_To Mr. S――――._
_London, December 13, 1753._
_My dear Friend_,
THE mail not coming in till to-day, I began to fear lest something had
happened to prevent your writing. But, blessed be GOD, my fears are
dispelled, my friend is well, his temporals, his spirituals prosper:
herein I rejoice, yea and will rejoice. But what news do you tell me?
Hath an infinitely condescending GOD vouchsafed to breathe on my poor
worthless scribble? Hath life and power attended inanimate ink and
paper? This then, my GOD, shall be the language of my heart!
Forgive my faults, and work thy will
By such a worthless instrument;
It will at once thy goodness shew,
And prove thy power omnipotent.
Whatever some may boast of, I know not; but this I can say, that
although, through rich, free, and sovereign grace, I have been enabled
these nineteen years to say unto GOD, “Thou art my father,” yet I can
still say to corruption, “Thou art my sister.” Time and experience
will convince others also of this important truth. GOD keep me,
and all concerned with me, from such manifestations, as do not lead
us more and more into the chambers of imagery, which are latent and
undiscovered in the secret corners of our hearts! Such only come
from GOD: illuminations which engender pride, and lead us from a deep
and pungent feeling of our own nothingness, and the remainders of
in-dwelling corruption, are either of a diabolical extraction, or at
least are perverted by the devil and proud nature, to feed that disease,
which when operating in a genuine way, they have a native tendency
to remove. Well might Mr. _Fleming_ say, “LORD, grant me a divine
manifestation, but O teach me to manage it after thou hast granted it.”
_Paul_ needed a thorn to teach him how to manage such favours aright.
I tremble for those who hug their delusions, and look upon the dunghill
of corruption as quite removed, when it is only covered over as it were
with a little snow. How white did the most foul places look only a few
days ago! But the thaw is come, the whiteness is vanished, and filthy
dunghills are dunghills still. My dear friend knows how to make the
application. Blessed be GOD for leading you into the knowledge of the
mystery of gospel holiness.――Holiness, not built on _Moses_, or the
sandy bottom of our own faithfulness, but on JESUS, that rock of ages,
whose faithfulness makes us faithful, and a reliance on whole compleat
and all-sufficient righteousness, doings, and sufferings, carries the
believer on (without thinking of a reward) to do and suffer, what a
legal heart will shrink and boggle at. May this mind be in you and me,
and all that love our dear LORD JESUS in sincerity! When the Son of
Man makes them thus free, then will they be free indeed. You may easily
see, that part of your letter hath led me insensibly into this strain
of writing. If it pleases or profits, or both, it will answer the
end designed, and the dear, ever-dear, ever-loving, and ever-lovely
Redeemer shall have all the glory. As our acquaintance was begun in him,
and I trust hath hitherto been blessed, so I would have it continue to
run in the same channel, and, whether absent from or present with each
other, sweetly lead us to our ocean, GOD. I am only sorry you have
such an unprofitable correspondent. Tears are ready to gush out at the
thought, and I am ready to sink into the earth, when I consider how
little I can do for that JESUS, whom I love for himself, or for my
friends, whom I love for his great name’s sake. Friend of sinners,
circle me in thy own compleat and all-sufficient Self! Good night, my
dear Sir, good night. If you guess at my present frame, you will know
at whose cross this leaves me, and how much I am
Yours, &c.
_G. W._