Jesus seemed
so near to me and so kind that I could hardly but
accept of him. But then there seemed some dark
misgivings at the same time; as if I had an account
to settle up first,--something I must do myself; the
free full grace seemed too easy and gratis to accept
of. But all this I found was a mistake. I thought
of the lines--
"He gives our sins a full discharge;
He crowns and saves us too,"
and of a remark I had seen somewhere, "Look at
Calvary, and wilt thou say that thy sins are _easily_
passed by?"
This evening in my _andachtzimmer_,[1] I wished to
pray in spirit; but not a petition arose that I could
offer. I felt so blind, and yet so peaceful, that all
merged into the confiding language, Father, _Thy will_
be done!
[Footnote 1: Devotional retirement.]
_9th Mo. 2d_. On First-day, the twenty-first, I had
a great struggle on the old poetry-writing question.
I had written none since the great fight last winter;
but now to my dearest father I ventured to write,
thinking I had got over the danger of it. But when
all was written, I was forced to submit to the mortification
of not sending it. The relief I felt was indescribable,
and I hope to get thus entoiled no more.
My scruple is not against poetry, but _I_ cannot write
it without getting over-possessed by it.
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