To His Honoured and Dear Brother, Alexander Gordon of Knockgray — Letter 28

Dearest and truly honored brother.

Grace, mercy, and peace be to you. I have seen no letter from you since I came to Aberdeen; I will not interpret it to be forgetfulness. I am here in a fair prison; Christ is my sweet and honorable fellow-prisoner, and I his sad and joyful Lord's prisoner (if I may speak so). I think this cross becomes me well and is suitable to me in respect of my duty to suffer for Christ, however not in regard of my deserving to be thus honored. However it be, I see Christ is strong, even lying in the dust, in prison, and in banishment. Losses and disgraces are the wheels of Christ's triumphing chariot. In the sufferings of his own saints, as he intends their good, so he intends his own glory, and that is the target his arrows shoot at. And Christ shoots not at the turrets; he hits what he purposes to hit. Therefore he does make his own feckless and weak nothings, and those who are the contempt of men, a new sharp threshing instrument having teeth, to thresh the mountains and beat them small, and to make the hills as chaff and to fan them (Isaiah 51:15-16). What harder stuff or harder grain for threshing out than high and rocky mountains? But the saints are God's threshing instruments to beat them all in chaff. Are we not God's earthen vessels, and yet when they cast us over a house, we are not broken in shards? We creep in under our Lord's wings in the great shower, and the water cannot go through those wings. It is folly then for men to say this is not Christ's plea; he will lose the pledge; men are like to beguile him. That were indeed a strange play. Indeed, I dare pledge my soul and lay it in pawn on Christ's side of it, and be half-loser half-winner with my master. Let fools laugh the fool's laughter and scorn Christ, and bid the weeping captives in Babylon, 'sing us one of the songs of Zion, play a tune to cheer up your sad-hearted God.' We may sing on beforehand, even in our winter-storm, in the expectation of a summer-sun at the turn of the year. No created powers in hell or out of hell can mar our Lord Jesus's music nor spoil our song of joy. Let us then be glad and rejoice in the salvation of our Lord, for faith had never yet cause to have wet cheeks and hanging-down brows, or to droop or die. What can ail faith, seeing Christ suffers himself (with reverence to him be it spoken) to be commanded by it, and Christ commands all things? Faith may dance because Christ sings, and we may come into the choir and lift our hoarse and rough voices and chirp and sing and shout for joy with our Lord Jesus. We see oxen go to the shambles leaping and startling. We see God's fed oxen prepared for the day of slaughter, go dancing and singing down to the black chambers of hell. And why should we go to heaven weeping, as if we were like to fall down through the earth for sorrow? If God were dead (if I may speak so, with reverence of him who lives forever and ever) and Christ buried and rotten among the worms, we might have cause to look like dead people. But the Lord lives, and blessed be the rock of our salvation (Psalm 18:46). None have right to joy but we, for joy is sown for us, and an ill summer or harvest will not spoil the crop. The children of this world have much robbed joy that is not rightly come. It is no good sport they laugh at; they steal joy, as it were, from God, for he commands them to mourn and howl. Then let us claim our welcome and lawfully conquered joy. My dear brother, I cannot but speak what I have felt, seeing my Lord Jesus has broken a box of spikenard upon the head of his poor prisoner, and it is hard to hide a sweet smell. It is pain to smother Christ's love; it will be out, whether we will or not. If we did but speak according to the matter, a cross for Christ should have another name. Indeed, a cross, especially when he comes with his arms full of joys, is the happiest hard tree that ever was laid upon my weak shoulders. Christ and his cross together are sweet company and a blessed couple. My prison is my palace; my sorrow is with child of joy; my losses are rich losses; my pain easy pain; my heavy days are holy and happy days. I may tell a new tale of Christ to my friend. Oh if I could make a love-song of him, and could commend Christ and tune his praises aright! O if I could set all tongues in Great Britain and Ireland to work, to help me to sing a new song of my well-beloved! O if I could be a bridge over a water for my Lord Jesus to walk upon and keep his feet dry! O if my poor little heaven could go between my Lord and blasphemy and dishonor (upon condition he loved me)! O that my heart could say this word and abide by it forever. Is it not great art and incomparable wisdom in my Lord, who can bring forth such fair apples out of this crabbed tree of the cross! In fact, my fathers never-enough-admired providence can make a fair feast out of a black devil; nothing can come wrong to my Lord in his sweet working. I would even fall sound asleep in Christ's arms, with my sinful head on his holy breast, while he kisses me, were it not that often the wind turns to the north, and my sweet Lord Jesus is such that he will neither give nor take, borrow nor lend with me. I complain he is not sociable; I half call him proud and lordly of his company and fastidious of his looks, which yet is not true. It would content me to give, however he should not take; I should be content to want his kisses at such times, providing he would be content to come near at hand and take my flat, dry, and feckless kisses. But at that time he will not be entreated, but lets a poor soul stand still and knock, and never let on that he hears. And then the old leavings and broken meat and dry sighs are greater cheer than I can tell. All I have then is that, however the law and wrath have gotten a decree against me, I yet trust such great good in Christ as to get a suspension, and to bring my cause in reasoning again before my well-beloved. I desire but to be heard. And at last he is content to come and agree the matter with a fool, and forgive freely, because he is God. Oh if men would glorify him and taste of Christ's sweetness. Brother, you have need to be busy with Christ for this unfaithful church. I fear Christ cast water upon Scotland's coal. Indeed, I know Christ and his wife will be heard; he will plead for the broken covenant. Arm yourself against that time. Grace be with you.

Aberdeen, June 16, 1637. Yours in his sweet Lord Jesus, S. R.