Vol 16 - TO ROBERT GORDON, OF KNOCKBREX.

TO ROBERT GORDON, OF KNOCKBREX.
My DEAR BROTHER,
GRACE, mercy, and peace, be multiplied upon you. O what owe I to the file, to the hammer, to the furnace of my Lotto JESUS; who has now let me see how good the wheat of CHRIST is, that go through his mill and his oven, to be made bread for his own table. Grace tried is better than grace, and it is more than grace; it is glory in its infancy. I now see, that Godliness is more than outside. Who knows the truth of grace without a trial O how little getteth CHRIST of us, but that which he winneth with much toil and pain; and how soon would faith freeze without a cross! How many dumb crosses have been laid upon my back, that had never a tongue to speak the sweetness of CHRIST, as this has I When CHRIST blesses his own crosses with a tongue, they breathe out CHRIST'S love, wisdom, kindness, and care of us. Why should I start at the plough of my Low', that maketh deep furrows on my soul I know he is no idle husband-man; he purposed a crop. O that this white, withered, ley-ground were made fertile to bear a crop for him by whom it is painfully dressed; and that this fallow-ground was broken up! Why was I grieved, that he put his gar-land upon my head, the glory and honor of his faithful witnesses Verily, he has not put me to a loss by what I suffer; he oweth me nothing; for, in my bonds, how sweet and comfortable have the thoughts of him been to me, wherein I find a sufficient recompense of reward! How blind are my adversaries, who sent me to a banqueting-house, and not to a prison or place of exile! Why should I smother my husband's honesty, or be a niggard in giving out to others what I get for nothing! Brother, eat with me, and give thanks: I charge you before GOD, that ye speak to others, and invite them to help me to praise. O my debt of praise, how weighty it is, and how far runup! O that others would lend me to pay, and teach me to praise! LORD JESUS, take my thoughts for payment! Yet I am with the tear in my eye; for, by reason of my silence, sorrow has filled me. My harp is hanged upon the willow-trees, because I am in a strange land. I am still kept in exercise with envious brethren: my mother has borne me a man of contention. Grace, grace, be with you: and GOD, who heareth prayer, visit you; and let it be unto you according to the prayers of
Your own brother, and CHRIST's prisoner,
Aberdeen,
S. R. Jan. 1, 1637,