spouse of Christ? It is her that he adorneth with his

jewels, and feasteth at his table; and keepeth for her always an open house and heart: he revealeth to her his secrets, and maintaineth constant converse with her: he is her constant guardian, and in every deluge incloseth her in his ark: he saith to her, Thou art all beautiful, my beloved! And is his spouse, while black, so comely? Is the afflicted, sinning, weeping, lamenting, persecuted church so excellent? O what then will be the church, when it is fully gathered and glorified; when it is ascended from the valley of tears to Mount

Sion; when it shall sin no more, nor weep, nor groan, nor suffer any more? The stars, or the smallest candle, are not darkened so much by the brightness of the sun, as the excellencies of the first temple will be by the celestial temple. The glory of the old Jerusalem will be darkness and deformity, to the glory of the New. It is said in Ezra

3:12, that when the foundations of the second temple were laid, many of the ancient men who had seen the first house, did weep, i. e. because the second did come so far short of it: what cause then shall we have to shout for joy, when we shall see how glorious the heavenly temple is, and remember the meanness of the church on earth!

But, alas! what a loss am I at in the midst of my contemplation! I thought my heart had all this while followed after; but I see it doth not: and shall I let my understanding go on alone, or my tongue run on without affections? What life is in empty thoughts and words! neither God nor I find pleasure in them.

Rather let me run back again, and look, and find, and chide this lazy, loitering heart, that turneth off from such a pleasant work as this; where hast thou been, unworthy heart, while I was opening to thee the everlasting treasures? Didst thou sleep, or wast thou minding something else: or, dost thou think that this is all but a dream or fable, or as uncertain as the predictions of a presumptuous astrologer; or, hast thou lost thy life and rejoicing power? Art thou not ashamed to complain so much of an uncomfortable life, and to murmur at God for filling thee with sorrows, when he offereth thee in vain the delights of angels, and when thou treadest under foot these transcendent pleasures? Thou wilfully pinest away in grief, and art

ready to charge thy Father with unkindness for making thee only a vessel of displeasure, a sink of sadness, a skin-full of groans, a snowball of tears, a channel for waters of affliction to run in, the fuel of fears, and the carcass which cares do consume and prey upon, when in the mean time thou mightest live a life of joy; hadst thou now but followed me close, and believingly applied thyself to that which I have spoken, and drunk in but half the comfort which those words hold forth, it would have made thee revive and leap for joy, and forget thy sorrows and diseases, and pains of the flesh: but seeing thou judgest thyself unworthy of comfort, it is just that comfort should be taken from thee.

Lord, what is the matter that this work doth go on so heavily; did I think my heart had been so backward to rejoice? If it had been to mourn and fear, and despair, it were no wonder: I have been lifting at this stone, and it will not stir; I have been pouring aqua vitæ into the mouth of the dead: I hope, Lord, by that time it comes to heaven, this heart, by thy Spirit, will be quickened and mended, or else even those joys will scarcely rejoice me.

But besides my darkness, deadness, and unbelief, I perceive there is something else that forbids my full-desired joys. This is not the time and place where so much is given: the time is our winter, and not our harvest; the place is called the valley of tears. There must be great difference betwixt the way and the end, the work and wages, the small foretastes and full fruition.

But, Lord, though thou hast reserved our joys for heaven, yet hast thou not so suspended our desires; they are most suitable and seasonable in this present life; therefore, O help me to desire till I may possess; and let me long when I cannot as I would rejoice. There is love in desire as well as in delight; and if I be not empty of love, I know I shall not long be empty of delight.

Rouse up thyself once more, then, O my soul, and try and exercise thy spiritual appetite; though thou art ignorant and unbelieving, yet

art thou reasonable, and therefore must needs desire a happiness and rest: nor canst thou surely be so unreasonable as to dream of attaining it here on earth. Thou knowest, to thy sorrow, that thou art not yet at thy rest, and thy own feeling doth convince thee of thy present unhappiness; and dost thou know that thou art restless, and yet art willing to continue so; art thou neither happy in deed nor in desire; art thou neither well nor wouldst be well? When my flesh is pained and languisheth under consuming sickness, how heartily and frequently do I cry out, Oh! when shall I be cased of this pain? when shall my decaying strength be recovered? There is no dissembling or formality in these desires and groans. How then should I long for my final, full recovery! There is no sickness, nor pain, nor weeping, nor complaints. O when shall I arrive at that safe and quiet harbour, where is none of these storms and waves, and dangers; when I shall never more have a weary, restless night or day! Then shall not my life be such a medley or mixture of hope and fear, of joy and sorrow, as now it is; nor shall flesh and spirit be combating within me, nor my soul be still as a pitched field, or a stage of contention, where faith and unbelief, affiance and distrust, humility and pride, do maintain a continual distracting conflict: then shall I not live a dying life for fear of dying, nor my life be made uncomfortable with the fears of losing it. O when shall I be past these soul-tormenting fears, and cares, and griefs, and passions! when shall I be out of this frail, this corruptible, ruinous body! this soul-contradicting, ensnaring, deceiving flesh! when shall I be out of this vain and vexatious world, whose pleasures are mere deluding dreams and shadows; whose miseries are real, numerous, and incessant! How long shall I see the church of Christ lie trodden under the feet of persecutors; or else, as a ship in the hands of foolish guides, though the supreme Master doth moderate all for the best! Alas! that I must stand by and see the church and cause of Christ, like a foot-ball in the midst of a crowd of boys, tossed about in contention from one to another; every one running and sweating with foolish violence, and labouring the downfall of all that are in his way, and all to get it into his own power, that he may have the managing of the work himself, and may drive it before him which way he pleaseth; and when all is done, the best usage he may expect

from them, is but to be spurned about in the dirt, till they have driven it on to the goal of their private interests, or deluded fancies.

There is none of this disorder in the heavenly Jesusalem; there shall I find a government without imperfection, and obedience without the least unwillingness or rebellion; even a harmonious consent of perfected spirits, in obeying and praising their everlasting King. O how much better is it to be a door-keeper there and the last in that kingdom, than to be the conqueror or commander of this tumultuous world! There will our Lord govern all immediately by himself, and not put the reins in the hands of such ignorant readers, nor govern by such foolish and sinful deputies,u as the best of the sons of men now are. Dost thou so mourn for these inferior disorders, O my soul, and yet wouldst thou not be out of it! How long hast thou desired to be a member of a more perfect reformed church, and to join with more holy, humble, sincere souls, in the purest and most heavenly worship! Why, dost thou not see that on earth thy desires fly from thee? Art thou not as a child that thinketh to travel to the sun, when he seeth it rising or setting, as it were close to the earth; but as he travelleth toward it, it seems to go from him; and when he hath long wearied himself, it is as far off as ever? for the thing he seeketh is in another world. Even such hath been thy labour in seeking for so holy, so pure, so peaceable a society, as might afford thee a contented settlement here. Those that have gone as far as America for satisfaction, have confessed themselves unsatisfied still. When wars, and calamities attending them, have been over, I have said, Return now, my soul, unto thy rest: (Psal. 116:) but how restless a condition hath next succeeded! When God had given me the enjoyment of peace and friends, and liberty of the Gospel; and had also done even as my own heart desired; I have been ready to say, Soul, take thy case and rest; but how quickly hath Providence called me fool, and taught me to call my state by another name! When did I ever begin to congratulate my flesh on its felicity, but God did quickly turn my tune, and made almost the same breath to end in groaning, which did begin in laughter! I have thought ofttimes on the folly of my prosperity, Now I will have one sweet draught of solace and content, but God hath dropped in the gall, while the cup was at my mouth. We

are still weary of the present condition, and desire a change, and when we have it, it doth not answer our expectation; but our discontent and restlessness is still unchanged. In time of peace we thought that war would deliver us from our disquietments, and when we saw the iron red-hot, we catched it inconsiderately, thinking that it was gold, till it burnt us to the very bone, and so stuck to our fingers, that we scarcely know yet whether we are rid of it or not. In this our misery we longed for peace; and so long were we strangers to it, that we had forgotten its name, and began to call it rest, or heaven; but as soon as we are again grown acquainted with it, we shall better bethink us, and perceive our mistake. O why am I then no more weary of this weariness! and why do I forget my resting place! (Jer. 50:6.) Up, then, O my soul, and thy most raised and fervent desires! stay not till this flesh can desire with thee; its appetite hath a lower and baser object. Thy appetite is not sensitive, but rational; distinct from its; and therefore look not that sense apprehend thy blessed object, and tell thee what and when to desire.

Believing reason in the glass of Scripture may discern enough to raise the flame; and though sense apprehend not that which must draw thy desires, yet that which may drive them it doth easily apprehend.

It can tell thee that thy present life is filled with distress and sorrows, though it cannot tell thee what is in the world to come. Thou needest not Scripture to tell thee, no faith to discern that thy head acheth, and thy stomach is sick, thy bowels griped, and thy heart grieved, and some of these, or such-like, are thy daily case. Thy friends about thee are grieved to see thy griefs, and to hear thy dolorous groans and lamentations, and yet art thou loth to leave this woful life! Is this a state to be preferred before the celestial glory; or is it better to be thus miserable from Christ, than to be happy with him; or canst thou possibly be so unbelieving, as to doubt whether that life be any better than this! O my soul, doth not the dulness of thy desires after rest, accuse thee of most detestable ingratitude and folly? Must thy Lord procure thee a rest at so dear a rate, and dost thou no more value it!

Must he purchase thy rest by a life of labour and sorrow, and by the pangs of a bitter, cursed death! And when all is done, hadst thou rather be here without it! Must he go before to prepare so blessed a

mansion for such a wretch, and art thou now loth to go to possess it!

Must his blood, and care, and pains be lost! O unthankful, unworthy soul! Shall the Lord of glory be willing of thy company, and art thou unwilling of his? Are they fit to dwell with God, that had rather stay from him? Must he crown thee, and glorify thee against thy will; or must he yet deal more roughly with thy darling flesh, and leave thee never a corner in thy ruinous cottage for to cover thee, but fire thee out of all, before thou wilt away? Must every sense be an inlet to thy sorrows; and every friend become the scourge, and Job's messengers be the daily intelligencers, and bring thee the currantos of thy multiplied calamities, before that heaven will seem more desirable than this earth? Must every joint be the seat of pain; and every member deny thee a room to rest in, and thy groans be indited from the very heart and bones, before thou wilt be willing to leave this flesh? Must thy heavy burdens be bound upon thy back; and thy sointolerable paroxysms become incessant; and thy intermittent aguish woes be turned into continual burning fevers; yea, must earth become a very hell to thee, before thou wilt be willing to be with God? O impudent soul, if thou be not ashamed of this! What is loathing, if this be love? Look about thee, O my soul; behold the most lovely creature, or the most desirable state, and tell me where wouldst thou be if not with God! Poverty is a burden, and riches a snare. Sickness is little pleasing to thee, and usually health as little safe; the one is full of sorrow, and the other of sin. The frowning world doth bruise thy heel, and the smiling world doth sting thee to the heart. When it seemeth ugly, it causeth loathing; when beauteous, it is thy bane. When thy condition is bitter, thou wouldst fain spit it out, and when delightful, it is but sugared misery and deceit; the sweetest poison doth often bring the surest death. So much as the world is loved and delighted in, so much it hurteth and endangereth the lover; and if it may not be loved, why should it be desired? If thou be applauded, it proves the most contagious breath; and how ready are the sails of pride to receive such winds: so that it frequently addeth to thy sin, but not one cubit to the stature of thy worth; and if thou be vilified, slandered, or unkindly used, methinks this should not entice thy love. Never didst thou sit by the fire of

prosperity and applause, but thou hadst with it the smoke that drew water from thy eyes; never hadst thou the rose without the pricks: and the sweetness hath been expired, and the beauty faded, before the fears which thou hadst in gathering it were healed. Is it not as good to be without the honey, as to have it with so many smarting stings? The highest delight thou hast found in anything below, hath been in thy successful labours and thy godly friends; and have these indeed been so sweet, as that thou shouldst be so loth to leave them?

If they seem better to thee than a life with God, it is time for God to take them from thee. Thy studies have been sweet, and have they not been also bitter? My mind hath been pleased, but my body pained, and the weariness of the flesh hath quickly abated the pleasures of the spirit. When by painful studies I have not discovered the truth, it hath been but a tedious way to a grievous end; discontent and trouble purchased by toilsome, wearying labours. And if I have found out the truth by divine assistance, I have found but an exposed, naked orphan, that hath cost me much to take in, and clothe, and keep, which, though of noble birth, yea, a divine offspring, and amiable in mine eyes, and worthy I confess of better entertainment, yet, from men that know not its descent, hath drawn upon me their envy and furious opposition; and hath brought the blinded

Sodomites, with whom I lived at some peace before, to crowd about me, and assault my doors, that I might prostitute my heavenly guests to their pleasure, and again expose them, whom I had so gladly and lately entertained; yea, the very tribes of Israel have been gathered against me, thinking that the altar which I built for the interest of truth,b and unity, and peace, had been erected to the introduction of error and idolatry; and so the increase of knowledge hath been the increase of sorrow. My heart, indeed, is ravished with the beauty of naked truth, and I am ready to cry out 'I have found it,' or, as Aquinas, 'Conclusum est contra,' &c.; but when I have found it, I know not what to do with it. If I confine it to my own breast, and keep it secret to myself, it is as a consuming fire, shut up in my heart and bones. I am as the lepers without Samaria, or as those that were forbidden to tell any man of the works of Christ: I am weary of forbearing, I cannot stay. If I reveal it to the world, I can expect but

an unwelcome entertainment, and an ungrateful return; for they have taken up their standing in religious knowledge already, as if they were at Hercules' pillars, and had no further to go, nor any more learn. They dare be no wiser than they are already, nor receive any more of truth than they have already received, lest thereby they should accuse their ancestors and teachers of ignorance and imperfection, and themselves should seem to be mutable and inconstant, and to hold their opinions in religion with reserves.d The most precious truth not apprehended, doth seem to be error and fantastic novelty: every man that readeth what I write, will not be at the pains of those tedious studies to find out the truth as I have been, but think it should meet their eyes in the very reading. If the mere writing of truth, with its clearest evidence, were all that were necessary to the apprehension of it by others, then the lowest scholar in the school might be quickly as good as the highest. So that if I did see more than others, to reveal it to the lazy, prejudiced world, would but make my friends turn enemies, or look upon me with a strange and jealous eye: and yet truth is so dear a friend itself, and he that sent it much more dear, that whatsoever I suffer I dare not stifle or conceal it. O what then are these bitter sweet studies and discoveries to the everlasting views of the face of the God of truth! The light that here I have is but a knowing in part, and yet it costeth me so dear, that in a temptation I am almost ready to prefer the quiet, silent night before such a rough tempestuous day. But there I shall have light and rest together, and the quietness of the night without its darkness. I can never now have the lightning without the thunder, which maketh it seem more dreadful than delightful. And shouldst thou be loth, then, O my soul, to leave this for the eternal perfect light; and to change thy candle for the glorious sun; and to change thy studies, and preaching, and praying, for the harmonious praises and fruition of the blessed God.

Nor will thy loss be greater in the change of thy company than of thine employment. Thy friends here have been indeed thy delight; and have they not been also thy vexation and thy grief? They are gracious, and are they not also sinful; they are kind and loving, and

are they not also peevish, froward, and soon displeased? They are humble, but withal, alas! how proud! They will scarce endure to hear plainly of their disgraceful faults; they cannot bear undervaluing or disrespect; they itch after the good thoughts and applause of others; they love those best that highliest esteem them. The missing of courtesy; a supposed slighting or disrespect; the contradicting of their words or humours; a difference in opinion, yea, the turning of a straw, will quickly show thee the pride and the uncertainty of thy friend. Their graces are sweet to thee, and their gifts are helpful, but are not their corruptions bitter, and their imperfections hurtful?

Though at a distance they seem to thee most holy and innocent, yet when they come nearer thee, and thou hast thoroughly tried them, alas! what silly, frail, and froward pieces are the best of men! Then the knowledge which thou didst admire, appeareth cloudeth with ignorance, and the virtues that so shined as a glow-worm in the night, are scarcely to be found when thou seekest them by daylight.

When temptations are strong, how quickly do they yield! what wounds have they given to religion by their shameful falls! Those that have been famous for their holiness, have been as infamous for their notorious, heinous wickedness; those that have been thy dearest bosom friends, that have prayed and conferred with thee, and helped thee toward heaven, and by their fervour, forwardness, and heavenly lives, have shamed thy coldness, and earthliness, and dulness; whom thou hast singled out as the choicest from a world of professors, whom thou madest the daily companions and delights of thy life, are not some of them fallen to drunkenness, and some to whoredom, some to pride, perfidiousness, and rebellion, and some to the most damnable heresies and divisions?h And hath thy very heart received such wounds from thy friends, and yet art thou so loth to go from them to thy God? Thy friends that are weak, are little useful or comfortable to thee; and those that are strong, are the abler to hurt thee; and the best, if not heedfully used, will prove the worst. The better and keener the knife is, the sooner and deeper will it cut thy fingers, if thou take not heed. Yea, the very number of thy friends is a burden and trouble to thee. Every one supposeth he hath some interest in thee; yea, the interest of a friend, which is not little; and

how insufficient art thou to satisfy all their expectations, when it is much if thou canst answer the expectations of one! If thou wert divided among so many, as each could have but little of thee, so thyself and God, who should have most, will have none. And almost every one that hath not more of thee than thou canst spare for all, is ready to censure thee as unfriendly, and a neglecter of the duty or respects which thou owest them; and shouldst thou please them all, the gain will not be great, nor art thou sure that they will again please thee.

Awake then, O my drowsy soul, and look above this world of sorrow.

Hast thou borne the yoke of thy afflictions from thy youth, and so long felt the smarting rod, and yet canst no better understand its meaning? Is not every stroke to drive thee hence; and is not the voice of the rod like that to Elijah, What doest thou here? Up and away.

Dost thou forget that sure prediction of thy Lord, "In the world ye shall have trouble, but in me ye shall have peace." The first thou hast found true by long experience, and of the latter thou hast had a small foretaste, but the perfect peace is yet before, which, till it be enjoyed, cannot be clearly understood.

Ah! my dear Lord, I feel thy meaning. It is written in my flesh: it is engraven in my bones. My heart thou aimest at; thy rod doth drive, thy silken cord of love doth draw, and all to bring it to thyself. And is that all, Lord? is that the worst? Can such a heart be worth thy having? Make it so, Lord, and then it is thine; take it to thyself, and then take me. I can but reach it toward thee, and not unto thee. I am too low, and it is too dull. This clod hath life to stir, but not to rise; legs it hath, but wings it wanteth. As the feeble child to the tender mother, it looketh up to thee, and stretcheth out the hands, and fain would have thee take it up. Though I cannot so freely say, My heart is with thee, my soul longeth after thee; yet can I say, I long for such a longing heart. The twins are yet a striving in my bowels: the spirit is willing, the flesh is weak; the spirit longs, the flesh is loth. The flesh is unwilling to lie rotting in the earth; the soul desires to be with thee. My spirit crieth, Let thy kingdom come; or else, let me come

unto thy kingdom: but the flesh is afraid lest thou shouldst hear my prayer, and take me at my word. What frequent contradictions dost thou find in my requests! because there is such contradiction in myself. My prayers plead against my prayers, and one part begs a denial to the other. No wonder if thou give me such a dying life, when I know not whether to ask for life or death. With the same breath do I beg for a reprieval and removal; and the same groan doth utter my desires and my fears. My soul would go, my flesh would stay. My soul would fain be out, my flesh would have thee hold the door. O, blessed be the grace that makes advantages of my corruptions, even to contradict and kill themselves. For I fear my fears, and sorrow for my sorrows, and groan under my fleshly groans: I loathe my lothness, and I long for greater longings. And while my soul is thus tormented with fears and cares, and with the tedious means for attaining my desires; it addeth so much to the burden of my troubles, that my weariness thereby is much increased, which makes me groan to be at rest. Indeed, Lord, my soul itself also is in a strait, and what to choose I know not well, but yet thou knowest what to give: to depart, and be with thee, is best; but yet to be in the flesh seems needful. Thou knowest I am not weary of thy work, but of sorrow and sin I must needs be weary: I am willing to stay while thou wilt here employ me, and to dispatch the work which thou hast put into my hands, till these strange thoughts of thee be somewhat more familiar, and thou hast raised me into some degree of acquaintance with thyself: but I beseech thee, stay no longer when this is done. Stay not till sin shall get advantage, and my soul grow earthly by dwelling on this earth, and my desires and delights in thee grow dead: but while I must be here, let me be still amending and ascending; make me still better, and take me at the best. I dare not be so impatient of living, as to importune thee to cut off my time, and urge thee to snatch me hence unready; because I know my everlasting state doth so much depend on the improvement of this life. Nor yet would I stay when my work is done; and remain here sinning, when my brethren are triumphing. I am drowning in tears, while they swim in joys; lam weeping, while they are singing; I am under thy feet, while they are in thy bosom: thy footsteps bruise and

break this worm, while those stars do shine in the firmament of glory. Thy frowns do kill me, while they are quickened by thy smiles: they are ever living, and I am daily dying: their joys are raised by the knowledge of their endlessness; my griefs are enlarged by still expecting more: while they possess but one continued pleasure, I bear the successive assaults of fresh calamities. One billow falls in the neck of another; and when I am rising up from under one, another comes and strikes me down. Yet I am thy child, as well as they; Christ is my head, as well as theirs: why is there then so great a distance? How differently dost thou use us, when thou art Father to us all! They sit at thy table, while I must stand without the doors. But I acknowledge the equity of thy ways. Though we are all children, yet I am the prodigal, and therefore meeter in this remote country to feed on husks; while they are always with thee, and possess thy glory.

Though we are all members, yet not the same; they are the tongue, and fitter to praise thee; they are the hands, and fitter for thy service;

I am the feet, and therefore meeter to tread on earth, and move in dirt; but unfit to stand so near the head as they. They were once themselves in my condition, and I shall shortly be in theirs: they were of the lowest form, before they came to the highest; they suffered, before they reigned: they came out of great tribulation, who now are standing before thy throne: and shall not I be content to come to the crown as they did; and to drink of their cup, before I sit with them in the kingdom? The blessed souls of David, Paul, Austin,

Calvin, &c. with all the spirits of the just made perfect, were once on earth, as I am now; as far from the sight of thy face and glory, as deep in sorrows, as weak, and sick, and full of pains, as I. Their souls were longer imprisoned in corruptible flesh: I shall go but the way that they did all go before me: their house of clay did fall to dust, and so must mine. The world they are now in, was as strange to them before they were there as it is to me. And am I better than all these precious souls? I am contented, therefore, O my Lord, to stay thy time, and go thy way; so thou wilt exalt me also in thy season, and take me into thy barn when thou seest me ripe. In the mean time I may desire, though I am not to repine; I may look over the hedge, though I may not break over; I may believe and wish, though not make any sinful

haste; I am content to wait, but not to lose thee. And when thou seest me too contented with thine absence, and satisfying and pleasing myself here below, O quicken up then my dull desires, and blow up the dying spark of love; and leave me not till I am able unfeignedly to cry out, As the hart panteth after the brooks, and the dry land thirsteth for the water-streams, so thirsteth my soul after thee, O

God: when shall I come and appear before the living God? (Psal.

42:1, 2:) "till my daily conversation be with thee in heaven, and from thence I may longingly expect my Saviour:" (Phil. 3:19–21:) till my affections are set on things above, where Christ is reigning, and my life is hid: (2 Cor. 5:1–8:) "till I can walk by faith, and not by sight; willing rather to be absent from the body, and present with the Lord." (Col. 3:1–4.) What interest hath this empty world in me? and what is there in it that may seem so lovely, as to entice my desires and delight from thee, or make me loth to come away? When I look about me with a deliberate, undeceived eye, me-thinks this world is a howling wilderness, and most of the inhabitants are untamed hideous monsters. All its beauty I can wink into blackness, and all its mirth I can think into sadness; I can drown all its pleasures in a few penitent tears, and the wind of a sigh will scatter them away. When I look on them without the spectacles of flesh, I call them nothing, as being vanity, or worse than nothing, as vexation. O let not this flesh so seduce my soul, as to make it prefer this weary life before the joys that are about thy throne: and though death of itself be unwelcome to nature, yet let thy grace make thy glory appear to me so desirable, that the king of terrors may be the messenger of my joy. O let not my soul be ejected by violence, and dispossessed of its habitation against its will, but draw it forth to thyself by the secret power of thy love, as the sunshine in the spring draws forth the creatures from their winter cells;m meet it half way, and entice it to thee, as the loadstone doth the iron, and as the greater flame doth attract the less; dispel therefore the clouds that hide from me thy love, or remove the scales that hinder mine eyes from beholding thee: for only the beams that stream from thy face, and the foresight or taste of thy great salvation, can make a soul unfeignedly to say, Now let thy servant depart in peace; reading and hearing will not serve. My meat is not sweet to

my ear or my eye; it must be a taste or feeling that must entice away my soul: though arguing is the means to bend my will, yet if thou bring not the matter to my hand, and by the influence of thy Spirit make it not effectual, I shall never reason my soul to be willing to depart. In the winter, when it is cold and dirty without, I am loth to leave my chamber and fire; but in the summer, when all is warm and green, I am loth to be so confined; show me but the summer fruits and pleasures of thy paradise, and I shall freely quit my earthly cell.

Some pleasure I have in my books, my friends, and in thine ordinances: till thou hast given me a taste of something more sweet, my soul will be loth to part with these: the traveller will hold his cloak the faster when the winds do bluster, and the storms assault him; but when the sun shines hot, he will cast it off as a burden; so will my soul, when thou frownest, or art strange, be lother to leave this garment of flesh; but thy smiles would make me leave it as my prison. But it is not thy ordinary discoveries that will here suffice; as the work is greater, so must be thy help. O turn these fears into strong desires, and this lothness to die into longings after thee!o

While I must be absent from thee, let my soul as heartily groan under thine absence, as my pained body doth under its want of health: and let not those groans be counterfeit, or constrained, but let them come from a longing, loving heart, unfeignedly judging it best to depart, and be with Christ: and if I have any more time to spend on earth, let me live as without the world in thee, as I have sometime lived as without thee in the world. O suffer me not to spend in strangeness to thee another day of this my pilgrimage! While I have a thought to think, let me not forget thee; while I have a tongue to move, let me mention thee with delight; while I have a breath to breathe, let it be after thee, and for thee; while I have a knee to bend, let it bow daily at thy footstool; and when by sickness thou confinest me to my couch, do thou make my bed, and number my pains, and put all my tears into thy bottle. And as when my spirit groaned for my sins, the flesh would not second it, but desired that which my spirit did abhor; so now, when my flesh doth groan under its pains, let not my spirit second it, but suffer the flesh to groan alone, and let me desire that day which my flesh abhorreth, that my friends may not with so much

sorrow wait for the departure of my soul, as my soul with joy shall wait for its own departure; and then let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be as his, even a removal to that glory that shall never end. Send forth thy convoy of angels for my departing soul, and let them bring it among the perfect spirits of the just, and let me follow my dear friends that have died in Christ before; and when my friends are weeping over my grave, let my spirit be reposed with thee in rest, and when my corpse shall lie there rotting in the dark, let my soul be in the inheritance of the saints in light. And O thou that numberest the very hairs of my head, do thou number all the days that my body lies in the dust: and thou that writest all my members in thy book, do thou keep an account of all my scattered bones. And hasten, O my Saviour, the time of thy return; send forth thine angels, and let that dreadful, joyful trumpet sound: delay not, lest the living give up their hopes: delay not, lest earth should grow like hell, and lest thy church by division be crumbled all to dust, and dissolved by being resolved into individual units: delay not, lest thine enemies get advantage of thy flock, and lest pride, and hypocrisy, and sensuality, and unbelief, should prevail against thy little remnant, and share among them thy whole inheritance, and when thou comest thou find not faith on the earth: delay not, lest the grave should boast of victory; and having learned rebellion of its guest, should plead prescription, and refuse to deliver thee up thy due. O hasten that great resurrection-day! when thy command shall go forth, and none shall disobey; when the sea and earth shall yield up their hostages, and all that sleep in the grave shall awake, and the dead in Christ shall first arise; when the seed that thou sowest corruptible, shall come forth incorruptible; and graves that received but rottenness, and retained but dust, shall return thee glorious stars and suns: therefore dare I lay down my carcass in the dust, entrusting it, not to a grave but to thee, and therefore my flesh shall rest in hope, till thou raise it to the possession of the everlasting rest. Return, O Lord; how long? O let thy kingdom come! Thy desolate bride saith, Come; for thy Spirit within her saith, Come, who teacheth her thus to pray with groanings after thee which cannot be expressed: the whole creation saith,

Come, waiting to be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the sons of God: thyself hath said, Surely I come; Amen. Even so come, Lord Jesus.

THE CONCLUSION

THUS, reader, I have given thee my best advice for the attaining and maintaining a heavenly conversation. The manner is imperfect, and too much mine own, but, for the main matter, I dare say I received it from God. From him I deliver it to thee, and his charge I lay upon thee that thou entertain and practise it. If thou canst not do it methodically and fully, yet do it as thou canst; only, be sure thou do it seriously and frequently. If thou wilt believe a man that hath made some small trial of it, thou shalt find it will make thee another man, and elevate thy soul, and clear thine understanding, and polish thy conversation, and leave a pleasant savour upon thy heart; so that thy own experience will make thee confess that one hour thus spent will more effectually revive thee than many in bare external duties; and a day in these contemplations will afford thee truer content than all the glory and riches of the earth. Be acquainted with this work, and thou wilt be, in some remote sort, acquainted with God. Thy joys will be spiritual, and prevalent, and lasting, according to the nature of their blessed object; thou wilt have comfort in life, and comfort in death. When thou hast neither wealth nor health nor the pleasures of this world, yet wilt thou have comfort. Comfort, without the presence or help of any friend, without a minister, without a book; when all means are denied thee, or taken from thee, yet mayest thou have vigorous, real comfort. Thy graces will be mighty, and active, and victorious, and the daily joy which is thus fetched from heaven, will be thy strength. Thou wilt be as one that standeth on the top of an exceeding high mountain; he looks down upon the world as if it were

quite below him.b How small do the fields, and woods, and countries, seem to him? cities and towns seem but little spots. Thus despicably wilt thou look on all things here below. The greatest princes will seem below thee but as grasshoppers, and the busy, contentious, covetous world, but as a heap of ants. Men's threatenings will be no terror to thee, nor the honours of this world any strong enticement. Temptations will be more harmless, as having lost their strength, and afflictions less grievous, as having lost their sting; and every mercy will be better known and relished.

Reader, it is under God in thine own choice now, whether thou wilt live this blessed life or not, and whether all this pains which I have taken for thee, shall prosper or be lost. If it be lost through thy laziness, which God forbid, be it known to thee thou wilt prove the greatest loser thyself. If thou value not this heavenly, angelical life, how canst thou say that thou valuest heaven? And if thou value it not, no wonder if thou be shut out. The power of godliness lieth in the actings of the soul; take heed that thou stick not in the vain, deluding form. O man, what hast thou to mind but God and heaven!

Art thou not almost out of this world already? Dost thou not look every day, when one disease or other will let out thy soul? Doth not the bier stand ready to carry thee to the grave; and the worms wait to feed upon thy face and heart? What, if thy pulse must beat a few strokes more; and what, if thou have a few more breaths to fetch before thou breathe out thy last; and what, if thou have a few more nights to sleep before thou sleep in the dust? Alas! what will this be when it is gone; and is it not almost gone already? Verily, shortly thou wilt see thy glass run out, and say to thyself, 'My life is done; my time is gone; it is past recalling; there is nothing now but heaven or hell before me. Oh, where then should thy heart be now but in heaven!' Didst thou but know what a dreadful thing it is to have a strange and doubtful thought of heaven when a man lies a dying, it would surely rouse thee up. And what other thoughts, but strange, can that man have, that never thought seriously of heaven till then?

Every man's first thoughts are strange about all things; familiarity and acquaintance comes not in a moment, but is the consequent of

custom, and frequent converse: and strangeness naturally raiseth dread, as familiarity doth delight. What else makes a fish or a wild beast flee from a man, when domestic creatures take pleasure in his company? So wilt thou flee from God, if thou knowest how, who should be thy only happiness, if thou do not get this strangeness removed in thy lifetime. And is it not pity that a child should be so strange to his own father, as to fear nothing more than to go into his presence; and to think himself best when he is furthest from him; and to flee from his face as a wild creature will do from the face of a man? Alas! how little do many godly ones differ from the world, either in their comforts or willingness to die! and all because they live so strange to the place and fountain of their comforts. Besides a little verbal or other outside duties, or talking of controversies and doctrines of religion, or forbearing the practice of many sins, how little do the most of the religious differ from other men, when God hath prepared so vast a difference hereafter! if a word of heaven fall in now and then in their conference, alas! how slightly is it, and customary, and heartless! And if their prayers or preaching have heavenly expressions, they usually are fetched from their mere invention, or memory, or books, and not from the experience or feeling of their hearts. O what a life might men live if they were but willing and diligent! God would have our joys to be far more than our sorrows, yea, he would have us to have no sorrow but what tendeth to joy, and no more than our sins have made necessary for our good.

How much do those Christians wrong God and themselves, that either make their thoughts of God the inlet of their sorrows, or let these offered joys lie by, as neglected or forgotten! Some there be that say it is not worth so much time and trouble, to think of the greatness of the joys above; so we can make sure they are ours, we know they are great. But as these men obey not the command of God, which requireth them to have their conversation in heaven, and to set their affections on things above, so do they wilfully make their own lives miserable, by refusing the delights that God hath set before them. And yet, if this were all, it were a smaller matter; if it were but loss of their comforts, I would not say so much, but see what

abundance of other mischiefs do follow the absence of these heavenly delights.

First, It will damp, if not destroy, our very love to God: so deeply as we apprehend his bounty and exceeding love to us, and his purpose to make us eternally happy, so much will it raise our love: love to God, and delight in him, are still conjunct. They that conceive of God as one that desireth their blood and damnation, cannot heartily love him.

Secondly, It will make us have seldom and unpleasing thoughts of God, for our thoughts will follow our love and delight. Did we more delight in God than in any thing below, our thoughts would as freely run after him, as now they run from him.

Thirdly, And it will make men to have as seldom and unpleasing speech of God; for who will care for talking of that which he hath no delight in? What makes men still talking of worldliness, or wickedness, but that these are more pleasant to them than God?

Fourthly, It will make men have no delight in the service of God, when they have no delight in God, nor any sweet thoughts of heaven, which is the end of their services. No wonder if such Christians complain that they are still backward to duty; that they have no delight in prayer, in sacraments, or in Scripture itself. If thou couldst once delight in God, thou wouldst easily delight in duty, especially that which bringeth thee into the nearest converse with him. But, till then, no wonder if thou be weary of all, further than some external excellency may give thee a carnal delight. Doth not this cause many

Christians to go on so heavily in secret duties? Like the ox in the furrow, that will go no longer than he is driven, and is glad when he is unyoked.

Fifthly, Yea, it much endangereth the perverting of men's judgments, concerning the ways of God, and means of grace, when they have no delight in God and heaven. Though it be said, "perit omne judicium

cum res transit in affectum," "that judgment perisheth when things pass into affection;" yet, that is but when affection leadeth the judgment, and not when it followeth. Affection holdeth its object faster than bare judgment doth. The soul will not much care for that truth which is not accompanied with suitable goodness; and it will more easily be drawn to believe that to be false which it doth not delightfully apprehend to be good; which doubtless is no small cause of the ungodly's prejudice against the ways of God, and of many formal men's dislike of extemporate prayers, and of a strict observation of the Lord's-day. Had they a true delight in God and heavenly things, it would rectify their judgments better than all the arguments in the world. Lose this delight once, and you will begin to quarrel with the ordinances and ways of God, and to be more offended at the preacher's imperfections than profited by the doctrine.

Sixthly, And it is the want of these heavenly delights in God that makes men so entertain the delights of the flesh. This is the cause of most men's voluptuousness and flesh-pleasing. The soul will not rest without some kind of delights. If it had nothing to delight in, either in hand or in hope, it would be in a kind of hell on earth, vexing itself with continual sorrow and despair. If a dog have lost his master, he will follow somebody else. Men must have their sweet cups, or delicious fare, or gay apparel, or cards, or dice, or fleshly lusts, to make up their want of delight in God. How well these will serve instead of God, our wanton youths will be better able to tell me, when we meet at judgment. If men were acquainted with this heavenly life, there would need no laws against sabbath-breaking and riotousness; nor would men need to go for mirth to an alehouse or a tavern: they would have a far sweeter pastime and recreation nearer hand.

Seventhly, also, This want of heavenly delights will leave men under the power of every affliction; they will have nothing to comfort them, and ease them in their sufferings, but the empty, ineffectual pleasure of the flesh; and when that is gone, where then is their delight?

Eighthly, Also it will make men fearful, and unwilling to die: for who would go to a God or a place that he hath no delight in? or who would leave his pleasure here, except it were to go to a better? Oh, if the people of God would learn once this heavenly life, and take up their delight in God whilst they live, they would not tremble and be disconsolate at the tidings of death.

Ninthly, Yea, this want of heavenly delight doth lay men open to the power of every temptation. A little thing will tice a man from that which he hath no pleasure in.

Tenthly, Yea, it is a dangerous preparative to total apostacy. A man will hardly long hold on in a way that he hath no delight in, nor use the means, if he have no delight in the end; but as a beast, if you drive him in a way that he would not go, will be turning out at every gap. If you be religious in your actions, and be come over to God in your outward conversation, and not in your delight, you will shortly be gone if your trial be strong. How many young people have we known, who by good education, or the persuasion of friends, or for fear of hell, have been awhile kept up among prayers, and sermons, and good company, as a bird in a cage, when, if they durst, they had rather have been in an alehouse, or at their sports, and at last they have broken loose, when their restraint was taken off, and have forsaken the way that they never took pleasure in? You see then, that it is not a matter of indifferency, whether you entertain these heavenly delights or not; nor is the loss of your present comfort all the inconvenience that follows the neglect.

And now, Christian friends, I have here lined you out a heavenly, precious work: would you but do it, it would make you mend indeed.

To delight in God is the work of angels, and the contrary is the work of devils. If God would persuade you now to make conscience of this duty, and help you in it by the blessed influence of his Spirit, you would not change your lives with the greatest prince on earth. But I am afraid, if I may judge of your hearts by the backwardness of my own, that it will prove a hard thing to persuade yon to the work, and

that much of this my labour will be lost. Pardon my jealousy; it is raised upon too many and sad experiments. What say you? Do you resolve on this heavenly course or no? Will you let go all your sinful, fleshly pleasures, and daily seek after these higher delights? I pray thee, reader, here shut the book, and consider of it; and resolve on the duty before thou go further. Let thy family perceive, let thy neighbours perceive, let thy conscience perceive, yea, let God perceive it, that thou art a man that hast thy daily conversation in heaven. God hath now offered to be thy daily delight. Thy neglect is thy refusal. What, refuse delight; and such a delight! If I had propounded you only a course of melancholy, and fear, and sorrow, you might better have demurred on it. Take heed what thou dost: refuse this, and refuse all. Thou must have heavenly delights, or none that are lasting. God is willing that thou shouldst daily walk with him, and fetch in consolation from the everlasting fountain. If thou be unwilling, even bear thy loss; and one of these days, when thou liest dying, then seek for comfort where thou canst get it, and make what shift for contentment thou canst. Then see whether thy fleshly delights will stick to thee, or give thee the slip; and then conscience, in despite of thee, shall make thee remember, that thou wast once persuaded to a way for more excellent pleasures, that would have followed thee through death and have lasted thee to everlasting.

What man will go in rags, that may be clothed with the best; or feed on pulse, that may feed of the best; or accompany with the vilest, that may be a companion to the best, and admitted into the presence and favour of the greatest? And shall we delight so much in our clothing of the flesh, and feed so much on the vain pleasures of earth, and accompany so much with sin and sinners, when heaven is set open, as it were, to our daily view, and God doth offer us daily admittance into his presence! O how is the unseen God neglected, and the unseen glory forgotten, and made light of! And all because they are unseen, and for want of that faith which is the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things that are not seen. (Heb. 11:1.)

But for you, sincere believers, whose hearts God hath weaned from all things here below, I hope you will value his heavenly life, and

fetch one walk daily in the New Jerusalem. I know God is your love, and your desire; and I know you would fain be more acquainted with your Saviour; and I know it is your grief that your hearts are not more near him; and that they do no more freely and passionately love him, and delight in him. As ever you would have all this mended, and enjoy your desires, O try this life of meditation on your everlasting rest! Here is the Mount Ararat, where the fluctuated ark of your souls must rest. Oh! let the world see, by your heavenly lives, that religion lieth in something more than opinions and disputes, and a task of outward duties; let men see in you, what a life they must aim at. If ever a Christian be like himself, and answerable to his principles and profession, it is when he is most serious and lively in this duty: when as Moses, before he died, went up into Mount Nebo, to take a survey of the land of Canaan; so the Christian doth ascend this mount of contemplation, and take a survey, by faith, of his rest.

He looks upon the glorious, delectable mansions, and saith, "Glorious things are" deservedly "of spoken thee, O thou city of God."

He heareth, as it were, the melody of the heavenly choir, and beholdeth the excellent employment of those spirits, and saith,

"Blessed are the people that are in such a ease; yea, blessed are they that have the Lord for their God." He next looketh to the glorified inhabitants of that region, and saith, "Happy art thou, O the Israel of God, a people saved by the Lord, the shield of thy strength, the sword of thine excellency." When he looketh upon the Lord himself, who is their glory, he is ready with the rest to fall down and worship him that liveth for ever, and say, "Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty, which was, and is, and is to come: thou art worthy, O Lord, to receive glory, and honour, and power." When he looks on the glorified

Saviour of the saints, he is ready to say Amen to that new song, "Blessing, honour, glory, and power, be to him that sitteth on the throne and to the Lamb for ever and ever; for he hath redeemed us out of every nation by his blood, and made us kings and priests to God." When he looketh back on the wilderness of this world, he blesseth the believing, patient, despised saints; he pitieth the ignorant, obstinate, miserable world; and for himself, he saith, as

Peter, "It is good to be here;" or, as David, "It is good for me to draw near to God:" for all those that are far from him shall perish.

Thus, as Daniel in his captivity did three times a day open his window toward Jerusalem, though far out of sight, when he went to God in his devotions; so may the believing soul, in this captivity to the flesh, look towards Jerusalem which is above: and as Paul was to the Colossians, so may he be, with the glorified spirits, absent in the flesh, but present in spirit, joining in beholding their heavenly order.

(Col. 2:5.) And as divine Bucholeer, in his last sermon before his death, did so sweetly descant upon those comfortable words,

"Whosoever believeth in him shall not perish, but have everlasting life," (John 3:16,) that he raised and ravished the hearts of his otherwise sad hearers; so may the meditating believer do, through the Spirit's assistance, by his own heart. And as the pretty lark doth sing most sweetly, and never ceaseth her pleasant ditty while she hovereth aloft, as if she were there gazing into the glory of the sun, but is suddenly silenced when she falleth to the earth; so is the frame of the soul most delectable and divine while it keepeth in the views of God by contemplation: but, alas! we make there too short a stay, but down again we fall, and lay by our music.

But, O Thou, the merciful Father of spirits, the attractive of love, and ocean of delights, draw up these drossy hearts unto thyself, and keep them there till they are spiritualised and refined, and second these thy servant's weak endeavours, and persuade those that read these lines to the practice of this delightful, heavenly work. And, O suffer not the soul of thy most unworthy servant to be a stranger to those joys which he unfoldeth to thy people, or to be seldom in that way which he hath lined out here to others; but O keep me while I tarry on this earth, in daily serious breathings after thee, and in a believing, affectionate walking with thee: and when thou comest, O let me be found so doing, not hiding my talent, nor serving my flesh, nor yet asleep with my lamp unfurnished, but waiting and longing for my Lord's return: that those who shall read these heavenly directions, may not reap only the fruit of my studies, and the product

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