G. W.
LETTER LXXX.
Philadelphia, Nov. 10, 1739.
Rev. and dear Sir,
THOUGH but little acquainted with you, yet I write this to assure you, what a cordial respect I have for you. The love of God, which I trust, through his free grace, is shed abroad in both our hearts, constrains me to love you in the bowels of Jesus Christ. I remember you in my unworthy prayers, and am persuaded I am not forgotten in your’s. No one more needs them, whether considered as a private christian, or a public minister; thousands are waiting for my halting; and I know so much of the corruption of my own heart, that was God to leave me to myself but one moment, I should with oaths and curses deny my master. As for my final perseverance, I bless God, I have not the least doubt thereof. The gifts and callings of God are without repentance. Whom he loves, I am persuaded, he loves to the end. But then I fear, lest being puffed up with abundance of success, I should provoke the Lord to let me fall into some heinous sin, and thereby give his adversaries reason to rejoice. A public life is attended with innumerable snares; and a sense of my unworthiness and unfitness so weighs me down, that I have often thought it would be best for me to retire. But I know these are all suggestions of the enemy. Why should I distrust omnipotence? Having had a legion of devils cast out of my heart by the power of Christ, why should I not tell what he hath done for my soul, for the encouragement of others. By the help of God, I will speak; and the more satan bids me to hold my peace, the more earnestly will I proclaim to believing saints, that Jesus the son of David will have mercy on them; nay, I do not despair of publishing these glad tidings even at Wethersfield. In a little above a twelvemonth, God willing, I intend returning. But ere that time comes, I trust my dear Lord will purge me, that I may bring forth more fruit.—Satan has not been wanting to sift me as wheat; but my friend, the friend of all, even Jesus, has prayed for me, and as yet my faith hath not failed. Oh had I a thousand lives, my dear Lord Jesus should have them all! For he is worthy, he hath plucked me as a brand out of the burning, and is continually comforting me on every side—Read, read, dear Sir, the account I have sent over to be published of what God hath done for me in the days of my youth, and it will afford more thanksgiving and praise.—Pray in the behalf of, Sir,
Your most affectionate friend, brother, and servant,
G. W.