F. P. MANSE, Shieldaig, 27th Dec., 1915.—My dear . . .
I hope that you are keeping fairly well. I fully expected to write you soon after my return from England, but then as soon as I came home, I had to make up in some measure part of the work due in my absence. I had to visit several outlying districts in my congregation and was also called away to Communions. We are now near the end of another year, a year that has brought much sorrow to many homes, almost throughout the whole world. This is the hand of the Lord chastising us as a nation for our idolatry, and there are no signs of true repentance among us. Oh, that the Lord would be pleased to pour out upon us the spirit of true humility so that we would be found returning unto the Lord in true repentance. We have rejected Christ and His Gospel to a great extent as a nation, and it is to be feared that the curse pronounced against the Jews for their rejection of Him, applies to us—”Behold your house is left unto you desolate. For I say unto you, ye shall not see me henceforth, till ye shall say: Blessed is He that cometh in the name of the Lord.” Oh, that we would welcome Christ and His Gospel. There are some who long for His return. The spouse could say: “My beloved is mine, and I am His; He feedeth among the lillies. Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved and be thou like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of Bether.” We hear her saying again, “Let my Beloved come into His garden, and eat His pleasant fruits.” And immediately He answers and says: “I am come unto my garden, my sister, my spouse, I have gathered my myrrh with my spice, I have eaten my honeycomb with my honey, I have drunk my wine with my milk: eat, O friends; drink, yea, drink abundantly O Beloved.” “I sleep but my heart waketh,” says the spouse; oh, cursed sloth. But yet she knew the voice of her Beloved—“It is the voice of my Beloved that knocketh, saying, open to me my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled for my head is filled with dew and my locks with the drops of the night.” Oh, matchless love waiting ever so long at my door wishing to come in, and I still keeping Him out. Oh, cursed sloth. “I have put off my coat, how shall I put it on, I have washed my feet, how shall I defile them.” Why not rise up just as I am and open the door for Christ? It would be no defiling of my feet, should I have to go through mud to the knees, should I have to go through fire and water. We see now what Christ did in order to arouse His spouse. “My Beloved put in His hand by the hole of the door and my bowels were moved for him.” Oh! blessed and long suffering Redeemer. I could not stay any longer in bed—“I rose up to open to my Beloved, and my hands dropped with myrrh.” Now, shame, sorrow mingled with love in my bosom, for the way in which I have treated such matchless love—“I opened to my Beloved, but my Beloved had withdrawn Himself and was gone; my soul failed me when He spake. I sought Him, but I could not find Him, I called Him but He gave me no answer.” Right! it serves me well, for my conduct towards Him. Oh, but I cannot live without Him, I cannot stay here, I must go after Him until I find Him. I must use the means, I went to the Parish Church, to see if I would find Him there, the hour of service came, the minister entered the pulpit, a stately choir was in front of him. The service began by singing a hymn, an uninspired hymn, all the services were nothing but a form—a form of godliness without the power. He is not here I said. I cannot stay here any longer. I rebuked them for their formal and carnal services, but if I did I got my heart broken. I was miscalled and mocked, and branded as an hypocrite, etc. I went to other churches but they were little or no better. But I could not give up. I met the daughters of Jerusalem and charged them, that if they would find my Beloved that they would tell Him that I am sick of love. They did not seem to know much about Him, but they gave me an opportunity of telling them about Him. And as I was speaking of His beauty and loveliness, the fire of love burned in my own soul, and I could almost say that I found Him. And they were drawn after Him also. “His mouth is most sweet, yea, He is all together lovely. This is my Beloved, and this is my friend, ye daughters of Jerusalem.”
My dear . . .
I did not mean to write this when I began. But you will find my case very much in this chapter—”Oh, that it were with me as in months past, as in the days when God preserved me, when His candle shined upon my head, and when by His light I walked through darkness” (Job xxix. 2, 3). I know that I had Him, but I am afraid that I lost Him, that I abused Him, and sent Him away, and that He will not return.
May the Lord bless you and comfort you and give you much of His gracious presence. My love to you and to all those who are in Christ, and who are missing Him from Scotland, and who would welcome His return.—I am, dear madam, yours sincerely, D. Graham.