And, then, we who are true pilgrims, are of all men the most miserable,
on account of that 'failing,' that rankling sting in our hearts, when any
of our friends has more of this world's possessions, honours, and praises
than we have, that pain at our neighbour's pleasure, that sickness at his
health, that hunger for what we see him eat, that thirst for what we see
him drink, that imprisonment of our spirits when we see him set at
liberty, that depression at his exaltation, that sorrow at his joy, and
joy at his sorrow, that evil heart that would have all things to itself.
Yes, said Christian, I am only too conversant with all these sinful
cogitations, but they are all greatly against my will, and might I but
choose mine own thoughts, do you suppose that I would ever think these
things any more? 'The cause is in my will,' said Caesar, on a great
occasion. But the true Christian, unhappily, cannot say that. If he
could say that, he would soon say also that the snare is broken and that
his soul has escaped. And then the cause of all his evil cogitations,
his vain thoughts, his angry feelings, his envious feelings, his
ineradicable covetousness, his hell-rooted and heaven-towering pride, and
his whole evil heart of unbelief would soon be at an end.
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