The Death of Her Father and Her Daughter

Reflections on
the Life of
Madame Jeanne de la Mothe Guyon.

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Incidents of 1672. Presentiment of her father’s death. A message reaches her soon after with the news of his last sickness. His death. Remarks. Affectionate eulogium on her daughter.  Her sickness and death.

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Thus passed the year 1671. I am particular in the periods of time, so far as I am able to ascertain them, which is not always easy to be done. And the reason is, that by connecting the dealings of God and the progress of the inward life with specific times and situations, the mental operation is aided, and we can hardly fail to have a clearer idea of the incidents which are narrated. Another year had now opened upon her, and found her renewedly consecrated to God, and growing wiser and holier through the discipline of bitter experience. Her trials had been somewhat less in this year than in the preceding, but still they were not wholly suspended. And as God designed that she should be wholly his, there were other trials in prospect, which were designed to aid in this important result. We proceed, therefore, in our narrative, with such incidents and facts as we are able to gather from the sources of information found in her own writings and in the writings of some of her contemporaries, which remain to us.

Faith and The Desire for Life

The Appetites, which always attract especial attention as having usurped a dominion over man to which they are not entitled, are tendencies or desires, which are closely connected with the necessities of our physical system. We have seen in what manner they may be regulated and purified. 

The propensive principles, which are more closely connected with the necessities of the mental nature, and are generally regarded as sustaining a higher rank, are liable to be perverted, as well as the appetites; and need continually the purifying influences and the restraints of sanctifying grace. And if faith, by its action either direct or indirect, can purify and subordinate the lower principles, which are so often perverted and are known to be so violent in their perversion, there is no reason to suppose that it has less of regulating and sanctifying efficacy in its application to other and higher parts of our nature.
 

The desire of life, that is to say, the desire of the preservation and of the continuance of life, is not, in the proper sense of the terms, an Appetite; but it is obviously an implanted principle of our nature, which may properly be denominated a PROPENSITY. 

He, who has faith, may be said, just in proportion as he has it, to take his “life in his hands,” as the Scriptures express it, and to hold it at the divine pleasure. The anxieties, which afflict others, and which often render their lives a burden, do not, in a great degree, trouble those, who believe. Admitting, as they cannot well do otherwise, the correctness of the common remark, that in life we are in the midst of death, and admitting all that can be justly said of our constant exposure to various sufferings, they leave the issues of their earthly being in his hands, who gave it, without disquieting solicitude. The season of danger, even when the natural instincts take the alarm, is not a season of distrust and unholy fear; and when in the course of divine providence, the hour of dissolution comes, it comes rightly and well. “Is not the life,” says the Savior, “more than meat, and the body than raiment? Behold the fowls of the air; for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?”

— edited from The Life of Faith, Part 2, Chapter 5

Vanity of Life

"As for man, his days are as grass; as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more." — Ps. 103. 15, 16.

And they are gone, the friends that once I knew;
I look in vain to find them; low and still
They coldly lie, shut out from human view,
And from the joys which erst their breasts could fill.
No more for them the rosy morn shall gleam,
Nor wild bird charm their ear at day's sweet close;
No more shall friendship soothe life's fevered dream,
And love's sweet voice allure them to repose.
But, oh, 'tis vain to murmur or bewail,
Dwells ought on earth, that long on earth shall be?
The columns of the world itself shall fail,
Its gorgeousness shall fade, its pomp shall flee.
'Tis a small thing to die, if we shall rise
In renovated bliss, unchanging in the skies.

— The Religious Offering (1835) Scripture Sonnets XXIII.

Loss and Sickness and Death

Reflections on
the Life of
Madame Jeanne de la Mothe Guyon.

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God, in his dispensations, mingled judgments and mercies together.

Another circumstance, worthy of notice as occurring about this time, was the loss of a part of the property of the family. The revenues, accruing to the family from the Canal of Briare, which has already been mentioned, as having been completed by her husband's father, were very great. Louis Fourteenth, whose wars and domestic expenditures required large sums of money, took from them a part of the income arising from that source. The family, besides their usual place of residence in the country; had a valuable house in the city of Paris, in connection with which also a considerable sum of money was lost at this time; but in what way, or for what reason, is not stated. If the birth of a son tended to conciliate and to make things easy, the loss of property had a contrary effect. Her step-mother, who seems to have been an avaricious woman, was inconsolable at these losses; which, in the perversity of her mind, she made the occasion of new injuries and insults to her daughter-in-law, saying with great bitterness, that the family had been free from afflictions till she came among them, and that all their troubles and losses came with her.

Another circumstance worthy of notice, a little later in time, and having some bearing upon her religious tendencies, was a severe sickness which she had. This was in the second year of her marriage. The business of her husband kept him much in Paris; and at the time to which we now refer, the situation of his affairs was such as to require his presence there constantly. After much opposition on the part of her mother-in-law, she obtained her consent to leave their residence, which was a short distance out of the city, and to go for a time and reside there with him. But it is worthy of remark, that she did not obtain this consent, which could not well be withholden without an obvious violation of her rights, until she had called in the aid of her father, who insisted upon it.

She went to the Hotel de Longueville, where her husband staid. She was received with every demonstration of kindness from Madame de Longueville, and from the inmates of the house; and there were many things, notwithstanding the generally unpleasant position of her domestic relations, which tended to render her residence in the city agreeable.

While at the Hotel de Longueville she fell sick, and was reduced to great extremity. The prospect was, that she would soon die; and so far as the world was concerned, she felt that it had lost, in a great degree, its attractions, and she was willing to go. The priest who attended her, mistaking a spirit of deadness to the world, originating in part from her inability to enjoy it, for a true spirit of acquiescence in God's dispensations, thought well of her state. She seemed to him to be truly religious. But this was not her own opinion. She had merely begun to turn her eye, as it were, in the right direction.

"My sins were too present to my mind," she says, "and too painful to my heart, to permit me to indulge in a favorable opinion as to my acceptance with God. This sickness was of great benefit to me. Besides teaching me patience under violent pains, it served to give me newer and more correct views of the emptiness of worldly things. It had the tendency to detach me in some degree from self, and gave me new courage to suffer with more resignation than I had ever done."

But this was not all. Death had begun to make inroads in her family circle. Her paternal half-sister, who resided at the Ursuline Convent in Montargis, died, she informs us, two months before her marriage. To this sister, to whom she was exceedingly attached, she makes repeated references. Perhaps we know too little of her to speak with entire confidence. But she seems to have been a woman gentle in spirit and strong in faith, who lived in the world as those who are not of the world; and who, we may naturally suppose, died in the beauty and simplicity of Christian peace.

The loss of a sister, so deservedly esteemed and loved by Madame Guyon, could not possibly be experienced without making the earth less dear, and heaven more precious. And at the time of which we are now speaking, the second year of her marriage and the eighteenth year of her age, she experienced the separation of another strong tie to earth, by the loss of her mother.

“My mother departed this life," she remarks, "in great tranquillity of spirit, having, besides other virtues, been in particular very charitable to the poor. God, who seems to have regarded with favor her benevolent disposition, was pleased to reward her, even in this life, with such a spirit of resignation, that, though she was but twenty-four hours sick, she was made perfectly easy about everything that was near and dear to her in this world."

— edited from The Life of Madam Guyon Volume 1, Chapter 6,

Going Home

How pleasant 'tis, when life is run,
And never more our steps shall roam,
To say with joy, our work is done,
And we are going home.

How pleasant 'tis, our sorrows past,
With better, brighter worlds in view,
To give one parting look, the last.
And say with joy, Adieu!

The sting of death hath lost its power
To him who lives and never dies;
And death is the transition hour
Which leads him to the skies.

Oh live, oh reign, departing one!
Though gone from earth, to thee 'tis given,
With trials past, and victory won.
To gain the life of heaven.

— Christ in the Soul (1872) LXXVIII.

Confidence in God in Bereavements

"A  voice was beard in Ramah, lamentation, and bitter weeping; Rachel weeping  for  her children, refused to be comforted for her children because they were not." — Jer. 31.15.

Why has my child, my darling child departed?
Why has my God in wrath that lov'd one taken?
Leaving me desolate and broken-hearted,
0'erwhelmed and prostrate, hopeless and forsaken.
And is it all in wrath that I am smitten,
And pressed with burdens heavy to be borne?
Hope yet, my soul, in God, for he hath written
With his own finger,  bless'd are they who mourn.
Perhaps I loved my child more than my God,
Neglecting and forgetting every other,
And He in mercy sent the chastening rod,
And took away the child to save the mother.
Farewell, then, earth! Why should I look below?
I too will take my staff; and weeping heavenward go.

— The Religious Offering Scripture Sonnets XV.

Anticipations

Departed ones, that shine afar,
My earthly life is hasting through;
And soon, beyond the circling star,
Shall wing its raptured way to you.

Oh come, and meet me in my flight,
Oh come, and take me by the hand,
When first I greet celestial light,
And tread the new, the heavenly land.

Long years have worn my furrow'd brow,
And stained my cheek with many a tear;
But that is past, and brightly now
I see the land of glory near.

Dear sharers of my joys and tears,
Not dead, but only gone before!
Friends of my past, my early years,
Oh, meet me on the shining shore.

— Christ in the Soul (1872) LXXV.

The Blessed Name of Christ

"If ye be reproached for the name of Christ, happy are ye; for the Spirit of glory and of God resteth on you. On their part he is evil spoken of, but on your part he is glorified." — 1 Peter 4.14.

Whate'er our griefs in life, whate'er in death,
If doomed perchance to feel the martyr's flame,
Still, with our last and agonizing breath,
In joy will we repeat Christ's precious name:
Oh! there's a magic in that glorious word;
No other has such power; the mighty voice,
From senatorial lips and patriots heard,
Can ne'er like this enkindle, rouse, rejoice.
For Christ's dear name the saints, without a groan,
In times of old met death upon their knees;
For Christ's dear name the lonely Piedmontese
Down headlong o'er the crimson rocks were thrown.
That blessed name gives hope and strength and zeal,
That sets at nought alike the flood, the fire, the steel.

— The Religious Offering (1835) Scripture Sonnets IX.

Fear of Death

"For I am in a strait betwixt two, having a desire to depart to be with Christ, which is far better," — Phil. l. 23.

The body perishes, but not the mind;
The outward man decays, but that within
Shall grow more pure and bright, like gold refined,
Rebuilt in strength, and separate from sin.
E'en now I feel the purifying flame,
A fire from heaven is kindling in my heart,
Diffusing greater joy than words can name,
And pouring light through all the mental part.
That fire shall burn long after the sad hour,
When death shall bring the body to the grave.
Increasing in its brightness and its power,
Long as eternal ages roll their wave.
Why should we tremble, then, and fear to die;
Death but unbinds the soul, and frees us for the sky.

— The Religious Offering (1835) Scripture Sonnets IV.

The Christian Soldier

The archer's arrow smote me sore,
Sped by a skillful foe-man's hand;
And, though I bled at every pore,
The faith within me bade me, STAND.

The MASTER plac'd me; and He knew,
His orders were my only law;
And 'twas not one, when arrows flew,
That I should cowardly withdraw.

The soldiers in the Christian war,
With much to do, and much to dare,
Proclaim, in every bleeding scar,
Their faith in Him, who placed them there.

Great Chief and Leader of the strife!
Thy death has taught us how to die;
And if with Thee we yield our life,
Then death itself is victory.

— Christ in the Soul (1872) LVII.

I Would Not Always Live

"So that my soul chooseth strangling; and death rather than my life. I loath it; I would not live always; let me alone; for my days are vanity. What is man, that thou shouldest magnify  him, and that thou shouldest set thy heart upon him?"  Job vii. 15, 17.

I WOULD NOT ALWAYS LIVE. There's something here,
In this lone world of sorrow and of sin,
To which the purer heart, to virtue dear,
Finds no response, no sympathy within.
As when the rising sun dispels the cloud,
And spreads its glory o'er the dazzled sky,
So shall the mind cast off its moral shroud,
And bask in brightness, when it mounts on high.
That is its home; its high congenial place;
'Tis there, that, fitted with unearthly wings,
The spirit, running its eternal race,
And mounting ever up, triumphant sings.
I would not always live.  Hail glorious day,
Which gives us heavenly life, and takes our house of clay.

— American Cottage Life (1850) XXXVI.

Parental Bereavement

"Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand  of God,  that He may exalt you in due time; casting all your care upon Him, for He careth for you." 1 Peter, v. 6, 7.

I've lost my loved, my cherished little one,
Who smiling, prattling, clasped  her  Father's knee.
Alas!  Her  transient hour of life is run,
And her sweet tone and smile are nought to me.
The  grave hath claimed her. Oft I seem to hear
Her  blessed voice charming the vacant air.
I listen; but my own fond fancy's ear
Frames the sweet sound. My loved one is not there.
Onward, to where yon green tree waves its shade,
I look, when summer's sultry sun is high;
There, in her days of life and health, she played;
In  vain I thither turn my weeping eye.
God in his mercy took her; and 'tis mine
To  feel his ways  are  right, nor let my heart repine.

— American Cottage Life (1850) XXXV.

Freed From the Fear of Sickness and Death

The man who in the exercise of faith is fully united to God, is delivered from the fear of sickness and death. Undoubtedly, in themselves considered, sickness and death are afflictions. The truly devoted and godly man understands this as well as others. But fully believing that all things work together for the good of those who love God, he is freed from anxiety. He welcomes suffering, when God sends it, in whatever form it may come. The physical suffering and weakness which attend upon sickness, become means of growth in grace; and, so far from being causes of complaint, are welcomed and rejoiced in as the forerunners of increased purity and happiness. And while many are constantly subject to bondage, through fear of death, the holy man looks upon it as the end of sorrow and the beginning of glory.

— edited from A Treatise on Divine Union (1851) Part 8, Chapter 5.

The Grave of the Beautiful

"So also is the resurrection of the dead. It is sown in corruption; it is raised in incorruption: it is sown in dishonor; it is raised in glory: it is sown in weakness; it is raised in power."  1 Cor. xv. 42, 43.

Where, near yon river's brink, the willows wave,
And summer's flowers to golden life have sprung;
Is dimly seen the village maiden's grave,
Forever gone, the beautiful and young.
The boatman turns to that sad spot his eye,
When o'er the wave his lingering sail is spread,
And see, when sunset gilds the pictured sky,
Her sister maids draw near with silent tread.
Alas, how oft the gems of earth grow pale,
And stars, that blessed us, dim their rising ray!
But not in vain their beauty do they veil,
And see their earthly glory pass away.
For beauty here, they snatch immortal bloom,
And light, eternal light, doth blossom on the tomb.

— American Cottage Life (1850). XXXI.

The Voyage

"When thou  passest through the waters, I'll be with thee; and through the rivers they shall not overflow thee."  Isaiah xliii. 2.

Fair stream, embosomed in yon pleasant vale,
That in thy quiet beauty sweep'st along!
How oft I skimmed thee with my slender sail,
How oft I poured upon thy banks my song!
'Twas then I marked the autumn's blushing leaves
Sink, wafted slowly in the quiet air;
Thy silver wave the roseate gift receives,
And hastes its treasure to the deep to bear.
So man shall pass, borne on the stream of time,
A moment seen, and seen, alas, no more.
Dark is the wave; and distant is the clime;
But lift, in strength divine, the struggling oar;
And then, thou wanderer of life's troubled sea,
Nor angry storm, nor rocks, nor wave, shall injure thee.

— American Cottage Life (1850) XXX.

Eternity of Love

Oh LOVE! The life-power of my heart,
If all things else should die,
There's one thing, that can never part,
There's one thing ever nigh.

I look upon the worlds above;
Their light may all decay;
But there's eternal life in LOVE;
Love cannot pass away.

Oh sun, that in thy fading years,
May cease at last to shine,
Thou canst not whisper to my fears,
That such a lot is mine.

Oh no! the shining sun may fade,
And wither like a scroll;
But death is powerless to invade
The love-light of the soul.

—  Christ in the Soul (1872) XL.

The Living Fountain

I hear the tinkling camel's bell
Beneath the shade of Ebal's mount,
And man and beast, at Jacob's well,
Bow down to taste the sacred fount.

Samaria's daughter too doth share
The draught that earthly thirst can quell;
But who is this that meets her there?
What voice is this at Jacob's well?

Ho! ask of me and I will give.
From my own life, thy life's supply;
I am the fount! drink, drink, and live;
No more to thirst, no more to die!

Strange mystic words, but words of heaven;
And they who drink today as then,
To them shall inward life be given;
Their souls shall never thirst again!

— Christ in the Soul (1872) XXXVII.

Triumph in Death

On earth when the journey allotted us closes,
When the hour and the moment of parting are near,
If a gleam on that parting of mercy reposes,
Oh wish not, oh, think not, to fasten us here.

'Tis true, there is strength in the ties which endear us,
And bind us so closely to things here below;
But bright is the land where no sin can come near us,
And bliss is disturbed by no moments of woe.

Then joy to the soul, that is ripe for ascending,
And breathe not a sigh that shall tempt it to stay,
When angels in triumph its flight are attending,
And Bethlehem's star is the light of its way.

— American Cottage Life (1850).

Out of Death Springs Life

Out of death springs life.  We  must die naturally, in order that we may live spiritually. The beautiful flowers spring up from dead seeds; and from the death of those evil principles that spread so diffusively and darkly over the natural heart, springs up the beauty of a new life, the quiet but ravishing bloom of Holiness.

— Religious Maxims (1846) XVII.

Reflections on the New Year

I.
HELD in their path of glory by the hand,
That rear'd all nature's bright and wondrous frame,
That made the sky, the ocean, and the land,
And all that dwell therein, whate'er their name;
Held by that wondrous hand of might and pow'r,
The distant stars their steady course have run,
The moon hath watch'd in her aerial tower,
Along his annual round hath march'd the sun,
Until his task once more, his Zodiac race, is done.

II.
Yes! Time's unwearied course hath borne us on;
Successively the rapid seasons pass'd;
Another twelve month's space is come and gone,
And a  New  Year upon the world is cast.
Time's noiseless wheel rolls on, and; oh how fast!
'Tis like the tide that rushes to the sea;
Uncounted things are on it — at the last,
Those of the earth shall perish, cease to be,
But souls, a spark of heaven, go to eternity.

III.
The earth, still subject to its ancient curse,
Hath felt its storms, and shook with thunder's dread,
And Death, to make its bosom populous,
Hath smitten down full many a weary head.
The young, the man of scatter'd locks and gray,
All ages to the grave's cold rest have gone,
The dwelling-place of silence and decay.
There dwells the worm; the serpent feeds upon
The soulless mass deformed, and twines the skeleton bone.

IV.
The living too, whose bosoms erst did beat
With promise high and unabated joy,
How many now in gloomy sorrow sit,
And constant woes their life and hopes annoy!
How many in the course of one short year,
Who love received, and love as warmly gave,
Now shed o'er sunder'd ties the burning tear!
Alas! earth's ties are often like the wave,
That brightly clasps the shore — then breaks, and seeks its
grave.

V.
See here a mother mourning o' er her son!
How desolate her soul! And seated there,
With countenance of deeper grief, is one,
New rob'd in widow's weeds. Into thin air
And blackness terrible hath sunk their light.
Oh! Happy they, when joys terrestrial fade,
Who rest on God's right arm and changeless might.
There's nothing firm of all things that are made,
But life shall wane to death, and substance change to shade.

VI.
Yes, there's a spirit of change in all things round,
Which shows itself, as year on year goes by;
Which at the last shall sink the solid ground,
Nor spare the brighter fabric of the sky;
Both heaven and earth shall be one cemetery.
Down from their home of light the stars shall fall,
The blaze, that lights the solar pathway, die,
While clouds and flame shall wrap this earthly ball,
Its  wither'd pomp depart, and fade its glory all.

VII.
Boast not, because these things have never been,
For we shall see them, though we see not now,
When rolls through heaven the final trumpet's din,
And lightnings bind the "seventh angel's brow."
Then months and New Years shall be o' er.
Ah, how That final. trump shall rock the land and sea!
Then shall the proud, majestic mountains bow,
The islands and the continents shall flee,
The solid earth go down, and time no more shall be.

VIII.
The years of earth shall pass; but heavenly years
Shall start upon their endless destiny.
The joys of earth shall perish; but no tears
Shall dim the brightness of the joys on high.
The scenes and things below shall fade away;
The brighter scenes of heaven shall be the same,
Without a blighting touch, without decay;
And all her hosts, in one sublime acclaim,
Shall pour their transports high, and shout the Saviour's name.

— The Religious Offering (1835).