Sin, our worst enemy before, Shall vex our eyes and souls no more; But every power find sweet employ In Christ’s eternal world of joy.
I beg the Lord, the Holy Spirit, to give you supernatural ideas of Christ, so as to endear _him_ to your heart, and make you long to tell of _his name_ and fame; to make you wise; to be as wise as Paul, and as eloquent as Apollos; that you might point forth the Divine excellencies of Jesus to poor sinners. I trust your life will be spared for this purpose, it is the only thing worth living for. Christ is the darling of the Father, and the grand object of the Spirit’s glorification: angels adore _him_, saints admire _him_, and in our poor feeble way, oh that we could love _him_ with every power and passion, with every member and faculty of body, soul and spirit. May this instrument of ten strings sweetly sound _his_ dear fame. The most painful lesson we have to learn, is the evil of our hearts, the malice of the devil, the weakness of our own arm, and our utter impossibility to do any one good thing without Christ: separated from _him_, we can do nothing, no more than a dead branch can grow, that is cut off and thrown aside. The nature, extent, and spirituality of the law, and our condemnation by it, the person, the glory, and work of Christ, as the head of the church, and the Saviour of the body. This is the main subject, and the various displays of the offices of God, the Holy Spirit, as the glorifier of Christ. This subject is the Gospel itself, and the longer I live, the more blessed I see this truth. The Son of man is come to save that which was lost. This is an encouragement to my soul, and the very basis of my hope. Here alone is the way of access to God, to the Throne, and to Heaven. May the Spirit sanctify, and bless you; bear testimony with your spirit, that you are a child of God. This will be spiritual health in bodily sickness; this will light life in death, and gild the gloomy horrors of the tomb, as the celebrated Dr. Young says, and with which I conclude my epistle.
Religion! thou the soul of happiness, And, groaning Calvary, of thee: there shine The noblest truths: there strongest motives sting: There sacred violence assaults the soul; There nothing but compulsion is forborne. Can love allure us? or can terror awe? He weeps!—the falling drop puts out the sun. He sigh!—the sigh earth’s deep foundation shakes. If in _his_ love so terrible, what then _His_ wrath inflam’d? _His_ tenderness on fire? Like soft, smooth oil, out-blazing other fires?