To the Much Honoured William Rigge of Athernie — Letter 93

Much honored sir.

Grace, mercy and peace be to you. I received your long-looked-for and short letter; I wish you had spoken more to me, who stand in need. I find Christ, as you write, always the longer the better, and therefore cannot but rejoice in his salvation, who has made my chains my wings and has made me a king over my crosses and over my adversaries. Glory, glory, glory to his high, high and holy name. Not one ounce, not one grain-weight more is laid on me than he has enabled me to bear. And I am not so much wearied to suffer as Zion's haters are to persecute. O if I could find a way in any measure to strive to be even with Christ's love — but I must give over! O who would help a bankrupt to pay praises to the King of saints, who triumphs in his weak servants? I see if Christ but rides upon a worm or a feather, his horse will neither stumble nor fall. The worm Jacob is made by him 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, so that the wind shall carry them away and the whirlwind scatter them (Isaiah 41:14–16). Christ's enemies are but breaking their own heads in pieces upon the rock laid in Zion, and the stone is not removed out of its place. Faith has cause to take courage from our very afflictions; the devil is but a whetstone to sharpen the faith and patience of the saints. I know he does but cut and polish stones all this time for the New Jerusalem. But in all this, three things have much moved me since it has pleased my Lord to turn my moonlight into daylight. First, he has yoked me to work, to wrestle with Christ's love — of longing, with which I am sick, pained, fainting and like to die — because I cannot get himself, which I think a strange sort of desertion. For I do not have himself — whom, if I had, my love-sickness would cool and my fever go away, or at least I would know the heat of the fire of delight, which would cool the scorching heat of the fire of desire — and yet I have no poverty of his love, and so I pine and I die, and he seems not to take pity on me. I take instruments in his hand that I would have him, but I cannot get him, and my best cheer is black hunger; I bless him for that feast. Second, old challenges now and then revive and cast all down; I go halting and sighing, fearing there is an unseen process yet coming out, and heavier than I can answer. I cannot read distinctly my Surety's act of cautionery for me in particular, and my discharge; and sense rather than faith assures me of what I have. So unable am I to go but by a holding. I could — with reverence of my Lord — forgive Christ if he would give me as much faith as I have hunger for him. I hope the pardon is now obtained, but the peace is not so sure to me as I would wish. Yet one thing I know: there is not a way to heaven but the way he has graced me to profess and suffer for. Third, woe, woe is me for the virgin daughter of Scotland and for the fearful desolation and wrath appointed for this land. And yet all are sleeping, eating and drinking, laughing and sporting, as if all were well. O our dim gold, our dumb and blind pastors — the sun is gone down upon them. And our nobles bid Christ send for himself if he be Christ. It were good we should learn in time the way to our stronghold. Sir, though not acquainted, remember my love to your wife. I pray God establish you.

Aberdeen, March 9, 1637. Yours in his sweet Lord Jesus, S. R.