He has a wounded heart and a sad face, yet not so much for fear as for
unkindness. The wrong of his sin troubles him more than the danger. None
but he is the better for his sorrow; neither is any passion more hurtful
to others than this is gainful to him: the more he seeks to hide his
grief, the less it will be hid; every man may read it not only in his
eyes, but in his bones. Whilst he is in charity with all others, he is
so fallen out with himself that none but God can reconcile him. He hath
sued himself in all courts, accuseth, arraigneth, sentenceth, punisheth
himself impartially, and sooner may find mercy at any hand than at his
own. He only hath pulled off the fair visor of sin; so as that which
appears not but masked unto others, is seen of him barefaced, and
bewrays that fearful ugliness, which none can conceive but he that hath
viewed it. He hath looked into the depth of the bottomless pit, and hath
seen his own offence tormented in others, and the same brands shaken at
him. He hath seen the change of faces in that cool one, as a tempter, as
a tormentor; and hath heard the noise of a conscience, and is so
frightened with all these, that he can never have rest till he have run
out of himself to God, in whose face at first he find rigour, but
afterwards sweetness in his bosom; he bleeds first from the hand that
heals him. The law of God hath made work for mercy, which he hath no
sooner apprehended than he forgets his wounds, and looks carelessly upon
all these terrors of guiltiness. When he casts his eye back upon
himself, he wonders where he was and how he came there; and grants that
if there were not some witchcraft in sin, he could not have been so
sottishly graceless. And now, in the issue, Satan finds (not without
indignation and repentance) that he hath done him a good turn in
tempting him: for he had never been so good if he had not sinned; he had
never fought with such courage, if he had not seen his blood and been
ashamed of his folly. Now he is seen and felt in the front of the
spiritual battle; and can teach others how to fight, and encourage them
in fighting. His heart was never more taken up with the pleasure of sin,
than now with care of avoiding it: the very sight of that cup, wherein
such a fulsome portion was brought him, turns his stomach: the first
offers of sin make him tremble more now than he did before at the
judgments of his sin; neither dares he so much as look towards Sodom.
All the powers and craft of hell cannot fetch him in for a customer to
evil; his infirmity may yield once, his resolution never. There is none
of his senses or parts, which he hath not within covenants for their
good behaviour, which they cannot ever break with impunity. The wrongs
of his sin he repays to men with recompense, as hating it should be said
he owes anything to his offence; to God (what in him lies) with sighs,
tears, vows, and endeavours of amendment. No heart is more waxen to the
impressions of forgiveness, neither are his hands more open to receive
than to give pardon. All the injuries which are offered to him are
swallowed up in his wrongs to his Maker and Redeemer; neither can he
call for the arrearages of his farthings, when he looks upon the
millions forgiven him: he feels not what he suffers from men, when he
thinks of what he hath done and should have suffered. He is a thankful
herald of the mercies of his God; which if all the world hear not from
his mouth it is no fault of his. Neither did he so burn with the evil
fires or concupiscence as now with the holy flames of zeal to that glory
which he hath blemished; and his eyes are as full of moisture as his
heart of heat. The gates of heaven are not so knocked at by any suitor,
whether for frequency or importunity. You shall find his cheeks
furrowed, his knees hard, his lips sealed up, save when he must accuse
himself or glorify God, his eyes humbly dejected, and sometimes you
shall take him breaking of a sigh in the midst, as one that would steal
an humiliation unknown, and would be offended with any part that should
not keep his counsel. When he finds his soul oppressed with the heavy
guilt of a sin, he gives it vent through his mouth into the ear of his
spiritual physician, from whom he receives cordials answerable to his
complaint. He is a severe exactor of discipline: first upon himself, on
whom he imposes more than one Lent; then upon others, as one that vowed
to be revenged on sin wheresoever he finds it; and though but one hath
offended him, yet his detestation is universal. He is his own taskmaster
for devotion; and if Christianity have any work more difficult or
perilous than other, that he enjoins himself, and resolves contentment
even in miscarriage. It is no marvel if the acquaintance of his wilder
times know him not, for he is quite another from himself; and if his
mind could have had any intermission of dwelling within his breast, it
could not have known this was the lodging. Nothing but an outside is the
same it was, and that altered more with regeneration than with age. None
but he can relish the promises of the gospel, which he finds so sweet
that he complains not, his thirst after them is unsatiable; and now that
he hath found his Saviour, he hugs Him so fast and holds Him so dear
that he feels not when his life is fetched away from him for his
martyrdom. The latter part of his life is so led as if he desired to
unlive his youth, and his last testament is full of restitutions and
legacies of piety. In sum, he hath so lived and died as that Satan hath
no such match, sin hath no such enemy, God hath no such servant as he.