Bleed, my heart! and be pained, my inmost soul! at the irreverence that too often troubles me in my devotion, and defiles my best duties. O you sons of light! I see you stand at the eternal throne, and worship the Almighty, with profoundest awe and reverence. Yes, you angelic throng! though your countenance sparkles with glory, yet, before the Ancient of Days, you hide your faces with your wings, drop your greatness in his effulgent Majesty, and lose your beauty in his diviner beams. There the mighty Gabriel is a celestial worm; and all the seraphic principalities are but insects round the throne!
What, then, must I be before the High and Lofty One who alone inhabits eternity? I who dwell in clay, am crushed before the moth, clouded with ignorance, defiled by sin, dogged by death, pleased with phantoms and charmed with painted nothings! The language I write in, cannot afford words to describe my vileness; metaphors fall short, and fruitful fancy toils in vain. Then let me think, and fall down in deep debasement.
O tremendous gulf! where am I now! You fallen angels! you infernal throng! you I resemble in my irreverence towards God. Oh, horrid! shall I be like these wicked specters, these ancient sons of sin and death? Out of the belly of hell will I cry unto you: yet you have my heart, you have my love, and I will worship at your throne prostrate on the humble ground.
O you happy assembly on the heavenly mount, the mount of God! could I think like you, could I know like you, could my whole soul be enrapt in adoration and divine attention to the sweet employ, what delight would diffuse through all my powers of mind in my happiest moments!
What cause have I to fear lest your burning thunderbolts break on my irreverent head, and dash the daring wretch out of your gracious presence into perdition and woe? Be exalted in your condescension to my state, in your pity to my frame, and let your patience and forbearance swell my grateful anthem, while I long for that perfect state, wherein, though blessed with the nearest approaches, I shall always be filled with the profoundest respect, divinest awe, and not one improper thought of God shall pass my bosom.
James Meikle , 'converse with the unseen world'