“I sleep, but my heart waketh; it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: for my head is filed with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night” In this sad confession of the Bride, we have brought before us an aspect of experience, which many believers, Christian as well as Jewish, are frequently passing through, and which well deserves our patient meditation.
By far the greater proportion of Christians are more occupied with themselves, and their changeable feelings, than with the word of God. This is the fruitful source of endless troubles and perplexities to the soul. How often it happens in the history of some Christians, that when they experience a change of feeling in themselves, they hastily conclude that Christ Himself is not now what He once was to them. They judge the Lord by their own feelings, in place of believing in Him according to His own word. This is looking to self in place of Christ, and being governed by feelings in place of the unchangeable truth of God.
Only a few hours ago, as we may say, following the order of our song, the spouse was in the full joy of her Lord’s presence. She was then bright and happy, like a certain class of Christians in the full current of a joyous meeting. But supper being ended, and the guests withdrawn, she retires to rest. Very soon, alas, a change comes over her feelings which greatly troubles her. “I sleep, but my heart waketh.” She is restless, uncomfortable, unhappy. The heart is breathing after Christ, but she is indisposed to exert herself for Him. What a sad, melancholy state of things, when the blessed Jesus is knocking at the door! But this is no uncommon case. The believer may be in the main right at heart, but having fallen into a low, dull, sleepy state, spiritual duties become a burden, and they are either entirely neglected, or not done heartily. This is a miserable state of soul to be in, “I sleep, but — my heart waketh.” It is well to look at both sides of this “but.” She is neither asleep nor awake. On the one side there is a slumbering conscience, on the other, a wakeful heart. No quiet rest can she find — no refreshment. And well it is so when we become careless about the things of the Lord. But what a picture of thousands, and tens of thousands, who ought to be bright, happy, and always ready girded for anything in the way of service to Christ and immortal souls.
We now turn to the bright and blessed side of this instructive scene. Has the Lord changed because she is changed? Blind unbelief would be sure to say He had; and then unworthy thoughts of Christ would follow, and no end to doubts and fears. When inward thoughts are guiding, the words of Christ go for nothing. But, really, has her coldness and indifference not changed Him in the least towards her? The love of Christ towards His spouse, never for one moment changes, notwithstanding her backsliding and inconstancy. But no better answer could be given to the question, than the words of the sleepy spouse herself. Drowsy as she is, she knows His knock, and discerns the voice to be His; and still she says “my beloved” There is a life in her soul which must ever respond to that voice, in spite of failure. “It is the voice of my beloved” she says, “that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night.” Now thou hast, Ο my soul, the poor changeable believer, and the unchangeable Savior before thee, face to face, on the page of eternal truth. What thinkest thou? Are the vain suggestions of the human mind, in such a case, to be the guide, as to the mind of Christ, or the plain word of God? What could be plainer or more to the point, than the word before as? Mark it well, Ο my soul, and meditate thereon. And may its blessed light ever be reflected, from thy heart and conscience, in all thy intercourse with backsliding and troubled souls.
Fall of the most patient, touching love, are the words of the Bridegroom to His weak and erring Bride. In place of being influenced by her sad state of soul, and accusing her of ingratitude and indifference towards Himself, He appeals to her in terms more tender than on any former occasion. “Open to me” He says, “to me” — thine own Messiah — thy Beloved — I am Jesus — why shut the door against me?” “Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled.” Never before had He called her His “undefiled,” This term of wondrous grace and significancy, was reserved for the day of her deep failure. And never before had He alluded to the heavy “dews,” and the heavier “drops” of the night, by which He had been overtaken, in His path of devoted, unselfish love for her. Oh! what an appeal! Its deep, deep tones reecho from the darkness of Gethsemane, and from the solitudes of Calvary, the greatness of a love which nothing could turn aside from its purpose. But, alas, His appeal has but little effect on her sleep-laden conscience.
Is there anything in all this, let me now ask, that looks like a change in the love of Christ towards His backsliding one? Who can say there is? unless it be, that He now reveals His love more fully, and appeals to her more tenderly. Does He not plead with her in a way that is fit to melt the heart in listening to Him? He pleads as if it would be a great favor to Him, to be admitted under her roof? Or, like a weary traveler who has lost His way in a dark and stormy night, He pleads for shelter. It is also worthy of special note, that never before, at any one time, had He addressed her in so many terms of endearment. “Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled.” Such, Ο my soul, is the love of Christ—the love of Christ to a wandering one. Consider it well. There is but one heart that never changes. Oh! how we should value that heart—trust in that heart — count only on that heart — and always keep near to that changeless heart of perfect love. But, oh! alas, what hearts are ours. All this patient, wondrous love, is met by the slumbering spouse with great indifference, and answered with the most trifling and frivolous excuses.
“I have put of my coat; how shall I put it on? I have washed my feet; how shall I defile them? “ Alas, alas, for the daughter of Zion! How insensible, through failure, to the claims of her own Messiah — her gracious Lord. What a hardening — deadening thing is sin! “It is an evil thing and bitter, that thou hast forsaken the Lord thy God.” Once away from the presence of the Lord, and who can tell how far we may depart from Him, or into how many by-ways we may wander. The thought of such a course is fearful to contemplate. And the more we love our brethren, and the more spiritual our perception is, of this dreadful evil, the greater will be our sorrow over a backsliding soul. Who that has a care for souls and the Lord’s glory, has not wept in secret over the too manifestly decaying zeal, and dying energy of a once earnest, fervent spirit? The pastor’s heart once so cheered, so thankful, so hopeful, so delighted, to see such freshness of soul for Jesus! Early at all the meetings — the countenance beaming — the spirit joyous — every word about Christ dropping into —the soul like the oil of gladness; and only retiring from the public meeting to meditate on some fresh truth, and enjoy deeper communion with the Lord in secret.
Those who have felt the sorrow of such a bright soul being led astray, know what it is. As the green, fresh leaf of summer, after a severe blight, looks withered and drooping — seared as if a hot iron had passed over it; so, alas, does the soul that has been led away by some subtle snare of the enemy. Everything in appearance and manner changes.
Oh! how changed! irregularity in attendance soon follows. Every one, he imagines, is changed towards him; slow to learn the change is in himself. He takes offense at some little thing, it may be, and leaves. Now his seat is empty — he is gone — to where? The Lord only, in most cases, can answer this question. Not that we should be indifferent to “where?” But the Lord only can trace the steps of his wanderings. His sleepless eye follows him everywhere; and the heart that was once pierced for his sins, can never, never, no never, cease to care for him. In the wisdom of His love, He may allow the failing one to taste the bitterness and sorrow of his self-chosen ways; thus it will be with Israel by and by; but the Lord has always within His reach the means of bringing to repentance, and of the soul’s full restoration to Himself.
“My beloved put in his hand by the hole of the door, and my bowels were moved for him” This is a movement in the right direction. The Lord be praised. His own hand has done it. Now we have something like an answer to His love. Feeble it is, but real. The heart is moved for Him. She has never ceased to call Him, “my beloved.” There is affection for the Lord, though failure. But when the gentle, gracious knockings of a Savior’s love are unheeded, He employs other means. He knows the state of the heart, and what will effectually move it towards Himself. “Shall not God search this out; for he knoweth the secrets of the heart.” (Psalm 44:2121Shall not God search this out? for he knoweth the secrets of the heart. (Psalm 44:21).) Sometimes by means the most unexpected He reaches the conscience. The light coming in discovers where we are and what we are. Grace triumphs. The soul now seeks the presence of the Lord, and the happiness that is to be found alone in Him. Still, it may be some time before it fully recovers from its failure. There may be much sorrow, humbling, breaking down, before the perfect repose of His presence be found. Confused and agitated, like one just awakened out of sleep, we may run and seek the Lord where He never said He would be found. The sanctuary, not the city, is the place of His blessed and joy-giving presence.
“I rose to open to my beloved; and my hands dropped with myrrh, and my fingers with sweet-smelling myrrh, upon the handles of the lock.” Is there such a thing as sweet tears as well as bitter? and can both flow, mingled down at the same time? What more bitter to the taste than myrrh? What more fragrant to the smell than sweet-smelling myrrh? “My hands dropped with myrrh, and my fingers with sweet-smelling myrrh, upon the handles of the lock.” (myrrh, signifies, flowing, weeping.) Distinct now, and real, is the response of the Bride to the persevering love of her Bridegroom. “I rose to open to my beloved.” She is recovering from her spiritual indolence. The sense of her sin in not opening the door when He knocked, is bitterness in her soul; yet it is mingled with great affection for the one she slighted. Reaching the door at which He stood long, she finds the scene filled with the fragrance of His Person. Laying hold on the handles of the lock, “her hands dropped with myrrh, and her fingers with sweet-smelling myrrh.”
Now that she is awakened, and alive to what she has been, and to what she has done, deepest sorrow, and bitterest regret, mingled with the most adoring love for her good and gracious Lord, fill, and overflow her soul, like one who has ventured back, after sorrowful failure, to the scenes of former spiritual enjoyment. The well-known entrance — the sight of many faces, so familiar — the sound of a voice not forgotten, and which has still an echo in the now melting heart — fill the soul with deepest emotions. The whole scene recalls to the mind many by-gone days of truest happiness. And now, mingled with the yielding up of the heart to the love of Jesus, are the smitings of an upbraiding conscience. The heart in silence breathes,” Lord Jesus, I am ashamed and blush before Thee. Miserable and unhappy have I been every hour of my wanderings. Oh! how ungrateful! how ungrateful have I been! Oh! that I should have brought this stain on Thy blessed name! My soul is bitter with self-reproach. Lord, can I be forgiven.’ But oh! deepen in my soul the sense of my sin in going astray, and of Thy holiness and grace, in bringing me back to Thy fold, Restore unto me the joys of thy salvation. My soul cleaveth unto Thee.”
Blessed Redeemer! I acknowledge now
How wise, and firm, and suitable thy ways
Of mercy and of judgment — each in turn —
Bright, and more bright Thy loving kindness shines,
Dark, and more dark my own depravity.
By love’s most strong constraint with hands that drop
Sweet smelling odors by Thyself bestowed.
No longer in responseless apathy
I hear Thee knock: but now obedient made.