Fifthly, Hereupon too: Pity thy self, pity thy own Soul, there is cause to hate it, to loath it, and is there no cause to pity it? to lament it? Doth not this look like a lamentable case? Oh! what a Soul have I, that can love any thing else, that can love Trifles, that can love Impurities, that can love Sin: And can't love God, Christ, the most desirable good of Souls? What a Soul have I? What a Monster in the Creation of God is this Soul of mine! Methinks you should set your selves, if any of you can find this to be the case, to weep over your own Souls. Some may see cause to say: Oh my Soul, thou hast in thee other valuable things, thou hast Understanding in thee, Judgment in thee, Wit in thee; perhaps Learning, considerable acquired Endowments in thee; but thou hast not the love of God in thee: I can do many other commendable or useful things, I can Discourse plausibly, Argue subtly, I can manage Affairs dexterously, but I can't love God: Oh my Soul, how great an Essential dost thou want to all Religion, to all Duty, to all Felicity! The one thing necessary thou wantest, thou hast every thing but what thou needest more than any thing, more than all things: And Oh my Soul, what is like at this rate to become of thee? Where art thou to have thy eternal abode? To what Regions of Horror, and Darkness, and Woe, art thou going? What Society can be fit for thee? No lover of God! No lover of God! what, but of Infernal accursed Spirits that are at utmost distance from him, and to whom no beam of holy vital Light shall ever shine to all Eternity: Thou, Oh my Soul, art self-abandoned to the blackness of ⟨p. 9⟩Darkness for ever. Thy doom is in thy Breast, thy own Bosom: Thy no-love to God is thy own doom, thy eternal doom: Creates thee a present Hell, and shows whither thou belongest.
Fifthly, Hereupon too: Pity thy self, pity thy own Soul, there is cause to hate it, to loath it, and is there no cause to pity it? to lament it? Doth not this look like a lamentable case? Oh! what a Soul have I, that can love any thing else, that can love Trifles, that can love Impurities, that can love Sin: And can't love God, Christ, the most desirable good of Souls? What a Soul have I? What a Monster in the Creation of God is this Soul of mine! Methinks you should set your selves, if any of you can find this to be the case, to weep over your own Souls. Some may see cause to say: Oh my Soul, thou hast in thee other valuable things, thou hast Understanding in thee, Judgment in thee, Wit in thee; perhaps Learning, considerable acquired Endowments in thee; but thou hast not the love of God in thee: I can do many other commendable or useful things, I can Discourse plausibly, Argue subtilly, I can manage Affairs dexterously, but I can't love God: Oh my Soul, how great an Essential dost thou want to all Religion, to all Duty, to all Felicity! The one thing necessary thou wantest, thou hast every thing but what thou needest more than any thing, more than all things: And Oh my Soul, what is like at this rate to become of thee? Where art thou to have thy eternal abode? To what Regions of Horror, and Darkness, and Woe, art thou going? What Society can be fit for thee? No lover of God! No lover of God! what, but of Infernal accursed Spirits that are at utmost distance from him, and to whom no beam of holy vital Light shall ever shine to all Eternity: Thou, Oh my Soul, art self-abandon'd to the blackness of ⟨p. 9⟩Darkness for ever. Thy doom is in thy Breast, thy own Bosom: Thy no-love to God is thy own doom, thy eternal doom: Creates thee a present Hell, and shews whither thou belongest.
