and shied so many tears for the things of this present life, how am I
to be bemoaned, pitied, and prayed for! My soul is dying, my soul is
damning. Were my soul but in a good condition, and were I but sure
of it, ah! how rich would I esteem myself, though blessed but with
bread and water! I should count those but small afflictions, and
bear them as little burdens. A wounded spirit who can bear?"

This long interval of gloom was at last relieved by a brief sunburst
of joy. He heard a sermon on the text, "Behold, thou art fair, my
love;" in which the preacher said, that a ransomed soul is precious
to the Saviour, even when it appears very worthless to itself,--that
Christ loves it when tempted, assaulted, afflicted, and mourning
under the hiding of God's countenance. Bunyan went home musing on
the words, till the truth of what the preacher said began to force
itself upon his mind; and half incredulous at first, a hesitating
hope dawned in upon his spirit. "Then I began to give place to the
word, which, with power, did over and over make this joyful sound
within my soul--"Thou art my love, thou art my love; and nothing
shall separate thee from my love." And with that my heart was filled
full of comfort and hope; and now I could believe that my sins should
be forgiven me: yea, I was now so taken with the love and mercy of
God, that I remember I could not tell how to contain till I got home.
I thought I could have spoken of his love, and have told of his mercy
to me, even to the very crows that sat upon the ploughed lands before
me, had they been capable to have understood me. Wherefore, I said
in my soul, with much gladness, Well, I would I had pen and ink here.
I would write this down before I go any farther; for surely I will
not forget this forty years hence."

However, as he himself remarks, in less than forty days he had