By Rev. JOHN LOVE, D.D.
SIR,—The words with which in your mouth you parted with me a little ago, are still sounding in my ears; and they have excited in my mind ideas and emotions which I cannot forbear communicating to you—though I have little hope of their being in the least successful, but rather fear that they will be the object of your scorn and derision, if God do not interpose. That He may do so, I am probably praying, while you are reading this. And, before you laugh, I beseech you to consider these words of God which you will sooner or later find to be true words—”If thou be wise, thou shalt be wise for thyself: but if thou scornest, thou alone shalt bear it.”
When you retired, I sat down astonished. “Alas!” said I to myself, “What a poor vassalage is this, that Satan holds men in! How does he bewitch their understanding, and blind them with impenetrable darkness! This poor man has not so much as any idea of a state of liberty. He judges that all men are like himself, the slaves of vile and ruinous lusts. He judges rightly indeed of the generality. The broad way to perdition is full of wretchedly deluded travellers. They walk on to hell, in millions of millions; and they have done so, since the day that Adam sinned. And they are sinning, some of them with great jollity, (ah! poor jollity!)—within a step of the mouth of the bottomless pit. And though you tell them that the pit is just under them, they will not believe you: they will not so much as look whether it be so or not. This is a sad spectacle indeed. And this poor young man, who is now full of spirits and vivacity, and is saying in his heart—”I shall never see sorrow,” little considers, that he is one of a race which is “born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.”—one who is “of few days,” who “cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down.”
But what awful things are a-coming! and yet I cannot but speak out the truth.
(1) Suppose you were this moment lying on a bed in great anguish, and that a burning fever was raging in your veins, and that the wheels of your body were driving round at too violent a rate to continue long in order: Suppose that, at last, the moment was come when nature could no longer endure the shock,—when the silver cord must be loosed, the golden bowl be broken at the fountain, and the wheel broken at the cistern. And now a strange sweat is breaking on your ghastly countenance, and on your panting bosom,—your eyes begin to grow dim, your ears to tingle, desire to fail, and the heart strings to crack—to break.
(2) Suppose the spirit, in horror, after having felt the pang of separation, appearing in the invisible world—where it sees God,—angels, and devils, and human souls. Swift as the light, it is darted by the power of the Almighty arm towards heaven, till it reaches the Divine throne. There begins to be rehearsed a roll of words,—of blasphemous, profane, rebellious, sensual, impure, revengeful, lying, discontented words. Then is to be read over a distinct and circumstantial enumeration of actions, done by the soul, while in the body. And then its secret thoughts are all,— from the beginning to the end of its life,—to be laid open.
All heaven is silent: angels are around, and saints upon, the throne of Christ: even accusing Satan is silent for a moment. And from that throne, from which proceed thunderings, lightnings, and voices, there issues a sound like the noise of many waters, making the golden roof of heaven above, and the iron vault of hell below,—the one to re-echo, the other to groan,—pronouncing your eternal doom.
All things may come in your view this night. This night, Sir, you may understand, in another manner than any on earth can do, what death, and judgment, and heaven, and hell are, by experiencing bitterness from each of them, if you repent not.
I obtest you, if you be not a perfect monster, and worse than a devil, to put this question now to yourself, What shall I then wish that I had now done?
Think it not a light matter, that you are in this manner by God admonished. Think not that it will be smothered, and that none shall ever know of it. At that appointed day when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed, the contents of this letter shall be proclaimed in your ears, and shall strike you with astonishment before all the spectators—saints and angels. At that day I will be a witness of your trial, of which the issue shall be the eternal life or death of soul and body.
Know that the eye of God is now surveying, and the heart of God pondering, your behaviour; and that in His book of remembrance He is recording it. Angels perhaps are now present,—ready to rejoice if you be converted; and devils too, with all their might scrambling for your soul, to whose malignant hearts it would give joy to get you down among themselves.
Judge, Sir, whether, supposing that I have these views of your situation, (and if I had not, why should I expose myself to the risk of contempt and hatred from you by expressing them?) it would have been a humane part for me to act, to allow you to pass on without forewarning you. If ever God give you His grace, you will not think so.
This way I have chosen, as being most fit to command your attention. I affirm, in the sight of God, that from the bottom of my heart I wish you may be happy in this world, and forever and ever. I advise you to the same course which I myself do take, and upon which I cheerfully do venture eternity: and I hope, if the Lord calls me to it, that through His strength I can, with undaunted resolution, meet the King of terrors in his most hideous form.
Can you retire, and say, “I am just as happy as I can be. I feel no want, no uneasiness, no craving: I feel no fear of what this invisible Power, who made me and has watched all my steps, may do to me?” Can you, Sir, sit down and say, “I think I can composedly meet death in the face: I can composedly go to be judged by God?”
That God, whom your heart is now despising, who with His awful arm encompasses and holds you, could at once crush you into hell; He could make it hell about you at this moment. He now gives being to this paper you are reading,—to those eyes that read it,—to that soul within your breast which thinks of it. He is now recording, how you are treating His compassion in thus admonishing you. Know, Sir, that, if this admonition be despised, it will add a thousand aggravations to your condemnation: it will make hell to be heated sevenfold more than it would have otherwise been.
I wish it were as painful to you to read this, as the considering and preparing of it, has been to me. I would then hope, that the wound was beginning to be searched by another hand than mine.
My dear Sir, these things are most solemn. Your conversion and salvation may depend on the attention you now give to them. I cannot make you sure but that what I have written may come to pass this very night. When a wound is painful, and wearing a cankering aspect, it would be cruelty not to search it to the bottom, though this should have to be done with the utmost pain to the patient. But here, the very cure is delightful. If you will take my simple word for it, from what I myself have felt,—in God’s sight I am not lying,—there is more real pleasure in the most painful throes of the new birth, than in all the enjoyments of sin.
Be willing that God make you willing: do not oppose Him, and He will work wonders.
I protest, in the sight of God, that I desire your happiness in time and eternity: and am, Most heartily and sincerely, Your humble servant, John Love.