Whose love could this be—as mighty as death itself, that conqueror of kings, that destroyer of the human race? Would it not sound like mockery if you applied these words to my poor, weak, barely breathing love for Jesus my Lord? Yes, I do love him, and perhaps by his grace I could even die for him. But my love? Left to itself? It can barely withstand a mocking laugh, much less a cruel death.

No, surely this speaks of my Beloved's love—the love of Jesus, the matchless lover of souls. His love was stronger than the most terrible death, for it endured the trial of the cross triumphantly.

It was a lingering death, but love survived the torment.

It was a shameful death, but love despised the shame.

It was a penal death, but love bore our iniquities.

It was a forsaken, lonely death, from which the eternal Father hid his face, but love endured the curse and gloried over all.

Never such love! Never such death! It was a desperate duel, but love bore the palm.

What then, my heart? Have you no emotions stirred within you at the contemplation of such heavenly affection? Yes, my Lord, I long—I pant—to feel your love flaming like a furnace within me! Come yourself and ignite the fire of my spirit!

"For every drop of crimson blood Thus shed to make me live, O wherefore, wherefore have not I A thousand lives to give?"

Why should I despair of loving Jesus with a love as strong as death? He deserves it: I desire it. The martyrs felt such love, and they were but flesh and blood—then why not I? They mourned their weakness, and yet out of weakness were made strong. Grace gave them all their unflinching constancy—there is the same grace for me.

Jesus, lover of my soul, shed abroad such love, even your love in my heart, this evening.