02.07A. THE CASE AND CURE OF A WOUNDED SPIRIT.
THE CASE AND CURE OF A WOUNDED SPIRIT.
"The spirit of a man will sustain his infirmity — but a wounded spirit, who can bear?" Proverbs 18:14 The Preacher here contrasts outward with inward trouble. Bodily infirmities, or diseases, or any evil affecting it from without, he declares a man is capable of enduring. Not that he ascribes to it a stoic apathy or indifference, or represents the outward sources of affliction as being either few in number, or insignificant in amount — but he attributes to a vigorous and healthy mind, the capacity of sustaining them, in such a manner as that while it feels their pressure, it shall not be overwhelmed by them. Exemption from outward evils is forbidden by the fallen state of mankind; insensibility to them is forbidden by the feelings of mankind. But such is the dignity of the human spirit, and such its superiority over the fleshly nature with which it is here united, that, being itself sound and healthy, it may enjoy inward peace, even when surrounded with outward calamity, and rise superior alike to the sense of suffering and the fear of danger.
Subject as it is to all manner of influences from without, it seems hardly possible to assign limits to its power of endurance, if it is upheld by its natural and necessary support — that of true religion. Being capable of religion, its capacity of endurance must be measured by the strength of its supporting principles; by the firmness and durability of those foundations on which it rests. And what infirmity is there which may not be sustained, or what outward calamity that may not be endured — by a mind which, imbued with pious principle — reposes itself on the wisdom, and faithfulness, and love of God; which, believing that all events are under His control, resigns itself to his disposal, and acknowledges His hand alike in every blessing and in every trial; and which, assured of the faithfulness of His promise, is thoroughly persuaded that, however dark or perplexing the course of His providence may be — every successive evolution of the present complicated system is tending to a result worthy of the wisdom and benevolence of God, and that all things are working together for good to those who love him. Thus supported, the spirit of a man will sustain his infirmities. In the history of the Church there are many signal examples of the patience and fortitude with which believers have triumphed over every kind and degree of outward sufferings. What trials more numerous or severe than those of Job, when, in one day, four successive messengers announced to him the destruction of his vast possessions, the ruin of his fortune, and the death of his sons — yet, "At this, Job got up and tore his robe and shaved his head. Then he fell to the ground in worship and said: Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I will depart. The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away; may the name of the LORD be praised." (Job 1:20-21.) And soon after, when God for his further trial, was pleased to smite him with sore bodily disease, and when his wife tempted him to cherish unbelieving thoughts, he said, "What! shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive evil?" (Job 2:10.) In like manner, the power of the human spirit, when adequately supported by religion, to sustain outward sufferings, is signally displayed in the history of those worthies of whom, both men and women, it is said that they "suffered mocking and flogging, and even chains and imprisonment. They were stoned to death, they were sawn in two, they were killed by the sword; they went about in skins of sheep and goats, destitute, persecuted, tormented — of whom the world was not worthy. They wandered in deserts and mountains, and in caves and holes in the ground!" (Hebrews 11:36-37.) Yet, so far from being overwhelmed by those sufferings, as heavy and grievous as they were, the apostle speaks of one of their number as "choosing rather to suffer afflictions with the people of God, than to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season," (Hebrews 11:25.) Nay, of believers in general, he says, that they "glory in tribulations, knowing that tribulation works patience, and patience experience, and experience hope." And elsewhere adds for himself, "most gladly, therefore, will I glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me! I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses, for Christ’s sake — for when I am weak, then am I strong." (Romans 5:3; Romans 8:35; 2 Corinthians 12:9.) In estimating the capacity of the human spirit to bear up under the pressure of outward calamity, it is right to take religion as an element in the calculation — because the human mind is capable of entertaining religion, on the one hand, and because, when entertained, religion is its firmest and surest support on the other. Well may the spirit of a man sustain his infirmities, when his spirit is itself sustained by the truth and faithfulness of God. Resting on this sure foundation, his patience and fortitude may partake of the same firmness which belongs to the grounds of his confidence. In the absence of religion, the mind is deprived of its best support — it rests not on a rock — but clings to a reed. It is glad to have recourse to such means of consolation as the world affords, and seeks rather to forget, than to conquer its sorrows.
Yet such is the kind provision of nature, that even in the absence of religion, many outward calamities may be sustained without any serious inroad on human happiness. There are natural remedies for sorrow, and laws corrective of extreme suffering. For just as a wound is staunched by its own blood, or a bruise skinned over by the curative processes of nature herself — so many a sufferer is indebted to time, to habit, to society, or some similar influence, for the mitigation of sorrow, even where he neglects the religion which alone can convert sorrow into joy.
If one outward spring of happiness is dried up — he has recourse to another. And wandering from cistern to cistern, broken and empty as they are — he pleases himself with the thought that he may yet be happy. A fond delusion but one, nevertheless, which shows the buoyancy of the human spirit, and which teaches us how high the mind may rise above calamity, if embracing all the supports of which it is capable.
"But," adds the prophet, "a wounded spirit who can bear?" So long as the mind itself is untouched, so long as it maintains its soundness and elasticity — so long may it bear up against outward calamity, and rise above the storm. But let the spirit itself be wounded, and thenceforward, not only is it an easy victim to every, even the slightest form of outward evil — but the greatest abundance of outward good is thrown away upon it — it droops and pines unseen, amidst the brightest sunshine of prosperity. For within itself are springs of bitterness, which render every outward comfort insipid or loathsome.
Let us consider the nature, symptoms, and causes of this distemper of the spirit, with the view of ascertaining how far it may admit of cure, and by what means that cure may be effected. As to the
But, in such cases, there is often little conscious suffering — the power of continuous thinking is gone — the mind is seldom sensible of its own condition — but is rather the subject of fitful imaginations and dreams — sometimes sad, no doubt — but as often pleasing, grand, or exciting. And it is not until returning reason throws light on the confusion within, that the sufferer is conscious of his real situation. But when the spirit is wounded without being deranged, when reason retains her sway, and broods over the inward miseries of a heart stricken and bleeding — then is the question of the Preacher applicable, "A wounded spirit, who can bear?" And as this distemper is to be distinguished from idiocy or insanity — so must we, in justice to religion, guard against confounding it with that broken and contrite spirit which Scripture recommends as being in itself acceptable to God, and in its effect beneficial to ourselves. A truly broken and contrite heart is consistent with inward peace and comfort. It necessarily implies, indeed, some measure of grief, such grief as the remembrance of sin may and ought to inspire; and that grief, if unalleviated by the consolations and hopes of the Gospel, might settle down into a fixed melancholy, and become a fearful and intolerable burden. But this is the sorrow of the world which works death; such sorrow as natural convictions may awaken — while natural reason cannot allay it. But the godly sorrow of the Christian, when, with a broken spirit he contemplates his transgressions, is so chastened and mitigated by an apprehension of the mercy of God in Christ, that the true penitent is comforted even in his contrition, and feels that this is a spirit which it best befits him to cherish — a spirit which is the most conducive to his peace. So far from crying out, that he cannot bear it, or being anxious to cast it off as a heavy or intolerable load upon his mind — the believer prays that he may have more and more of this holy, and humble, and contrite spirit. It is his great anxiety to nourish it; in this spirit he desires to live; in this spirit he delights to pray; in this spirit he would approach the table of the Lord; in this spirit he hopes to die and to enter Heaven. And the more he succeeds in maintaining it, the more does he feel the unspeakable consolation and supports of the Gospel. But there is a state of mind, and that of by no means rare occurrence, which corresponds to the description of the Preacher. In this state, the mind is conscious of a total dissatisfaction with itself, and everything with which it has yet become acquainted — a loathing of the world, while as yet no better portion is known or enjoyed by it — a bitter feeling that it is not, and in its present state cannot, be happy. Nor is this state of mind peculiar to those who are involved in the hardships of poverty, or who have suffered an extraordinary degree of temporal distress. On the contrary, some of its most affecting exhibitions are to be witnessed among those who have enjoyed a large measure of outward prosperity — who are loaded with wealth and honor, and replenished not only with every necessity — but with every comfort and luxury of life. In the midst of all their outward prosperity, their spirits sink, their happiness is destroyed. And even when surrounded with the pomp and luxury of rank or fortune, an aching heart destroys their peace, and tempts them to loathe the very distinctions which excite the admiration or the envy of the world.
Oh! how often in a day of jubilee, has such a heart sickened at the vanity of the world; and who knows how many hearts are inwardly bleeding in the midst of our gayest assemblies!
"Who," says Voltaire, "can, without horror, consider the whole world as the empire of destruction? It abounds with wonders — it also abounds with victims. It is a vast field of carnage and contagion. Every species is without pity pursued and torn to pieces through the earth, and air, and water. In man, there is more wretchedness than in all the other animals put together. He loves life — yet he knows that he must die. If he enjoys a transient good — he suffers various evils, and is at last devoured by worms! This knowledge is his fatal prerogative; other animals have it not. He spends the transient moments of his existence in diffusing the miseries which he suffers — and in repenting of all that he does. The bulk of mankind are nothing more than a crowd of wretches equally criminal and unfortunate. The globe contains rather carcasses, than men. I tremble at the review of this frightful picture, and I wish I had never been born!" The effects of this distemper are various, and often the most apparently opposite. In all cases, it is destructive of every rational and substantial comfort. It embitters the heart — which is at once the seat and spring of true happiness. It tinges the eye with gloom — so that every outward object is discolored or distorted. It produces indifference, or some harsher feeling towards the living creatures around us — and by drying up the social affections, takes away one of the sweetest sources of comfort. It naturally impairs our health, according to the beautiful language of Solomon, "a merry heart does good like medicine — but a broken spirit tries the bones." (Proverbs 17:22.) But in seeking relief from it, very different and even opposite courses are pursued. Sometimes, under its pressure, the mind recoils from all fellowship with the world, shrinks from society, and finds a melancholy satisfaction in seclusion and solitude. There brooding over its own miseries, it becomes ascetic or misanthropic — little interested in the happiness of others since it has lost its own — and perhaps deriving a morbid pleasure from every new proof of the vanity of the world or the turpitude of mankind. In other cases, the wretched sufferer is afraid of solitude — cannot bear the company of his own thoughts — and rushes into society, there to forget, amidst the gaieties of fashion; or, should these fail, amidst the deeper excitements of profligacy, the secret horrors by which it is haunted — allowing no time for calm reflection — but intent only on forgetting a misery which it can neither overcome nor endure.
I am convinced that it is the same spirit which often leads to those opposite extremes of social mirth, and secluded melancholy. If we could look through the disguises which it assumes, we might discover the same bitterness of heart in many a scene of gaiety or profligacy, which in other temperaments drives the sufferer to pine unseen in a cottage or a cloister.
Even in our own times, and in ordinary life, many seek relief from the bitterness of disappointment by the use of wine, of opium, or of alcohol — an insidious and dangerous habit, begun perhaps without the intention of being intemperate, and advancing by imperceptible degrees, so that the unhappy victim is scarcely conscious of its progress, until it becomes his master and tyrant, and he its helpless and abject slave!
If we inquire into the
There are two considerations, both included in this general statement, which deserve to be specified, as the principal causes which operate in the production of a wounded spirit:
the first relating to happiness in the present world,
the second to our prospects beyond the grave.
1. A consideration which has a strong tendency to produce the distempered spirit which has been described, is, the vanity and emptiness of the world; the felt impossibility of deriving from it that satisfaction which we had fondly expected; and the evidence which every day’s experience multiplies . . .
of the instability of our dearest treasures,
of the uncertainty of our sweetest enjoyments,
and the disappointment of our fondest hopes. Who that has passed from youth to manhood, and contrasts his early expectations with his actual experience — has altogether escaped the withering feeling of disappointment? As we advance in life, are we not every day more thoroughly schooled in this universal lesson of human experience, that the world is a vain show; and that its best enjoyments are either beyond our reach, or difficult of attainment; and when attained, they are transient, precarious, and unsatisfying. And our prospects, if confined to the things which are seen and temporal, are not brighter than our past experience. Which of our present comforts can we count on retaining? Our wealth may be taken away. Our friends may grow cool and desert us; at all events, they must die. Our good name is at the mercy of a thousand evil tongues. Our health may fail and disable us for every enjoyment. And soon, very soon, we must leave all earthly things, and resign them to others.
Nay, were every temporal comfort continued with us to the close of life, can we expect to derive from them more substantial happiness than we have yet enjoyed in them — and has that been such as to satisfy the cravings, or fill the capacities of our souls? The mind that thus calmly contemplates its past experience and future prospects, is learning a great lesson, a lesson which God has designed the vanity of the world to teach us — even that souls formed in His image cannot find their happiness in any earthly object — that successful as they may be in the world, they must look beyond it for the satisfaction of desires too great to be limited by its range; and that so long as they look to the world alone or chiefly, they will find it to be but "vanity and vexation of spirit."
Now, a mind that has made this discovery, and sensibly feels its truth, without having yet discerned or embraced the better portion that is provided for it, is a wounded spirit. It is not only unhappy — but feels that it must be so in its present course. It loathes the vain world, and yet has no higher good in view, and it will either become reckless of all consequences, or sink into despondency or despair. Many such spirits there are among us, pining unseen under the growing conviction of the world’s vanity. What, I ask, can the world do for them? The world can do nothing, for it is the very vanity of the world which has caused their distemper. They have tried its cisterns and have found them empty and broken. They have gone the round of its vanities, and have found nothing but vexation of spirit. And that human philosophy which would recommend either Stoic apathy or Epicurean indulgence as a means of relief, is felt to be a vain parade of words to a spirit which knows its own bitterness, and which is conscious that, by the constitution of its nature, it can neither be indifferent to happiness on the one hand — nor satisfied with the world’s happiness on the other. And as to the worldly prudence, which would, in such circumstances, laugh them out of their convictions, or recommend recreation, and mirthful society, and amusement, to hearts bleeding and diseased — they look on their sage instructor as one who is not yet so far advanced as themselves in the actual experience of the world — but as treading the same path which they trod, and sure to reach the same conclusion; and feel that it must be either in ignorance or in mockery that he speaks of worldly amusements or gaiety as a cure.
They may yield, however, to the advice — but with an inward consciousness that it must be vain, or with a feeling that it is better to forget what they cannot hope to remedy. They wander from scene to scene with the arrow still sticking fast in their bosom — with the wound still bleeding in their hearts.
If, in such a case, we could expect a cure, it is evident that a new class of objects must be presented to the mind; and this is in part admitted by those who recommend change of scene, or of occupation, or of amusement. But their error consists in not seeing that to a mind which has already discovered the vanity of the world, not only a new but a totally different and far higher class of objects must be presented — that in such a case, the world has been tried and exhausted; and that the eye must be directed beyond the world and above it for true and lasting consolation.
Such objects there are within the compass of human knowledge — the great, sure, and everlasting objects of the Christian faith and hope; and as these are necessary to be known by all, so they are peculiarly suitable to the wounded spirit. Let the eye which sees nothing but gloom and misery in the world, be lifted above it. Let the mind which is perplexed by the uncertain and unsatisfying nature of "all things seen and temporal," be directed to the stability and glory of "things unseen and eternal." Let the heart which feels that nothing on earth can fill its capacities of enjoyment, be taught that God himself is a sure and satisfying portion to them that seek him. In a word, let them see that, instead of seeking their happiness in the creature, they may seek and find it in God himself. And, immediately on such perception, the mystery of their condition will become clear. The heart, which drooped, will revive. Hope will again animate the bosom which the world had given as a prey to despair. Everything around and before them will appear in a new light — and they will feel as if a dark cloud had suddenly been broken and dispersed — a heavy burden removed — a galling yoke struck from their spirits, "all old things have passed away, and all things become new."
Instead of wondering as they once did, at the unsatisfying nature of earthly good; instead of being disposed, as formerly, to repine at that arrangement of Providence which prevents perfect happiness in the enjoyment of the creature — the emancipated spirit will perceive that this is itself one of the wisest ordinations of the divine mind, and one of the highest tokens of his benevolence, inasmuch as by thus depriving the creature of all power of being happy without God — he has laid him under a sort of moral necessity, or, at least, held out to him the highest inducement to seek to Himself — that if He dried up the streams, or mingled bitterness with its waters — it was that they might be led to repair to the fountain.
He who has discovered that God is the only portion of his spirit, may well rest assured that this portion will never fail him, nor come short of his expectations and desires. For unlike the world, God is the same yesterday, today, and forever. He is infinite, and adequate, therefore, to fill the largest capacities of the soul. He is perfect, without one defect or blemish. He is all-sufficient, and, being ever present, may be continually enjoyed. Yes, death itself, so far from depriving us of this portion, will only place us in the full enjoyment of it, and eternity will only unfold more of its excellency and worth. "Nevertheless I am continually with You? You hold my right hand. You guide me with Your counsel, and afterward you will receive me with honor. Whom have I in Heaven but You? And there is nothing on earth that I desire other than You. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever!" Psalms 73:23-26 As by presenting God as the only sure and satisfying portion of our souls, the Christian religion directs us to an infinite and inexhaustible source of satisfaction. By revealing the doctrine of immortality, and teaching us the connection which exists between our present course on earth and our everlasting destiny hereafter — it removes and rebukes those dismal and degrading views which we are apt to entertain respecting our present life, so long as our prospects are limited within its narrow range.
Considering ourselves as a class of creatures, like others, mortal, and comparing our actual enjoyments on earth with those of the inferior animals — the gloomy thought which will occur to a mind convinced of the world’s vanity, is neither unnatural; nor, if immortality is forgotten, altogether untrue. Even that the power of reflection and forethought, by which we are distinguished from them, have materially increased our sufferings, without enabling us to discover a cure for them. We are thereby qualified to discover the vanity of the world, without being able to secure a higher good; and that if the present life is to terminate our existence, it had been better for us to have had the same thoughtless and undisturbed enjoyment of it, which is given to the birds of the air or the beasts of the field. This is intimated to us by the apostle, when, referring to his labors and sufferings in the cause of religion, he points to the prospect of eternal life as the motive and justification of his course; and asks, "What advantage it me, if the dead rise not — let us eat and drink for tomorrow we die!" (1 Corinthians 15:32.) But let the mind which has long brooded over the dismal prospect of death, and, while under the influence of the melancholy feelings which the shortness and uncertainty of human life are fitted to inspire, has become indifferent to the world, or disgusted with it — let such a mind be once vividly impressed with the idea of its own immortality; let it be thoroughly convinced that the being which is begun on earth will stretch onward and onward through the immeasurable ages of eternity; let it contemplate the sublime prospect of everlasting life beyond the grave, and, assured of that great certainty — let it be taught to look upon its earthly course as the preparation for a career which shall never end — and who can fail to see that here is . . .
an object fitted at once to rebuke and to destroy its despondency,
a prize worthy to excite again its torpid desires,
a motive to animate its resolution,
a truth which at once explains the mysteries of its present being, and throws a glowing light on its future prospects!
I say, let the saddest spirit that ever mourned over the world’s vanity, be once thoroughly impressed with the belief of eternal life — and from that instant, the vanity of life will no more be thought of; for life will then assume a new aspect, and appear invested with a solemn importance, as the preparatory discipline of an immortal spirit — a state of education for eternity — a probation on which results far too momentous to be adequately conceived of, depend. And while it will no longer look to the world as the source of its happiness, or to the present life as the season of its reward — it will be nerved with new vigor to prosecute its business, and to discharge its duties. And, looking on it in the light of religion, the gloom which formerly overcast it will disappear.
Disconsolate spirit! You that like the dove can find no resting-place on earth — here is a refuge for you; a sure, and sweet, and abiding refuge: choose God for your portion, and Heaven for your home. Here are new objects, worthy of your highest regard, adequate to fill your largest desires, and fitted alike by their greatness and their stability, to secure your everlasting happiness. That you have seen the vanity of the world, is well — God has thus been preparing you for discovering the value of true religion. But beware of resting at this point, as if despondency were a proof of piety; or as if the discovery of the world’s vanity were the only article of religion. Remember that many a man is bitterly dissatisfied with his present state, and often weary with the world — who has yet no portion in God. It is not enough that his affections be withdrawn from things "seen and temporal" — unless they are transferred to things "unseen and eternal." Seek not to remain in a neutral state, or to cherish unconcern and indifference. So long as your heart beats within you, it will yearn after some object on which its desires and affections may be fixed. And if the world cannot allure them, or is unworthy of them — then no happiness can be enjoyed until they rise above the world to God. By the discipline of his providence, by every successive disappointment or bereavement with which he has visited you, God has been saying, "Seek my face!" Let every wounded spirit reply, "Your face, O Lord, will I seek." There are many that say: Who shall show us any good? But my prayer will be, "Lord, lift up the light of your countenance upon me." "God is the portion of my soul, therefore will I trust in him." "My heart and my flesh faint and fail — but God is the strength of my heart and my portion for ever." "Even though the fig trees have no blossoms, and there are no grapes on the vines; even though the olive crop fails, and the fields lie empty and barren; even though the flocks die in the fields, and the cattle barns are empty — yet I will rejoice in the LORD! I will be joyful in the God of my salvation!"
I am well aware, however, that to a wounded spirit, religion itself appears gloomy and repulsive; and that there are certain feelings in every breast, which serve even to increase the despondency of a mind in this situation, when it contemplates its relation to God. These feelings arise from a consciousness of guilt and corruption — and this of itself, may in some cases become so intense as to produce the very state of mind for which we propose religion as a cure. The spirit may be so wounded by it, and so harassed by the fear which it awakens, as to become the prey of what has been, not very properly, called, religious despondency.
2. This is the second of the two causes to which I proposed to direct your attention — a cause which operates sometimes without the former, so as to render a man really unhappy even while he is as yet not deeply convinced of the vanity of the world; and which at other times, so concurs with a conviction of the unsatisfactory nature of earthly good, as to leave the mind without any resource either temporal or spiritual. The conscience is troubled by a sense of guilt, and by the terror of an angry God. This may come on, in the midst of the greatest outward prosperity, and after a long period of insensibility and unconcern. It is the most fearful of all visitations, and makes a man a terror to himself. Even the believer, in those seasons of spiritual darkness when he cannot realize the glorious truths and hopes of the Gospel, is subject to it. "You write bitter things against me" said Job, "and make me to possess the iniquities of my youth." "The arrows of the Almighty are within me, the poison whereof drinks up my spirit! The terrors of God do set themselves in array against me. Oh! that I might have my request, and that God would grant me the thing that I long for. Even that it would please God to destroy me, that he would let loose his hand and cut me off!" "Your arrows stick fast in me," said David, "and your hand presses me sorely. There is no soundness in my flesh, because of your anger, neither is there any rest in my bones, because of my sin. For my iniquities are gone over my head; they are too heavy for me! I am troubled; I am bowed down greatly; I go mourning all the day long; I am feeble and sore broken; I have roared by reason of the disquietness of my heart."
Such is the agony of a troubled conscience when under convictions of sin. Now we do not deny the truth and reasonableness of such convictions. We would not say one word to dissipate them. On the contrary, we believe that our deepest convictions of guilt fall far short of the actual truth, and that all the fears which conscience awakens are not commensurate with the real danger of our situation. The truth is, that we are sinners, and, as such, exposed to very heavy divine judgments; and it is well that we know the fact and feel it too.
It is true, also, that in such circumstances, a wounded spirit can derive no consolation from the fact of God’s existence, or the prospect of an eternal world — so long as it is ignorant of the means of forgiveness, or unwilling to embrace them. No language can express the dissatisfaction and misery of a soul when both causes concur to trouble it, and when it can neither look to the world with pleasure, nor to God with confidence. And what can the world do for one in such a case? What direction, encouragement, or comfort, can human philosophy bestow? Conscious of his own misery, he cannot trifle with his convictions. Conscience is awake, and its still small voice cannot be silenced by those who would make a mock of sin, or teach him to regard it as a imaginary or trivial evil. Nor is it every form of religion that can meet the needs, or satisfy the cravings of such a spirit. The legal or self-righteous system would only aggravate its misery. But there is a cure — and that is to be found, like every other consolation, in the Gospel of Christ. The blood of Jesus can pacify the conscience, when most disturbed. Let the saddest spirit that ever mourned over its guilt and pollution, be brought clearly to see the freeness and the riches of divine grace. Let it but understand the true character of God, as "God in Christ, reconciling a guilty world to himself, and not imputing unto men their trespasses," as "The Lord God merciful and gracious, abundant in goodness and truth, keeping mercy for thousands, pardoning iniquity, and transgression, and sin." Let it but understand the import of that declaration, "God so loved the world as to give his only begotten Son, that whoever believes in him might not perish — but might have everlasting life." Let it conceive aright of the sufficiency of the Savior’s work, and the perfect freeness with which every sinner is invited to go to him without money and without price. Let it thus know and believe the import of the Gospel message — and instead of being overwhelmed by its convictions, it will be led by means of them to a sure and unfailing ground of consolation. By this apprehension of the mercy of God in Christ, "the wounded spirit" is converted into "a broken and contrite one." It loses all the bitterness without losing any of the humiliation which a sense of guilt inspires. The sorrow of the world which works death — becomes a godly sorrow, working repentance, not to be repented of.
Disconsolate spirit! You who mourn in secret over the bitterness of a troubled conscience — look to the Savior, and be at peace. He now speaks to you, and says, that for such as you are, he came into the world: "The spirit of the Lord God is upon me, for he has anointed me to preach good tidings to the meek; to comfort all that mourn; to appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness."
Look to the Savior — and through him look up to God as a forgiving Father! "Happy is he who has the God of Jacob for his help, whose hope is in the Lord his God! For the Lord loosens the prisoners — the Lord opens the eyes of the blind — the Lord raises them that are bowed down — he heals the broken in heart and binds up their wounds." And of you may it be said, as in times past of many a wounded spirit, "This poor man cried — the Lord heard, and saved him out of all his troubles!"