Meditation CXIII.
Meditation CXIII.
BIRTHDAY.
May 30, 1761.
When I dropped some thoughts on my last birthday, I was uncertain that I should see another—but now I am certain that this day I shall never see again. I am another year nearer to the unseen world. Surely my years, like figures in arithmetic, rise in their value as their numbers increase, and the last redoubles the whole. So much experience of the vanity of all things—so many providences ever working for me—such fatherly chastisements—such rich displays of grace—such divine admonitions—so many tender mercies—such sweet, sweet outlettings of God's love—leaves a heavy charge at my door, if I walk not answerably to them all.
Though I am alive, and O that I could live to him in whom I love; yet several of my friends have wept and wrung their hands for their expiring friends, in the short period of this past year. And O how soon must I feel the mortal dart fixed in my own heart—and every sickening pulse proclaim the approach of my last moments!
Then only thus shall I get my heart fenced against the terrors of death—by having my life hidden with Christ in God, and my conversation in heaven. So should I anticipate my future happiness, begin eternity in time, and, like Enoch, walking with God, would get my soul fed with such an ardent flame of heavenly love, that I would have a desire to be depart, and to be with him.
What a happy state would this be—for death would drop his sting, the grave would cease to gloom, and solemn eternity excite a song of triumph! Thus, while unprepared mortals tremble at the thoughts of death, I, longing for perfect freedom from sin, and eternal communion with God—in a kind of holy impatience, would cry out—Why is his chariot so long in coming? Why do the wheels of his chariot tarry?
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