And without controversy great is the mystery of godliness: God was manifest in the flesh, justified in the Spirit, seen of angels, preached unto the Gentiles, believed on in the world, received up into glory.
— 1 Timothy 3:16
Whosoever transgresseth, and abideth not in the doctrine of Christ, hath not God. He that abideth in the doctrine of Christ, he hath both the Father and the Son. If there come any unto you, and bring not this doctrine, receive him not into your house, neither bid him God speed:
— 2 John 1:9-10
Holding the mystery of the faith in a pure conscience.
— 1 Timothy 3:9
The Believer’s Riddle; Or, The Mystery Of Faith Poem, by Ralph Erskine. The following contains an excerpt from his work, “Gospel Sonnets.”
Preface,
Shewing the use and design of the Riddle.
Reader, the following enigmatic song
Does not to wisest nat’ralists belong:
Their wisdom is but folly on this head;
They here may ruminate, but cannot read,
For though they glance the words, the meaning chokes,
They read the lines, but not the paradox.
The subject will, howe’er the phrase be blunt,
Their most accute intelligence surmount,
If with the nat’ral and acquired sight
They share not divine evangelic light.
Great wits may rouse their fancies, rack their brains,
And after all their labour lose their pains;
Their wisest comments were but witless chat,
Unapt to frame an explication pat.
No unregen’rate mortal’s best engines
Can right unriddle these few rugged lines;
Nor any proper notions thereof reach,
Though sublimated to the highest stretch.
Masters of reason, plodding men of sense,
Who scorn to mortify their vain pretence,
In this mysterious deep might plod their fill;
It overtops the top of all their skill.
The more they vainly huff, and scorn to read,
The more it does their foolish wit exceed.
Those sinners that are sanctify’d in part,
May read this riddle truly in their heart.
Yea, weakest saints may feel its truest sense,
Both in their sad and sweet experience.
Don’t overlook it with a rambling view,
And rash suppose it neither good nor true.
Let Heaven’s pure oracles the truth decide;
Renounce it, if it can’t that test abide.
Noble Bereans soon the sense may hit,
Who sound the divine depth of sacred writ,
Not by what airy carnal reason saith,
But by the golden line of heaven-spun faith.
Let not the naughty phrase make you disprove
The weighty matter which deserves your love.
High strains would spoil the riddle’s grand intent,
To teach the weakest, most illit’rate saint.
That Mananaim is his proper name;
In whom two struggling hosts made bloody game.
That such may know, whose knowledge is but rude,
How good consists with ill, and ill with good.
That saints be neither at their worst nor best,
Too much exalted, or too much deprest.
This paradox is fitted to disclose
The skill of Zion’s friends above her foes;
To difference by light that Heaven transmits,
Some happy fools from miserable wits,
Add thus (if bless’d) it may in some degree
Make fools their wit, and wits their folly see.
Slight not the riddle then like jargon vile,
Because not garnish’d with a pompous style.
Could th’ author act the lofty poet’s part
Who make their sonnets soar on wings of art,
He on this theme had blush’d to use his skill,
And either clipt his wings, or broke his quill.
Why, this enigma climbs such divine heights
As scorn to be adorn’d with human flights.
These gaudy strains would lovely truth disgrace,
As purest paint deforms a comely face.
Heav’n’s mysteries are ‘bove art’s ornament,
Immensely brighter than its brightest paint.
No tow’ring lit’rator could e’er outwit
The plainest diction fetch’d from sacred writ;
By which mere blazing rhet’ric is outdone,
As twinkling stars are by the radiant sun.
The soaring orators, who can with ease
Strain the quintessence of hyperboles,
And cloth the barest theme with purest dress,
Might here expatiate much, yet say the less,
If wi’ th’ majestical simplicity
Of scripture orat’ry they disagree.
These lines pretend not to affect the sky,
Content among inglorious shades to lie,
Provided sacred truth be fitly clad,
Or glorious shine ev’n through the dusky shade,
Mark then, though you should miss the gilded strain,
If they a store of golden truth contain:
Nor under-rate a jewel rare and prime,
Though wrapt up in the rags of homely rhime.
Though haughty Deists hardly stoop to say,
That nature’s night has need of scripture day:
Yet gospel-light alone will clearly shew
How ev’ry sentence here is just and true,
Expel the shades that may the mind invoke,
And soon the seeming contradiction solve.
All fatal errors in the world proceed
From want of skill, such mysteries to read.
Vain men the double branch of truth divide,
Hold by the one, and slight the other side.
Hence proud Arminians cannot reconcile
Freedom of grace with freedom of the will.
The blinded Papist won’t discern nor see
How works are good unless they justify.
Thus Legalists distinguish not the odds
Between their home-bred righteousness and God’s.
Antinomists the saints perfection plead,
Nor duly sever ‘tween them and their Head.
Socinians won’t these seeming odds agree,
How heav’n is bought, and yet salvation free.
Bold Arians hate to reconcile or scan,
How Christ is truly God and truly man;
Holding the one part of Immanuel’s name,
The other part outrageously blaspheme.
The sound in faith no part of truth controul:
Heretics own the half, but not the whole.
Keep then the sacred myst’ry still entire;
To both sides of truth do favour bear,
Not quitting one to hold the other branch;
But passing judgement on an equal bench;
The Riddle has two feet, and were but one
Cut off, truth falling to the ground were gone.
‘Tis all a contradiction, yet all true,
And happy truth, if verify’d in you.
Go forward then to read the lines, but stay
To read the riddle also by the way.
Sect. I.
The Mystery of the Saints Pedigree, and especially of their relation to Christ’s wonderful person.
My life’s a maze of seeming traps,
A scene of mercies and mishaps;
A heap of jarring to and foes,
A field of joys, a flood of woes.
I’m in mine own and others eyes,
A labyrinth of mysteries.
I’m something that from nothing came,
Yet sure it is, I nothing am.
One was I dead, and blind, and lame,
Yea, I continue still the same;
Yet what I was, I am no more,
Nor ever shall be as before.
My Father lives, my father’s gone,
My vital head both lost and won.
My parents cruel are and kind,
Of one, and of a diff’rent mind.
My father poison’d me to death,
My mother’s hand will stop my breath;
Her womb, that once my substance gave,
Will very quickly be my grave.
My sisters all my flesh will eat,
My brethren tread me under feet;
My nearest friends are most unkind,
My greatest foe’s my greatest friend.
He could from fend to friendship pass,
Yet never changes from what he was.
He is my Father, he alone
Who is my Father’s only Son.
I am his mother’s son, yet more,
A son his mother never bore,
But born of him, and yet aver
His Father’s son my mother’s were.
I am divorc’d, yet marry’d still,
With full consent, against my will.
My husband present is, yet gone,
We differ much, yet still are one.
He is the first, the last, the all,
Yet number’d up with insects small.
The first of all things, yet alone
The second of the great Three-one.
A creature? never could he be!
Yet is a creature strange I see;
And own this uncreated one,
The son of man, yet no man’s son.
He’s omnipresent, all may know,
Yet never could be wholly so.
His manhood is not here and there,
Yet he is God-man ev’ry where.
He comes and goes, none can him trace,
Yet never could he change his place.
But though he’s good and ev’ry where,
No good’s in hell, yet he is there.
I by him, in him chosen was,
Yet of the choice he’s not the cause:
For sov’reign mercy ne’er was bought,
Yet through his blood a vent it sought.
In him concenter’d at his death
His Father’s love, his Father’s wrath:
Even he whom passion never seiz’d,
Was then most angry, when most pleas’d.
Justice requir’d that he should die
Who yet was slain unrighteously,
And dy’d in mercy and in wrath,
A lawful and a lawless death.
With him I neither liv’d nor dy’d,
And yet with him was crucify’d.
Law-curses stopt his breath, that he
Might stop its mouth from cursing me.
‘Tis now a thousand years and moe
Since heav’n receiv’d him, yet I know,
When he ascended up on high,
To mount the throne, ev’n so did I.
Hence though earth’s dunghill I embrace,
I sit with him in heav’nly place.
In divers distant orbs I move,
Inthrall’d below, inthron’d above.
Sect. II.
The mystery of the Saint’s life, state, and frame.
My life’s a pleasure and a pain;
A real loss, a real gain;
A glorious paradise of joys;
A grievous prison of annoys.
I daily joy, and daily mourn,
Yet daily wait the tide’s return:
Then sorrow deep my spirit cheers,
I’m joyful in a flood of tears.
Good cause I have still to be sad,
Good reason always to be glad.
Hence still my joys with sorrow meet,
And still my tears are bitter sweet.
I’m cross’d, and yet have all my will;
I’m always empty, always full.
I hunger now, and thirst no more,
Yet do more eager than before.
With meat and drink indeed I’m blest,
Yet feed on hunger, drink on thirst.
My hunger brings a plenteous store,
My plenty makes me hunger more.
Strange is the place of my abode,
I dwell at home, I dwell abroad.
I am not where all men may see,
But where I never yet could be.
I’m full of hell, yet full of heav’n;
I’m still upright, yet still unev’n;
Imperfect, yet a perfect saint;
I’m ever poor, yet never want.
No mortal eye sees God and lives,
Yet sight and of him my soul revives.
I live best when I see most bright,
Yet live by faith and not by sight.
I’m lib’ral, yet have nought to spare;
Most richly cloth’d, yet stript and bare.
My stock is risen by my fall;
For, having nothing, I have all.
I’m sinful, yet I have no sin;
All spotted o’er, yet wholly clean.
Blackness and beauty both I share,
A hellish black, a heav’nly fair.
They’re of the dev’l, who sin amain,
But I’m of God, yet sin retain!
This traitor vile the throne assumes,
Prevails, yet never overcomes.
I’m without guile, an Isra’lite,
Yet like a guileful hypocrite;
Maintaining truth in th’ inward part,
With falsehood stirring in my heart.
Two masters, sure, I cannot serve,
But must from one regardless swerve;
Yet self is for my master known,
And Jesus is my Lord alone.
I seek myself incessantly
Yet daily do myself deny.
To me ’tis lawful, evermore,
Myself to love and to abhor.
In this vain world I live, yet see
I’m dead to it, and it to me.
My joy is endless, yet at best
Does hardly for a moment last.
Sect. III.
Mysteries about the saints work and warfare; their sins, sorrows, and joys.
The work is great, I’m call’d unto,
Yet nothing’s left for me to do:
Hence for my work Heav’n has prepar’d
No wages, yet a great reward.
To works, but not to working dead;
From sin, but not from sinning freed,
I clear myself from no offence,
Yet wash mine hands in innocence.
My Father’s anger burns like fire,
Without a spark of furious ire:
Though still my sins displeasing be,
Yet still I know he’s pleas’d with me.
Triumphing is my constant trade,
Who yet am oft a captive led.
My bloody war does never cease,
Yet I maintain a stable peace.
My foes assaulting conquer me,
Yet ne’er obtain the victory;
For all my battles, lost or won,
Were gain’d before they were begun.
I’m still at ease, and still opprest;
Have constant trouble, constant rest;
Both clear and cloudy, free and bound;
Both dead and living, lost and found.
Sin for my good does work and win;
Yet ’tis not good for me to sin.
My pleasure issues from my pain;
My losses still increase my gain.
I’m heal’d, ev’n when my plagues abound,
Cover’d with dust, ev’n when I’m crown’d:
As low as death, when living high,
Nor shall I live, yet cannot die,
For all my sins my heart is sad,
Since God’s dishonour’d, yet I’m glad;
Though once I was a slave to sin,
Since God does thereby honour win.
My sins are in his eye,
Yet he beholds no sin in me:
His mind that keeps them all in store,
Will yet remember them no more.
Because my sins are great, I feel
Great fears of heavy wrath; yet still
For mercy seek, for pardon wait,
Because my sins are very great.
I hope, when plung’d into despair;
I tremble, when I have no fear.
Pardons dispel my griefs and fears,
And yet dissolve my heart in tears.
Sect. IV.
Mysteries in Faith’s extractions, way and walk, prayers and answers, heights and depths, fear and love.
With wasps and bees my busy bill
Sucks ill from good, and good from ill.
Humil’ty makes my pride to grow,
And pride aspiring lays me low.
My standing does my fall procure,
My falling makes me stand more sure.
My poison does my physic prove,
My enmity provokes my love.
My poverty infers my wealth,
My sickness issues in my health:
My hardness tends to make me soft,
And killing things do cure me oft.
While high attainments cast me down,
My deep abasements raise me soon;
My best things oft have evil brood,
My worst things work my greatest good.
My inward foes that me alarm,
Breed me much hurt yet little harm.
I get no good by them, yet see,
To my chief good, they cause me flee.
They reach to me a deadly stroke,
Yet send me to a living rock.
They make me long for Canaan’s banks,
Yet sure I owe them little thanks.
I travel, yet stand firm and fast;
I run, but yet I make no haste.
I take away, both old and new,
Within my sight, yet out of view.
My way directs me, in the way,
And will not suffer me to stray:
Though high and out of sight it be,
I’m in the way; the way’s in me.
‘Tis straight, yet full of heights and depths;
I keep the way, the way me keeps.
And being that to which I tend,
My very way’s my journey’s end.
When I’m in company I groan,
Because I then am most alone;
Yet, in my closet secrecy,
I’m joyful in my company.
I’m heard afar, without a noise;
I cry without a lifted voice:
Still moving in devotion’s sphere,
Yet seldom steady persevere.
I’m heard when answer’d soon or late;
And heard when I no answer get:
Yea, kindly answer’d when refus’d,
And friendly treat when harshly us’d.
My fervent pray’rs ne’er did prevail,
Nor e’er of prevalency fail.
I wrestle till my strength be spent,
Yet yield when strong recruits are sent.
I languish for my Husband’s charms,
Yet faint away when in his arms;
My sweetest health does sickness prove;
When love me heals, I’m sick of love.
I am most merry when I’m sad;
Most full of sorrow when I’m glad:
Most precious when I am most vile,
And most at home when in exile.
My base and honourable birth
Excites my mourning, and my mirth;
I’m poor, yet stock’d with untold rent;
Most weak, and yet omnipotent.
On earth there’s none so great and high,
Nor yet so low and mean as I:
None or so foolish, or so wise,
So often fall, so often rise.
I seeing him I never saw,
Serve without fear, and yet with awe.
Though love when perfect, fear remove;
Yet most I fear when most I love.
All things are lawful unto me,
Yet many things unlawful be;
To some I perfect hatred bear,
Yet keep the law of love entire.
I’m bound to love my friends, but yet
I sin unless I do them hate:
I am oblig’d to hate my foes,
Yet bound to love, and pray for those.
Heart-love to men I’m call’d t’ impart,
Yet God still calls for all my heart.
I do him and his service both
By nature love, by nature lothe.
Sect. V.
Mysteries about flesh and spirit, liberty and bondage, life and death.
Much like my heart, both false and true,
I have a name, both old and new.
No new thing is beneath the sun;
Yet all is new, and old things gone.
Though in my flesh dwells no good thing,
Yet Christ in me I joyful sing.
Sin I confess, and I deny:
For though I sin, it is not I.
I sin against, and with my will;
I’m innocent, yet guilty still,
Though fain I’d be the greatest saint,
To be the least I’d be content.
My lowness may my height evince,
I’m both a beggar and a prince.
With meanest subjects I appear,
With kings a royal sceptre bear.
I’m both unfetter’d and involv’d.
By law condemn’d, by law absolv’d.
My guilt condignly punish’d see,
Yet I the guilty wretch go free.
My gain did by my loss begin;
My righteousness commenc’d by sin;
My perfect peace by bloody strife;
Life is my death, and death my life.
I’m (in this present life I know)
A captive and a freeman too;
And though my death can’t set me free,
It will perfect my liberty.
I am not worth one dusty grain,
Yet more than worlds of golden gain;
Though worthless I myself endite,
Yet shall as worthy walk in white.
Sect. VI.
The Mystery of free justification though Christ’s obedience and satisfaction.
No creature ever could or will
For sin yield satisfaction full;
Yet justice from the creature’s hand
Both sought and got its full demand.
Hence though I am, as well I know,
A debtor, yet I nothing owe.
My creditor has nought to say,
Yet never had I aught to pay.
He freely pardon’d ev’ry mite,
Yet would no single farthing quit,
Hence ev’ry bliss that falls to me
Is dearly bought, yet wholly free.
All pardon that I need I have,
Yet daily pardon need to crave.
The law’s arrest keeps me in awe,
But yet ‘gainst me there is no law.
Though truth my just damnation crave,
Yet truth’s engag’d my soul to save.
My whole salvation comes by this,
Fair truth and mercy’s mutual kiss.
Law-breakers ne’er its curse have miss’d;
But I ne’er kept it, yet am bless’d.
I can’t be justify’d by it,
And yet it can’t but me acquit.
I’m oblig’d to keep it more,
Yet more oblig’d than e’er before.
By perfect doing life I find.
Yet do and live no more me bind.
These terms no change can undergo,
Yet sweetly chang’d they are: For lo,
My doing caus’d my life, but now
My life’s the cause that makes me do.
Though works of righteousness I store,
Yet righteousness of works abhor;
For righteousness without a flaw
Is righteousness without the law.
In duties way I’m bound to lie,
Yet out of duties bound to fly:
Hence merit I renounce with shame,
Yet right to life by merit claim.
Merit of perfect righteousness
I never had, yet never miss;
On this condition I have all,
Yet all is unconditional.
Though freest mercy I implore,
Yet I am free on justice’ score;
Which never could the guilty free,
Yet fully clears most guilty me.
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