More I can neither wish, nor pray, nor desire for you than Christ, singled and chosen out from all things, even though wearing a crown of thorns. I am sure the saints are at best but strangers to the weight and worth of the incomparable excellence of Christ. We know not half of what we love, when we love Christ.—Rutherford.
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All come not home at night who suppose they have set their faces heavenward. It is a woeful thing to die, and miss heaven! How many a mere professor’s candle is blown out and never lighted again! Many now take Christ by guess; therefore, I say, be sure you take Christ Himself. His sweet working in the soul will not lie; it will soon tell whether it be Christ indeed whom you have met with.—Rutherford.
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I wish our thoughts were, more frequently than they are, upon our country. Heaven casteth a sweet perfume afar off to those who have spiritual senses.—Rutherford.
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“Be not as the hypocrites.”—Mr Foxe, who wrote the “Book of Martyrs,” had an utter contempt of any ostentatious display of sanctimony. Meeting a female acquaintance, with her Bible in her hand, who was making a merit that she was going to church, Mr Foxe advised her to return home. “When, then,” said she, “would you have me go to church?” “When you tell no one of it,” was the answer.