04.03. Meditations 61 to 90 contd
Meditation LXXXIV. ON PRISONERS.
Under sail, August 30, 1759.
One consequence of war, is that prisoners are taken. By the laws of civilized nations, they are treated with sympathy and tenderness, as becomes fellow-creatures; yet their best situation has always something in it disagreeable, and (by the cruelty of those who forget the golden rule, to deal with others, in every situation, as they themselves would choose to be dealt with if in the same condition) something almost intolerable. For, 1. Though they are fed, yet their allowance is not the same as the king’s servants.
2. They have not the privileges of the ship’s crew as to bedding—but are crowded together in an uncomfortable confinement.
3. No confidence can be put in them; hence, though we should chance to engage an enemy, as they could not be trusted to fight, so they would not share in the honor or advantage of the victory.
4. Though in the daytime they sometimes mingle with the ship’s company, and partake of their liberty, yet they have always the badge of bondage, being attended by sentries, and at night are separated and put under double guards, and so remain until the ensuing morning. This is the fate of many in war; but, alas! a worse fate attends the rational world, where all are prisoners, and bound with the fetters of sin—except for those who have been pardoned by Jesus. And though the wicked enjoy liberties and riches in common with others, yes, more than others, yet "the little that a righteous man has, is better than the wealth of many wicked;" for if a little where love is, is better than an house full of sacrifices with strife; surely a very little, with the love of God—is better than great riches with his curse.
Now saints and sinners meet and mingle in the same assemblies, join in the same societies, and share the same privileges; yet the one always drags the heavy chain about with him, is a slave to every lust, the servant of sin, the captive of the mighty enemy, and the prey of the terrible destroyer. But the Christian; being delivered from these, walks in the glorious liberty of the sons of God. While sinners feed on swinish husks, and break their teeth with gravel; the saints are allowed to feast on heavenly manna, and to drink of the water of life. The unconverted lie down among thorny cares, disquiet, terror, and remorse; but the Christian has a sweet recumbency on the love of God, takes his rest in the promise, and finds it a couch which can ease his pain, and remove his complaint.
Again, as these prisoners are separated and classed together at night, so, at the night of death, the wicked mingle no more with the righteous. For while the souls of saints soar aloft to everlasting day, and their bodies rest in the peaceful grave until the joyful resurrection; the spirits of sinners are shut up in the prison of hell, and their bodies in beds of corruption until the general judgment. A little time brings about the freedom of our captives, they are set at liberty in a few months perhaps, and at the longest, when the war comes to an end; but should the war continue as long as they live, yet death shall deliver them from the power of every mortal, and translate them into the eternal world! But those who are risen up in rebellion against God—he shall shut up in hell, and pour forth his vengeance on them for evermore. Finally, we may see the depravity of the world in the conduct of our friends, who would condole more our being taken prisoner by an enemy, and losing all we had—than they bewail our natural, our unrenewed state—our loss of the image of God, of heaven, and of glory.
Meditation LXXXV.
Near Guernsey, June 3, 1758.
O astonishing comparison of an ineffable excess of anguish! "Deep calls to deep in the roar of Your waterfalls," that both may meet together, to heighten the flow of my misery to the last extremity. Now, from the tossing of this restless ocean, I may somewhat learn the force of the metaphor. Here, then, many waves, many billows dash upon us; nor do a thousand preceding waves, or ten thousand foaming billows that have spent their fury on us, stir up pity in the raging flood that forms itself into dreadful billows to fall on us afresh, and that in all quarters; not like the regular course of a rapid torrent—but like the random surges of an unruly ocean. The sea-sick passengers aboard find no compassion—but reel and stagger if they attempt to walk; and if they sit, are thrown from side to side; nay, though we were hanging for life upon the very wreck, the briny deep would cover us in its cold bosom, or, dashing us from wave to wave, would spew us on the shore.
Now, if nothing milder than the ocean, not in halcyon days—but when wearing all its terrors, when roaring and raging with universal confusion, when covered with ten thousand wrestling waves all eager to destroy, urged on by following billows, and raised by the ruffling tempest from the foaming deep, could describe the condition of the psalmist, who was a godly man, a favorite of heaven, in the day of God’s withdrawing and hiding himself, though but for a moment; what shall set out the eternal anguish of those from whom he is gone forever? What billows of eternal wrath, what surges of divine indignation, shall overflow them for evermore? There, in that state, their misery is without mercy, their sea has no shore, and their ocean no bound. Hence I see, that if God is pleased to shine on the soul, all crosses are sweetened, all afflictions lightened, and the man made greatly to rejoice. On the other hand, if God hides himself, even blessings wear a gloom, and everything lowers, until he arises again with healing in his wings.
Meditation LXXXVI.
Two days ago, sharp pains perplexed me, and made me turn and toss from side to side, seeking what I could not find—ease to my weary body. The indisposition filled me with disquietude, scattered each composed thought, and fixed an acute sense of pain. Indeed I soon got the better of it—but may I thereby be instructed of the fierceness of the torment of the damned. Let them who have cancer, gout, stone, or any other grievous illness—think what torment must be, and thereby study to escape, while there is left a way to escape. Or to prize their deliverance (if delivered) from so great a death as the second death is—where all is torment in the highest degree; where the bed is burning brimstone; where the chains and fetters are of fire and flame; where their view is the blackness of darkness forever; where their companions are devils and damned spirits; and where every sense is on the very rack, and nothing free of torment. The most acute agonies which we feel in this present world, would be a kind of pleasure and delight—in comparison of the torments of hell!
What shall people, laboring under excruciating diseases then think, if death, which must end their present disease—shall land them in hell? O then, be wise in time! Mind the concerns of an unseen eternal world—for who knows the power of his wrath? And if I can scarcely now endure a little pang in one part—how shall I suffer torment in a every part and power, in every sense and faculty, through the whole soul and whole body—and that ages without end?
Meditation LXXXVII.
Off the Coast of France, June 8, 1758. The place I dwell in being secluded from the solar ray, is lighted by a glimmering candle; and when that is extinguished, total darkness prevails at once. This puts me in mind of the more mournful situation of the natural man, the unrenewed soul, that stumbles in darkness, and walks in the midnight gloom. While the saints walk in the rays of the Sun of righteousness, and rejoice in the light of his countenance, poor sinners dwell in the region and shadow of death. Let them boast of the glimmering light of reason; it can no more direct them about the affairs of their souls, the interests of eternity, than we can survey the midnight stars by the light of a candle. But faith beholds spiritual things, and takes steady views of eternal excellencies. With what reluctance do we remember the wicked, who "caused their terror in the land of the living!" and how does their memory stench when dead, like the snuff of that extinguished candle! And as there is no light, no spiritual illumination in them, so at death they are driven from the light of life, the light of hope, and the light of the gospel, into the darkness of utter despair, and into the eternal storm and tempest of God’s devouring wrath. This the last—but lamentable end of the wicked!
While the righteous, on the other hand, like the morning-sun, concealed by the disking clouds of worldly baseness and contempt, shine more and more unto the perfect day, grow from grace to grace, until, fixed in the skies of glory, they shine celestial suns. Let my light be spiritual; my happiness that which is hereafter; and my glory that which shall be revealed.
Meditation LXXXVIII.
1. Nothing here is for the soul, all is for the body.
2. All these things must be torn from the possessor in the hour of death, and cannot attend him to another world. But Christ satisfies all desires, replenishes the whole soul, makes happy in time, and happy to eternity, and is a portion every way commensurate to the unbounded wishes, and immortal nature of the soul. Why should the saints less rejoice than these men who divide the spoil, when in a little while, the King himself in person shall distribute crowns and thrones, kingdoms and dominions—to every saint above? This earthly spoil, if it enriches the conquerors, impoverishes the conquered, and perhaps has cost many of them their lives. But Christ may, in all his offices, relations, fullness, and glory, be the entire possession of every particular child of adoption, without diminution or injury to any of their happy fellow-heirs.
Some who engaged the enemy fell down slain, and are now where a whole world of these trifles, which afford survivors so much joy, would not be accounted worthy of a wish or a passing glance. Henceforth, let me rejoice at your word as one who finds great treasures, and esteem the word of your mouth better than thousands of gold and silver. I shall never be robbed of the heavenly treasure, which scatters my fears, dispels my despondencies, enriches my eternity, and ravishes my whole soul!
Meditation LXXXIX. A DAILY CATECHISM FOR SEAMEN.
March 25, 1758.
1. How do I like the company of the wicked, and the converse of ungodly men?
2. Is their swearing as disagreeable to me as when I came first aboard; or am I more reconciled to their blasphemous talk?
3. Is my abhorrence of sin the greater, the more I see of sin? As man’s fears increase with the increase of his foes, so should my hatred of sin with the increase of my danger.
4. The more that I am beset with snares and sin, am I the more watchful against sins and snares?
5. Have I forgotten to look into myself in the midst of this hurry and confusion? Reflection is a duty which no situation can loose me from.
6. Does the reaction of sin reiterate my grief and abhorrence of it? Or, like a lion’s keeper—do I venture to sport with the destroyer, from which at first I started?
7. Do I resist the first appearance of sin? For sin, as well as strife, is like the letting out of waters, which at first appears a little spout—but as it passes along pushes on every side, until it spreads into an impetuous torrent, which nothing can resist, and therefore should be left off, and never meddled with.
8. Does the impiety of the company, or any other hindrance, prevent the performance of secret prayer, on reading the scriptures, as formerly?
9. Is the Sabbath still strictly observed by me, by my keeping not only from bad actions; but idle words and vain thoughts?
10. Am I careful to purge myself from all the sins which I have heard through the day, by reflecting on their vileness, protesting against them in my own bosom, dipping by faith in the blood of sprinkling; and praying that I may be pardoned for what I have been guilty in a greater or less degree?
11. Am I studious to draw the more near to God, the more that all things would drive me from God? and to beg of him, that according to my days and demands for aid, so my strength from him may be?
12. Am I ready to drop a word against vice, or in favor of true religion, without regarding ridicule, not knowing where a blessing may come; or that at least they may know that there has been, if not a prophet, yet a reprover among them?
Meditation XC.
Lying off the French Coast, June 8, 1758. At all times, men ought to examine their state, and fitness for going into the changeless eternal world; more especially when old age has overtaken us, or the pestilence is in our borders; or when called into the field of battle, or into the dangers of the roaring ocean. Now, as we may be surprised at any time by some event—we should be prepared at all times for every event. And, as one of these situations is at present mine, it is my duty to propose some interesting questions, to examine myself thereby.
1. Am I content with salvation from Christ on his terms—that he be my complete Savior, and that I be nothing at all?
2. If I believe, is my faith dead? Or is it a living faith, working by love, and bringing forth the fruits of righteousness?
3. Do I love God? "He who loves not, knows not God, for God is love." Love to God and man is the fulfilling of the whole law.
4. Do I love the saints, and esteem the poor but pious ones, more than all the pompous sons of vice? "Everyone who loves the Father loves his children, too."
5. Is it my desire, that in all things God may be glorified—though it were to my dishonor and loss?
6. Do I choose rather to be the proverb and reproach of all the ungodly among whom I dwell—than to speek one word against true religion?
7. Do I hate sin in its profits and pleasures in myself and others, because God hates it, and it ruins souls?
8. Do I rejoice more in hope of the glory of God, than in view of possessing all that the world can afford?
9. Is the exercise of pious duties the secret delight of my soul?
10. Do I faithfully strive against all sin, and count the victory over one lust a greater conquest than the taking a city?
11. Am I entirely resigned to the will of God in all things, being not only contented—but comforted with his disposal, though sometimes not what I would wish?
12. Is death often in my mind, judgment and eternity in my Meditation? Am I always studying to be mortified to sin, and crucified to the world, that I may live to Christ?
13. Is the word of God the light, life, comfort, food, and inheritance of my soul—into which I daily seek and search?
14. Is sin growing more and more my burden? Are my struggles after perfection more vigorous than before, and more constant?
15. Am I, through grace, ever searching my ways, examining my actions, looking into my heart, and watching over myself?
16. Is the desire of my life mostly to serve God, and not to enjoy the pleasures of sense—but to be useful even in the matters of true religion?
17. Is communion with God the delight of my soul? Have I more joy in the fore-thoughts of that fruition which the saints expect, than in all the world’s present vanities?
18. Have I daily recourse to the fountain of purification to be washed from my filth, and to be accepted in the Beloved?
19. Do I remember Zion in her affliction, Jerusalem in her calamity, being filled with a zeal for the glory of God?
20. Dare I venture my eternal welfare on his gracious word of promise, that whoever believes in him shall be saved; and that no sin shall condemn the soul which casts itself on Christ?
21. Do I believe that the love of God is unchangeable, that his gifts and callings are irrevocable, and that at all times he is at hand, and that he will not desert his own people in their last moments?
If I could return an affirmative to each of these queries it would show me to be in a happy state, at peace with God, and in some measure prepared for the other world. So that I might go with undaunted courage to the day of battle, and fearless tread the field of blood—leaning on Christ alone!