Gloucester, November 17, 1753.
My very dear Sir,
IT is now just a week since I left London. I must not, I cannot go any further without writing to him, who doth so much to strengthen my hands in the Lord. And what shall I say? Truly the glorious Emmanuel still continues to smile upon my feeble labours. Although I am in my native country, yet he hath not left himself without witness. Last Lord’s day was a high day, and since that, we have had some more beautiful seasons in the country. I write this from a nineteen years friend’s house, an Alderman of the city, who with his wife, are my spiritual children. Lord, what am I? To-morrow I am to move, and expect, besides riding, to preach thrice for some days.
Christ’s presence will my pains beguile,
And make me, though fatigu’d, to smile.
After visiting Bristol and Plymouth, I purpose hastening to my winter quarters. Winter quarters!—The word winter almost shocks me. Alas, winter come already, and I, ungrateful, ill and hell-deserving I, have done so little for my God in the summer? How can I lift up my guilty head? I blush and am confounded before thee, O Lord. Behold, I am vile; O dig and dung round me, that I may bring forth more fruit to thee my God! Still, my dear Sir, I must beg your prayers, and those of your dear yoke-fellow, whom I love and honour, and whom (with your dear little daughter) I salute much in the Lord. A sense of my own unfruitfulness, and of God’s amazing condescension in employing such a wretch, at present so over-powers me, that I am obliged to retire, to give vent to my heart, after having subscribed myself, my very dear Sir,
Yours under innumerable obligations, in the best of bonds,
G. W.