I’m not sure if I’ve posted this before, but if so, it is still worth another read. Via my friend, Joe Thorn ::
Jesus is the best hiding place and covert from the tempest of an agitated conscience. When the lightning of conviction flashes upon the soul, and guilt with its thundering voice spreads its dark folds over the mind, no where but in Jesus can be found a covert from the bursting storm.
To what other refuge can a sinner fly when the horrid nature of his rebellion is laid open before him? At what time his ingratitude to the God that made, redeemed and preserves him appears; at what time he is terrified and confounded by the frequent repetition of his sins and the obstinacy of his corruptions; at what time guilt, superadded to guilt, rolls its dark wreaths over the soul, like clouds that “return after the rain,” no where but in Jesus can he find a refuge from the gathering tempest.
The blood of Christ, sprinkling his conscience from dead works, has a wonderful power to relieve from the pangs of conscious guilt. It is the most sovereign balm to a wounded spirit.
“Give me Jesus or I die,” cries the agonized soul. “None but Christ, none but Christ. Take away that cloud that I may see him, and I shall live.” What other refuge can a soul find that is racked with guilt? Let him go to his wealth, his honors, his pleasures; they are all unsavory ashes in the mouth of a man dying with hunger. Let him go to philosophy, it is a stranger to his case, and knows nothing either of his griefs or his wants. Let him go to speculative divinity, it is no physician, but only a corpse laid by the side of a dying man. Let him go to the courts of the Lord,
—let him go to his Bible, to his knees, and all without Christ are nothing. Let him go to God, and God out of Christ “is a consuming fire.” But let him only come in sight of Jesus, and get near enough to “touch” if it be but” the hem of his garment,” and all his pains are instantly relieved,—the fire in his conscience is quenched, and he is as much at ease as though he never felt a pain.
– Edward Griffin (1770-1837)