I am sometimes sad, heavy, and casten down, at the memory of the fair days I had with Christ in Anwoth, Kirkcudbright, etc. The remembrance of a feast increaseth hunger in a hungry man. But who knoweth, but our Lord will yet cover a table in the wilderness to His hungry bairns, and build the old waste places in Scotland, and bring home Zion's captives? I desire to see no more glorious sight, till I see the Lamb on His throne, than to see Mount Zion all green with grass, and the dew lying upon the tops of the grass, and the crown put upon Christ's head in Scotland again. And I believe it shall be so, and that Christ will mow down His enemies, and fill the pits with their dead bodies.
I find people here dry and unco. A man pointed at for suffering dare not to be countenanced; so that I am like to sit my lone upon the ground. But my Lord payeth me well home again; for I have neither tongue, nor pen, nor heart to express the sweetness and excellency of the love of Christ. Christ's honeycombs drop honey and floods of consolation upon my soul. My chains are gold: Christ's cross is all over-gilded and perfumed: His prison is the garden and orchard of my delights. I would go through burning quick to my lovely Christ. I sleep in His arms all the night, and my head betwixt His breasts. My Well-beloved is altogether lovely. This is all nothing to that which my soul hath felt. Let no man, for my cause, scaur at Christ's cross. If my stipend, place, country, credit, had been an earldom, a kingdom, ten kingdoms, and a whole earth, all were too little for the crown and sceptre of my royal King. Mine enemies, mine enemies have made me blessed! They have sent me to the Bridegroom's chamber. Love is His banner over me. I live a king's life; I want nothing but heaven, and possession of the crown. My earnest is great; Christ is no niggard to me. Dear Brother, be for the Lord Jesus, and His heart-broken bride.
I need not, I hope, remember my distressed brother to your care. Remember my love to your wife. Let Christ want nothing of us; His garments shall be rolled in the blood of the slain of Scotland.
Grace, grace be with you. Pray for Christ's prisoner.
Yours, in his sweet Lord Jesus,
S. R.
Aberdeen, Sept. 21, 1637.