Having obtained some relaxation from his menial duties, Luther now returned to his studies with fresh zeal. Reading and meditation were his delight. The works of the Fathers, especially of St. Augustine, attracted his attention. In a certain spot of the convent there was a Bible fastened by a chain, and thither the young monk often resorted to read the word of God, though as yet he had no spiritual discernment of its meaning. One of the friars, named John Lange, with whom Luther became acquainted, possessed considerable knowledge both of the Greek and Hebrew, languages which Luther had not yet found time to study. But his opportunity was now come, and he embraced it with great eagerness and industry. It was thus, in the seclusion of his cell, and with the help of John Lange, that he began to learn Greek and Hebrew, and thereby laid the foundation of the greatest and most useful of all his works—the translation of the Bible into the German tongue. Reuchlin's Hebrew Lexicon had just appeared, which greatly assisted him.
But Luther's reading and exercises of mind on the scriptures, from not understanding them, only increased his distress. To have the assurance of salvation was the one great desire of his agitated soul. Without this nothing could give him rest. He had entered the cloister, he had become a monk, he had struggled unceasingly against the evil of his own heart, he had spent whole nights on his knees on the floor of his cell, he had exceeded all his brethren in watchings, fastings, and mortifications, but in monkish perfection he had found no relief; it only plunged him into deeper despair, and well nigh cost him his life. Through the rigor of his asceticism he weakened his body till his mind wandered, and then he imagined that he saw and was surrounded with ghosts and demons. But why was this? some may inquire; was he not sincere? Most surely; but he sought to obtain peace with God by means of his own religious exercises, and in this he was bitterly disappointed. He was attempting to do the work for himself which Christ had done for him—and done perfectly. And are not thousands in the present day doing the very same thing that Luther did, only less sincere, less earnest, less self-denying? They are looking to themselves—it may be only to their feelings, or it may be to their doings or their reasonings, or their realizings. Still, self is the object before the mind, not Christ and His finished work. "Look unto me," says the blessed Lord; and what will the immediate result be? Salvation!—instant, complete, personal salvation! "Look unto Me, and be ye saved, all the ends of the earth: for I am God, and there is none else." (Isa. 45:2222Look unto me, and be ye saved, all the ends of the earth: for I am God, and there is none else. (Isaiah 45:22).) And to this truth every soul must bow before it can taste the sweetness of peace with God. But Luther was still ignorant of the sublime simplicity and the moral glory of the gospel of the grace of God.
At this period of Luther's history, he thought nothing too great a sacrifice that might enable him to attain that holiness which would secure salvation now, and heaven at last. He really thought to purchase eternal happiness by his own exertions; such is the darkness of the church of Rome, and such was the delusion of one of her most faithful sons. In after years, when he knew better, he wrote to Duke George of Saxony: "I was indeed a pious monk, and followed the rules of my order more strictly than I can express. If ever monk could obtain heaven by his monkish works, I should certainly have been entitled to it. Of this all the friars who have known me can testify. If it had continued much longer, I should have carried my mortifications even to death, by means of watchings, prayers, readings, and other labors." Admission into heaven by his own merits was the end at which he aimed, and which he pursued with a zeal that endangered his life.
From the strictness and abstemiousness of his monastic life he became subject to fits of depression. On one occasion, overwhelmed with a sense of his own wretchedness and sinfulness, he locked himself up in his cell, and for several days and nights refused to admit any one. A friendly monk, who knew something of the state of his mind, burst open his cell, and was alarmed to find him with his face on the ground, and in a state of insensibility. He was, after some difficulty, restored by the sweet singing of a few chorister boys, but he fainted again—the burden was still there. He required, not the soft music of a humn, but the sweeter music of the gospel of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. And this, through the mercy of God, was near at hand.