To the Lady Busbie — Letter 54

Mistress.

Although not acquainted, yet because we are the Father's children I thought good to write to you. Though my first discourse and communing with you of Christ be in paper, yet I have cause since I came here to have no mere paper-thoughts of him. For in my sad days he has become the flower of my joys, and I but lie here, living upon his love, but cannot get so much of it as eagerly I would have — not because Christ's love is haughty and looks too high, but because I have a narrow vessel to receive his love and I look too low. But I give under my own handwriting to you a testimonial of Christ and his cross, that they are a sweet couple, and that Christ has never yet been set in his own due chair of honor among us all. Oh, I know not where to set him! Oh, for a high seat for that royal, princely one! Oh that my poor withered soul had once a running-over flood of that love, to put sap in my dry root, and that that flood would spring out to the tongue and pen, to utter great things to the high and due commendation of such a fair one! O holy, holy, holy one! Alas, there are too many dumb tongues in the world, and dry hearts, seeing there is employment in Christ for them all — and ten thousand worlds of men and angels more — to set on high and exalt the greatest Prince of the kings of the earth. Woe is me, that bits of living clay dare come out to butt hard heads with him, and that my unkind mother, this faithless church, has given her sweet spouse such a reception. For this land has given up on Christ, and the Lord is cutting Scotland in two halves and sending the worst half — the harlot-sister — over to Rome's brothel-house, to get her fill of Egypt's love. I would that my sufferings — no, even if I were burned quickly to ashes — might buy an agreement between his fairest and sweetest love and his wayward, lewd wife. Eagerly would I give Christ his welcome-home to Scotland again, if he would return. This is a black day, a day of clouds and darkness, for the ridgepole of my Lord Jesus's fair temple has fallen, and Christ's back is turned toward Scotland. Oh, three times blessed are they who would hold Christ with their tears and prayers! I know you will help to plead with him, for he shall return again to this land. The next day shall be Christ's, and there shall be a fair, green, young garden for Christ in this land, and God's summer dew shall lie on it all the night, and we shall sing again our new marriage song to our Bridegroom concerning his vineyard. But who knows whether we shall live to see it? I hear the Lord has taken pains to afflict and dress you as a fruitful vine for himself. Grow and be green, and cast out your branches and bring forth fruit; fat and green and fruitful may you be in the true and sappy root. Grace, grace, free grace be your portion. Remember my bonds with prayers and praises.

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