Letters in Two Parts, Part 1 · LETTER 87
To ROBERT GORDON of Knockbrex. (87)
My Dear Brother.
GRace, mercy & peace be multiplied upon you: I am almost wearying, yea wondering that ye write not to me; though I know it is not forgetfulness. As for my self, I am every way well, all glory to God: I was before at a plea with Christ, but it was bought by me & unlawfull; because his whose providence was not yea & nay to my yea & nay, & because I beleeved Christ's outward look better then his faithfull promise: Yet he hath in patience waited on, while I'be come to my self, & hath not taken advantage of my weak apprehensions of his goodness: Great & holy is his name: He looketh to what I desire to be, & not to what I am. One thing I have learned, If I had been in Christ by way of adhesion onelyonly, as many branches are, I should have beene burnt to ashes, & this world should have seen a suffering minister of Christ turned (of something once in shew] into unsavoury salt. But my Lord Jesus had a good eye that the tempter should not play foul play, & blow out Christ's candle; he took no thought of my stomacke, & fretting & grudging humour, but of his own grace: when he burnt the house he saved his own goods: And I beleeve, the devil & the persecuting world shall reap no fruit of me, but burnt ashes: for he will see to his own gold, & save that from being consumed with the fire. O what ow I to the file, to the hammer, to the furnace of my Lord Jesus! Who hath now let me see how good the wheat of Christ is, that goeth through his mill & his oven, to be made bread for his own table: Grace tried is better then grace, & it is more then grace, it is glory in it's infancy. I now see, godliness is more then the out-side & this world's passements & their buskings: Who knoweth the truth of grace without a trial? O how little getteth Christ of us, but that which he winneth, [to speak so] with much toil & pains! And how soon would faith frieze without a cross! How many dumb crosses have been laid upon my back, that had never a tongue to speak the sweetness of Christ, as this hath? when Christ blesseth his own crosses with a tongue, they breath out Christ's love, wisdom, kindness & care of us. Why should I start at the plough of my Lord, that maketh deep furrows on my soul? I know he is no idle husbandman, he purposeth a crop. O that this white withered lay-ground were made fertile to bear a crop for him, by whom it is so painfully dressed, & that this fallow ground were broken up! Why was I [a fool] grieved that he put his garland & his rose upon my head, the glory & honour of his faithfull witnesses? I desire now to make no moe pleas with Christ: Verily he hath not put me to a loss by what I suffer, he oweth me nothing; for in my bonds, how sweet & comfortable have the thoughts of him been to me: where in I finde a sufficient recompence of reward! How blinde are my adversaries who sent me to a banquetting house, to a house of wine, to my lovely Lord Jesus his lovefeasts, & not to a prison or place of exile? Why should I smother my husband's honesty, or sin against his love, or be a niggard in giving out to others, what I get for nothing. Brother, eat with me & give thanks: I charge you before God, that ye speak to others, & invite them to help me to praise. Oh my debt of praise, how weighty is it, & how far run up! Oh that others would lend me to pay, & learn me to praise! Oh, I a drowned Dyvour! Lord Jesus, take my thoughts for payment. Yet I am in this hot summer-blenk with the tear in my eye; for, by reason of my silence, sorrow, sorrow hath filled me: My harp is hanged upon the willow trees, because I am in a strange land. I am still kept in exercise with envious brethren: My mother hath born me a man of contention. Write to me your minde anent Y. C. I cannot forget him, I know not what God hath to doe with him: & your minde anent my Parishoners behaviour, & how they are served in preaching, or if there be a Minister as yet thrust in upon them, which I desire greatly to know, & which I much fear. Dear Brother, ye are in my heart, to live & to die with you. Visite me with a letter; Pray for me: Remember my love to your wife. Grace, grace be with you: & God who heareth prayer visite you, & set it be unto you according to the prayers of.
Aberd. Jan. 1. 1367. Your own Brother & Christ's Prisoner. S. R.