Nothing Is Unknown To Him

This very instrument hath been in my possession these two full years hence. I reckon with certainty that any seasoned preacher of the Gospel would recognize the common bullhorn—that great, coarse trumpet of the age. Yet, I assume with a measure of sorrow that only a precious few would recognize the form of this singular object, much less comprehend the sacred purpose for which it is faithfully employed. It is a humble testimony that the Lord provides the specialized tool for the precise need in the service of His Kingdom.

By no means can it be conceived that this outward service should earn for me any merit in the eyes of the Holy One. Nay, this labor is but the visible raiment of a far deeper, oft-tested disposition of the soul—a spirit perpetually at war with the rebellious flesh. My ever-present sense of foreboding lack and total helplessness is the very goad that drives me ever deeper into the blessed soil of Calvary, where the puddle of atoning blood yet remains . That precious, crimson pool is perpetually fed by the blood drawn from Emmanuel's sacred veins. There would I lay myself down upon the cold, hard floor, wishing with all my being to stay forever, terrified of the sin that perpetually crouches just outside my door. Of a truth, I declare that the safest, most secure place on this troubled earth is at the foot of the Cross. I comprehend the heart of those penitent kings of old who would spend long nights and weeks in that very place; I would lay there until blessed sleep would mercifully overcome me. The Scriptures nowhere attest that God doth store our grand proclamations inside a bottle, but it is written that indeed He keeps our tears (Psalm 56:8). Neither does it declare that the preaching of the pastor comes up to Him as a sweet memorial and a pleasing savour, but rather that the prayers of the saints rise as incense to His Throne (Revelation 5:8). Thus, the spirit's chief reliance must ever be upon humility and intercession, wrought by the power of the blood.

Hence, the sackcloth.

Oh, but one may be tempted to bring up a dreadful charge: "Sir, you are being legalistic! Tell us, what do you, in the end, receive from this arduous labour?" I shall answer honestly: Nothing of earthly profit! I receive nothing save a weary shoulder from bearing the cross-plank and a grievous ache in my poor back come morning. But must I truly care for any benefit to this vile, temporal flesh? The only question that matters is this: What doth He receive? I now will speak plainly: 

He gets me. He gets the pouring forth of my soul and the breaking of my spirit. He gets my heart and being. It's what he gets, and not I.

This is the only acceptable recompense. Let us cast off the foolish fairy-tale that men ought to perpetually benefit from following the Almighty. What hath God yet to give that He hath not already freely bestowed? The life of a believer is a bestowed privilege—the highest of all earthly honours that all the gold of the world can never purchase. This life, therefore, is utterly dedicated to giving back to God what this person, in his wretchedness, denied Him for so long: the very glory that is His due for being the Eternal God! He delights in my small, humble joy when I delight in worshipping Him. He delights in pouring out His divine strength when my own fails. He delights in granting me His perfect joy and peace. He delights in revealing that blessed salvation that is entirely found in Christ! With a pure heart and a clear conscience, I ache within myself that I might be able to utter truthfully unto Him: "Nothing on earth I desire but Thee alone." But I confess, with a humble sigh, that this perfect state of devotion is yet to be attained. For now, this soul can only wish and strive toward that glorious end.

Hence, the sackcloth.