To Mr. Thomas Garven — Letter 56
Reverend and dear brother.
Grace, mercy, and peace be to you. I am sorry that what joy and sorrow drew from my imprisoned pen in my love-fits has made you and many of God's children believe that there is something in a broken reed like me. Except that Christ's grace has purchased such a sold-away body, I know not what else any may think of me or expect from me. My stock is less — my Lord knows I speak truth — than many believe; my empty sounds have promised too much. I would be glad to lie under Christ's feet and keep and receive the off-fallings or the old pieces of any grace that fall from his sweet fingers to forlorn sinners. I lie often in an awkward posture, looking in at the King's windows; surely I am unworthy of a seat on the King's hall floor. I but often look afar off, both awed and shrinking-like, at that fairest face, fearing he may bid me look away from him. My guiltiness rises up upon me and I have no answer for it. I offered my tongue to Christ and my labors in his house, and what do I know what it means when Christ will not receive my poor gift? When love will not take, we interpret it as willing neither to take nor give, borrow nor lend. Yet Christ has another sea-compass he sails by, other than my short and raw thoughts. I leave his part of it to himself. I dare not interpret his dealings as sorrow and unbelief often dictate to me. I look often with bleared and blind eyes to my Lord's cross, and when I look to the wrong side of his cross, I know I miss a step and slip. Surely I see I have no legs of my own for carrying me to heaven; I must go in at heaven's gates borrowing strength from Christ. I am often thinking: oh if he would but give me leave to love him, and if Christ would but open up his wares, and the infinite, infinite folds and windings and corners of his soul-delighting love, and let me see it inside and out, and give me leave but to stand beside it, like a hungry man beside food, to get my fill of wondering as a preface to my fill of enjoying. But truly I think my foul eyes would defile his fair love by looking at it. Either my hunger is too humble — if that may be said — or else I do not consider what honor it is to get leave to love Christ. Oh that he would pity a prisoner and let out a flood upon the dry ground! It is nothing to him to fill the likes of me; one of his looks would do me much good and him no ill. I know I am not yet settled with Christ's love; I am not yet fitted for so much as I would have of it. My hope sits neighbor to great black hunger, and certainly I cannot but think there is more of that love ordained for me than I yet comprehend, and I know not the weight of the pension the King will give me. I shall be glad if my hungry petition may lie beside Christ waiting on an answer. Now I would be full and rejoice if I got a poor man's alms of that sweetest love, but I confidently believe there is a feast made for Christ and me, and that we shall take our fill of love in it. And I often think, when my joy is run out and at the lowest ebb, that I would seek no more but my rights under the King's great seal, and that these eyes of mine could see Christ's hand at the pen. If your Lord calls you to suffering, be not dismayed; there shall be a new allowance from the King for you when you come to it. One of the softest pillows Christ has is laid under the head of his witnesses, though often they must set down their bare feet among thorns. He has brought my poor soul to desire and wish: oh that my ashes and the dust I shall be dissolved into had well-tuned tongues to praise him. Thus in haste, desiring your prayers and praises, I commend you to my sweet, sweet Master, my honorable Lord of whom I hold all. Grace be with you.
Aberdeen, 1637. Yours in his sweet Lord Jesus, S. R.
