Abeard
Puritan Board Freshman
What love our Saviour has for us! Sorrow and love flowed mingled down.
"Can there be any more willing to help us than Christ, whose whole head was sick, and whose heart was heavy for our sakes? Yea, in whose body, from the sole of the foot to the crown of the head, was nothing but wounds, and swellings, and sores? But, alas, this was nothing to what He suffered for our sakes. He was compassed about with fear and horrors till His sweat was drops of blood, and His bones bruised in the flesh; He was whipped, and scourged, and chastised with sorrows, till He cried out in bitterness of soul, "O Lord, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me." He bruised His very bones, and rent His reins asunder. He could find no health in His flesh, but was wounded, yes, wounded to the death, even the most bitter of death on the cross. His tender fingers were nail to the cross; His face was wrinkled with weeping and wailing. His sides imbrued and gored with His own blood, spurting and gushing fresh from His ribs; the shadow of death was upon His eyes. Oh what grief could be like this, or what condemnation could be so heavy, since there was no wickedness in His hands..... Oh that my head were a well of water, and a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night for the remembrance of this!"
"Can there be any more willing to help us than Christ, whose whole head was sick, and whose heart was heavy for our sakes? Yea, in whose body, from the sole of the foot to the crown of the head, was nothing but wounds, and swellings, and sores? But, alas, this was nothing to what He suffered for our sakes. He was compassed about with fear and horrors till His sweat was drops of blood, and His bones bruised in the flesh; He was whipped, and scourged, and chastised with sorrows, till He cried out in bitterness of soul, "O Lord, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me." He bruised His very bones, and rent His reins asunder. He could find no health in His flesh, but was wounded, yes, wounded to the death, even the most bitter of death on the cross. His tender fingers were nail to the cross; His face was wrinkled with weeping and wailing. His sides imbrued and gored with His own blood, spurting and gushing fresh from His ribs; the shadow of death was upon His eyes. Oh what grief could be like this, or what condemnation could be so heavy, since there was no wickedness in His hands..... Oh that my head were a well of water, and a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night for the remembrance of this!"
