tirement, and prayer, and is coming to his table; and "we will come unto him, and make our abode with him!” O this crowns all, to have God, not as a transient visitor, but to have him as our constant friend; what a blessed boon does it give us! And has not God for some time made his abode in our hearts? surely, if he had not, we had drooped and perished long ago, we may hope that he will dwell there for ever; and oh, what a delight it should be to us! we are ready to say, "Lord, they were happy to whom thou didst come in the days of thy flesh; with whom thou didst make thine abode." How should we have rejoiced in that happiness! and loved the very house where thou didst dwell, the very room where we had converse with thee. But, upon the whole, Christ might answer to us, as he did to the woman that fondly cried out, "Blessed be the womb that bare thee, and the paps that gave thee suck; nay, but rather blessed be those that hear the word of God and keep it."

In breaking the bread, I observed, among many other things, the emphasis of those words, "by his stripes we are healed." The cure is already begun in every gracious soul; and it is the pledge of an entire cure. Yet a little while and all the remaining diseases of the soul shall entirely be done away; and all imperfection and sorrow shall give way to the complete manifestation of the sons of God, in a world of everlasting glory and of joy.

Other meditations were added, but being interrupted when writing this, and not having made any other memorandums of them, they have now slipped from my memory. Sunday, November 2, 1735.

REFLECTIONS ON THE SIXTY-NINTH SACRAMENT.

THIS was the last Sacrament day in which my dear friend and brother, Mr. Isaac Wilkinson, of whom the world is not worthy, continued with me, under the relation of an assistant. He preached in the morning from these words,

"We rejoice in Christ Jesus." And I preached in the afternoon of "God being glorified by Christ:" I introduced the ordinance of the supper with some reflections on those words in John, "Father, I will that those whom thou hast given me be with me, where I am;" I observed the language by which Christians are described, those whom the Father has given him; thereby probably referring to the covenant of election. How happy a thought is it, if we are interested therein. Christ prays, that they may be with him where he is. To be with Christ in any circumstances must appear delightful; how much more so in heaven! His faith was so strong that he considered himself as already there, and overlooked all the distance, all the darkness, and all the sufferings that interposed. Amiable example for our faith to follow, which the apostle assists, when he speaks of us as raised up together with him, and set in heavenly places, that we may behold the glory of Christ. It was not merely out of ostentation, but as he knew the happiness it would carry along with it, to see the Holy One in our own nature, our great benefactor, and our almighty guardian; on account of which we should look upon it as the pledge and security of our own glory. With regard to this he speaks in the most positive terms, and yet very consistently with the most perfect submission, "Father, I will that those whom thou hast given me be with me where I am;" I do not only pray it, but I claim it; I humbly enter my demand on this head. Blessed souls, to whom this promise is sealed! gracious Saviour, that offered such a petition!

In breaking the bread, I observed, Christ instituted this ordinance that we might remember him; I hope we know the pleasure of remembering him, and how our remembrance of him has been assisted at it; our faith has thus been helped, and all our other graces proportionably strengthened.

I particularly insisted, in drinking from the cup, on our

putting ourselves and all our concerns into the hands of Christ; our covenant engagement is to serve Christ, our covenant hope is to enjoy him; but whether it be in this world or another is a matter not worth contesting between such lovers and such friends.

Sunday, December 6, 1735.

THE SEVENTIETH SACRAMENT.

I HAD discoursed in the pulpit from Rom. xii. 1, “I beseech you, brethren, by the mercies of God!" I introduced this ordinance with some meditations on David's reflection: "Who am I, and what is my people, that we should be able to offer thus willingly, for all things come of thee, and of thine own have we given thee?" Who am I, that I should have any thing to offer? whatever we are, and whatever we have, we owe it to God; and all endowments of genius, and capacities for usefulness are as much to be ascribed to him as any thing in our external form or circumstances; and whatever we have is chiefly to be rejoiced in and acknowledged, as it may be an instrument of his service. It is of God also that we have hearts to offer; the willing mind proceeds from him; how many are alienating themselves from God, that have as great capacities, that have as many calls; even this day how many have heard that call in vain, and will go away and be as far from him as How many are abusing extraordinary gifts for his dishonour; while we offer them to him, let us not then arrogate any thing to ourselves, but let us give him the glory of all, and then we may take the comfort that we are yielded to the Lord; we are now his, and his people, and he as such styles us, "my flock, my friends;" and as such what a blessed change will be made in each of us.

ever.

My spirits were so exhausted with the warmth of my exhortation in the afternoon, that I was too dead at the

table, and especially in what followed the introduction, nor did any remarkable thought arise that I can remember to deserve a place here.

January 4, 1736.

REFLECTIONS ON THE DEATH OF MY DEAR CHILD, AND MANY MOURNFUL PROVIDENCES ATTENDING IT.

I HAVE a great deal of reason to condemn my own negligence and folly, that for so many months I have entered no memorandums of what has passed between God and my soul, though some of the transactions were very remarkable, as well as some things which I have heard concerning others; but the subject of this article is the most melancholy of any. We lost my dear and reverend brother and friend Mr. Saunders on the 31st of July last; the 1st of September Lady Russel, that invaluable friend, died at Reading on her road from Bath; and on Friday, the 1st of October, God was pleased by a most awful stroke to take away my eldest, dearest child, my lovely Betsey. She was formed to strike my affection in the most powerful manner; such a person, genius, and temper, as I admired even beyond their real importance, so that indeed I doted upon her, and was for many months before her death in a great degree of bondage upon her account. She was taken ill at Newport about the middle of June, and from thence to the day of her death she was my continual thought, and almost uninterrupted care. God only knows with what earnestness and importunity I prostrated myself before him to beg her life, which I would have been willing almost to have purchased with my own. When reduced to the lowest degree of languishment by a consumption, I could not forbear looking in upon her almost every hour. I saw her with the strongest mixture of anguish and delight; no chemist ever watched his crucible with greater care, when he expected the production of the philosophers' stone, than I watched

her in all the various turns of her distemper, which at last

language can express

One remarkable cir

grew utterly hopeless, and then no the agony into which it threw me. cumstance I cannot but recollect: in praying most affectionately, perhaps too earnestly for her life, these words came into my mind with great power, “speak no more to me of this matter;" I was unwilling to take them, and went into the chamber to see my dear lamb, when instead of receiving me with her usual tenderness, she looked upon me with a stern air, and said with a very remarkable determination of voice, "I have no more to say to you," and I think from that time, though she lived at least ten days, she seldom looked upon me with pleasure, or cared to suffer me to come near her. But that I might feel all the bitterness of the affliction, Providence so ordered it, that I came in when her sharpest agonies were upon her, and those words, "O dear, O dear, what shall I do?" rung in my ears for succeeding hours and days. But God delivered her; and she, without any violent pang in the article of her dissolution, quietly and sweetly fell asleep, as, I hope, in Jesus, about ten at night, I being then at Maidwell. When I came home, my mind was under a dark cloud relating to her eternal state, but God was pleased graciously to remove it, and gave me comfortable hope, after having felt the most heart-rending sorrow. My dear wife bore the affliction in the most glorious manner, and discovered more wisdom, and piety, and steadiness of temper in a few days, than I had ever in six years an opportunity of observing before. O, my soul, God has blasted thy gourd; thy greatest earthly delight is gone; seek it in heaven, where I hope this dear babe is; where I am sure my Saviour is, and where I trust, through grace, notwithstanding all this irregularity of temper, and of heart, I shall shortly be.

Sunday, Oct. 3, 1736.