A Pastoral Letter
I AM a prisoner still. Weakness has succeeded pain, and languor of mind is the distressing result of this prostration of my physical powers. It is the Lord’s doing. In some sense I might say with Paul, “I am a prisoner of Jesus Christ.” But ah! my bonds are more easy and less honourable to wear than his. Instead of a dungeon, my lot is cast in an abode of comfort. I am not restrained from my accustomed ministry by a chain forged by man, but by the silken cord of God’s providence: no rough jailor, but loving relatives and friends attend upon me in these tedious hours of my bondage. I beseech you therefore, my beloved, let your many prayers to God on my behalf be each and all mingled with thanksgiving. Gratitude should ever be used in devotion, like salt of old was in sacrifice, “without prescribing how much.”
And now, though unable to stand in the pulpit, I will endeavour to give you a short address,—or rather, I will attempt to express the kindlings of my heart in a few broken sentences.
(continue with this Spurgeon Sermon…)