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July 11th, 1684.
Beloved in our Lord,
THE report of the continuance of your sympathy with us, and of the increase of your zeal for the Lord of hosts, is greatly encouraging and refreshing to me: And which thing, together with the great uniteness of my heart unto you, impels me to presume upon the writing of a line unto you, tho' I be unapt to write unto any such, and know not how to explicate my self; for that which I mainly desire is, to commend unto the world the loveliness of Christ, the preciousness of his cause, the easiness of his yoke, and the sweetness of his cross (whereof I am sure, ye are not ignorant) But, O, this is a work above the reach of poor, serimp, finite creatures. Who can think, who can speak, or who can write of this? The immensurableness and freedom of the grace of Christ, the boundlesness of his power, and infiniteness of his love, is such a bottomless deep of joyful wonder, wherein these, who are made perfect, are everlastingly drowned. What can we in this falling tabernacle say or think, who but see in part, and know in part? But O!let
