To Mr. Mathew Mowat — Letter 22

Reverend and dear brother, I am a very far mistaken man; if others knew how poor my stock were, they would not think upon the like of me but with compassion, for I am as one kept under a strict tutor. I would have more than my tutor allows upon me, but it is good that a child's wit is not the rule which regulates my Lord Jesus. Let him give what he will; it shall always be above merit and my ability to gain thereby. I would not wish a better stock (while heaven be my stock) than to live upon credit at Christ's hands, daily borrowing. Surely running-over love — that vast, huge, boundless love of Christ (that there is telling in for man and angel) — is the only thing I fainest would be in hands with. He knows I have little but the love of that love, and that I shall be happy, suppose I never get another heaven, but only an eternal lasting feast of that love. But suppose my wishes were poor, he is not poor. Christ all the seasons of the year is dropping sweetness; if I had vessels I might fill them. But my old leaky, cracked, and running-out dish — even when I am at the well — can bring little away. Nothing but glory will make our leaking and rifted vessels tight and fast. Alas, I have spilled more of Christ's grace, love, faith, humility, and godly sorrow than I have brought with me. How little of the sea can a child carry in his hand — as little do I take away of my great sea, my boundless and running-over Christ Jesus. I have not lighted upon the right way of putting Christ to the bank and making myself rich with him. My mismanagement and childish trafficking with that matchless pearl, that heaven's jewel, the jewel of the Father's delights, has put me to a great loss. O that he would take a loan of me and my stock, and put his name in all my bonds, and serve himself as heir to the poor mean portion I have, and be accountable for the talent himself! Gladly would I put Christ in my room to guide all, and let me be but a servant to run errands and do by his direction. Let me be his ward heir; Lord Jesus, work upon my minority and let him win a pupil's blessing. Oh how would I rejoice to have this work of my salvation legally fastened upon Christ! A counter-bond of my Lord Jesus that it should be forthcoming to the orphan should be my happiness. Dependency on Christ were my surest way; if Christ were my foundation I were sure enough. I thought the guiding of grace had been no art; I thought it would come of will. But I would spoil my own heaven yet, if I had not burdened Christ with all. I but lend my bare name to the sweet covenant; Christ behind and before and on either side makes all sure. God will not take an Arminian security — Freewill, a weathercock turning at a serpent's tongue, a tutor that tripped our father Adam on us and brought down the house and sold the land and sent father and mother and all the children through the earth to beg their bread. Nature in the gospel has lost credit. O well to my poor soul forevermore, that my Lord called grace to the council and put Christ Jesus with free merits and the blood of God foremost in the chase, to draw sinners after a ransomer. O what a sweet work it was, by way of buying and selling, to give and pay down a ransom for grace and glory to bankrupts! O would to my Lord I could cause paper and ink speak the worth and excellency, the high and loud praises of a brother-ransomer! O the Ransomer needs not my report, but oh if he would take it and make use of it. I should be happy if I had an errand to this world but for some few years, to spread proclamations and outcries and love-letters of the highness (the highness forevermore), the glory (the glory forevermore) of the Ransomer, whose clothes were wet and dyed in blood. Even if after I had done that, my soul and body should go back to the nothing that their Creator once brought them from as from their beginning. But why should I pine away and pain myself with wishes, and not believe rather that Christ will hire such an outcast as I am — a masterless body, put out of the house by the sons of my mother — and give me employment and a calling, one way or other, to put out Christ and his wares to country buyers, and to propose Christ and press him upon some poor souls that, more than their life, would receive him. You complain heavily of your shortcoming in practice and venturing on suffering for Christ; you have many fellow-sufferers. For the first, I would not put you off sense of wretchedness; hold on. Christ never yet slew a sighing, groaning child; more of that would make you willing and a fit prey for Christ. Alas, I have too little of it! For venturing on suffering: I had not so much free courage, when I came to Christ's camp, as to buy a sword — a wonder that Christ should not laugh at such a soldier. I am no better yet, but faith lives and spends upon our captain's charges, who is able to pay for all; we need not pity him, he is rich enough. You desire me also not to mistake Christ under a mask. I bless you and thank God for it, but alas, masked or bare-faced, kissing or frowning, I mistake him! Indeed, I mistake him furthest when the mask is off, for then I play with his sweetness. I am like a child that has a golden book, that plays more with the ribbons and the gilding and the picture in the first page than reads the contents of it. Certainly if my desires to my well-beloved were fulfilled, I could provoke devils and crosses and the world and temptations to the field. But oh my poor weakness makes me lie behind the bush and hide. Remember my service and my blessing to my lord; I am mindful of him as I am able. Desire him, from a prisoner, to come and visit my good master and feel but the smell of his love. It befits him well, however young he be, to make Christ his garland. I could not wish him in a better case than in a fever of love-sickness for Christ. Remember my bonds; the Lord Jesus be with your spirit.

Aberdeen, 1637. Yours in his sweet Lord Jesus, S. R.