THE first instance that I remember of that sort of inward sweet delight in God and Divine things, that I have lived much in since, was on reading these words (1 Tim. i. 17), “Now unto the King eternal, immortal, invisible, the only wise God, be honour and glory for ever and ever. Amen.” As I read the words, there came into my soul, and was, as it were, diffused through it, a sense of the glory of the Divine Being; a new sense, quite different from anything I had ever experienced before. Never any words of Scripture seemed to me as those words did. I thought with myself how excellent a Being that was, and how happy I should be if I might enjoy that God and be wrapped up in him for ever. I kept saying, and, as it were, singing over these words of Scripture to myself, and went to pray to God that I might enjoy him; and prayed in a manner quite different from what I used to do; with a new sort of affection. But it never came into my thought that there was anything spiritual, or of a saving nature in this.
From about that time I began to have a new kind of apprehension and ideas of Christ, and the work of redemption, and the glorious way of salvation by him. An inward sweet sense of these things at times came into my heart; and my soul was led away in pleasant views and contemplations of them. And my mind was greatly engaged to spend my time in reading and meditating on Christ, on the beauty and excellency of his person, and the lovely way of salvation by free grace in him. I found no books so delightful as those that treated of these subjects. Those words (Canticles ii. 1) used to be abundantly with me: “I am the Rose of Sharon, and the Lily of the valleys.” The words seemed to me sweetly to represent the loveliness and beauty of Christ. The whole book of Canticles used to be pleasant to me, and I used to be much engaged in reading it about that time, and found from time to time a sweetness that would carry me away in my contemplations. This I know not how to express otherwise than by a calm, sweet abstraction of soul from all the concerns of this world; and sometimes a kind of vision or fixed ideas or imaginations of being alone in the mountains of some solitary wilderness, far from all mankind, sweetly conversing with Christ, and wrapped and swallowed up in God. A sense of divine things would often of a sudden kindle up, as it were, a sweet burning in my heart, an ardour of soul, that I know not how to express.
Not long after I first began to experience these things, I gave an account to my father of some things that had passed in my mind. I was pretty much affected by the discourse we had together; and when the discourse was ended, I walked abroad alone, in a solitary place in my father’s pasture, for contemplation. And as I was walking there, and looking upon the sky and clouds, there came into my mind so sweet a sense of the glorious majesty and grace of God, as I knew not how to express. I seemed to see them both in sweet conjunction—majesty and meekness joined together; it was a sweet, and gentle, and holy, majestic meekness, an awful sweetness, a high, and great, and holy gentleness.
After this, my sense of divine things gradually increased, and became more and more lively, and had more of that inward sweetness. The appearance of everything was altered; there seemed to be, as it were, a calm, sweet cast or appearance of Divine glory in almost everything. God’s excellency, his wisdom, his purity, and love, seemed to appear in everything—in the sun, moon, and stars; in the clouds and blue sky; in the grass, flowers, trees; in the water and all nature, which used greatly to fix my mind. I often used to sit and view the moon for a long time, and in the day spent much time in viewing the clouds and sky, to behold the sweet glory of God in these things, in the meantime singing forth, in a low voice, my contemplations of the Creator and Redeemer. And scarce anything among all the works of nature were so sweet to me as thunder and lightning; formerly nothing had been so terrible to me. Before, I used to be uncommonly terrified both with thunder and lightning, and to be struck with terror when I saw a thunderstorm rising; but, now, on the contrary, it rejoiced me. I felt God, if I may so speak, at the first appearance of a thunderstorm, and used to take opportunity at such times to fix myself in order to view the clouds, and see the lightnings play, and hear the majestic and awful voice of God’s thunder, which oftentimes was exceedingly entertaining, leading me to sweet contemplations of my great and glorious God. While thus engaged, it always seemed natural for me to sing, or chant forth my meditations, or to speak forth my thoughts in soliloquies with a singing voice.
I felt then great satisfaction as to my good estate, but that did not content me. I had vehement longings of soul after God and Christ, and after more holiness, wherewith my heart seemed to be full and ready to break, which often brought to my mind the words of the Psalmist (Ps. exix. 20), “My soul breaketh for the longing it hath.” I often felt a longing and lamenting in my heart that I had not turned to God sooner, that I might have had more time to grow in grace. My mind was greatly fixed in divine things, year after year, often in walking alone in the woods and solitary places, for meditation, soliloquy, and prayer, and converse with God, and it was always my manner at such times to sing forth my contemplations. I was almost constantly in ejaculatory prayer, wherever I was. Prayer seemed to be natural to me, as the breath by which the inward burnings of my heart had vent. The delights which I now felt in the things of religion were of an exceedingly different kind from what I ever enjoyed before, and what I had no more notion of when a boy, than one born blind has of pleasant and beautiful colours. They were of a more inward, pure, soul-animating, and refreshing nature. Those former delights never reached the heart, and did not arise from any sight of divine excellency of the things of God, or any taste of the soul-satisfying and life-giving good there is in them.