Among the most beautiful and calming things, one I have so much desired, is to have a heart that doesn't condemn me. To know that I am right with God, that I have lived blamelessly, walked uprightly, worked diligently, and did not frustrate the Spirit of Grace, or trample underfoot the blood of the covenant by which I was sanctified. Yet is not my latter state now clearly worse than the former?

‘Blessed are you when your heart doesn't condemn you,’ the Scriptures say, ‘and behold God knows our hearts.’ In Psalms 18:20, David writes:

Psalms 18 is a beautiful one, written by David after he had escaped several attempts at his life by King Saul. If upon reading the Bible my heart was meant to swell in gladness, then instead I was broken within me, if my mouth was meant to taste honey, it was as pepper. Farther on, in verse 21, David says:

Knowing well I could never make such a confession myself, tears came to my eyes. What righteousness could I ever claim, that the Lord would deal graciously with me on its account?

Looking back, I see only how much I have blundered, how much I have erred and lived like a son of the world when I had the name of the son of God on me. Careless and profligate, the name of God has been blasphemed because of me. I have brought shame on my house, and now I dare to stand before God? No, I know it for certain that my ways have not been blameless, and I do not have clean hands. I continue to return to my vomit, and entangle myself again with those things from which God delivered me. I wish I could say like Job, that I have not looked upon a virgin. I have coveted my neighbors wife, and his house. I have dealt treacherously. My mouth has uttered lies, my heart pondered deceit. I have squandered time on trifles, and set worthless trinkets before me. I have indulged my sensual pleasures, and turned my back on God even at that time when he called me so softly and tenderly.

Now, as I stand before you, O God, what Scripture would be my claim? What would my argument be? I deserve death. I cannot utter a word except weep and cry, but I am afraid even that may be insincere. God, what do you want with me? Why do you keep flashing glimpses of a life of freedom before me, why do you keep giving me hope when I am sure I deserve the worst? If God you would count iniquity, surely I would not stand. Am I better than prostitutes, seeing I have fornicated and lusted just as they? Am I worthier than thieves, when I have plundered and pilfered just as they? Do I stand innocent before slanderers, considering I have insulted and condemned just as they?

Should you punish me, Lord, I know I deserve it, and my righteousness would never acquit me. I am the most unworthiest and undeserving of your mercy, for I have known the price your son paid on the cross, and yet despised it. My hands are not clean, I am guilty of blood for I have layed Jesus upon the cross, and crucified him again. There's no escaping your judgement, there's no convincing you otherwise. I have desired in my heart to walk uprightly, but with my body I have done otherwise.

But God, where else would I go? Like John Donne I ask, ‘if I do not trust the Lord, who else will I trust?’ Your justice condemns me, and your wrath terrifies me, but where else am I to turn my face? My God, is there no one more chance? Yet I would understand it if you said: Nay, no longer. How I am stricken within me!

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