THERE is something to be learned from the conduct of the Roman Catholics inquisitors to our Protestant ancestors.
If any poor wretch recanted and so escaped the fire, they were accustomed to make him carry a fagot, a bundle of sticks or twigs bound together as fuel at the next burning, as if to let him see what he had escaped, and make him confess that this is what he had deserved.
Depend upon it, conviction of sin in our hearts is much like the carrying of that fagot.
Well do I remember when I felt the sentence of death within me, and trembled lest it should be executed; my conscience was a minor hell, as if I was carrying a fagot of the pile of Tophet, the Valley of Hinnom, of a fiery Gehenna judgment.
But, blessed be God, we are thus judged and sentenced in ourselves that we may not be condemned with the world. Sometimes, God lets us occasionally bear the fagot that we may not be burned with it.
Adapted from “Feathers from Arrows,” written by Charles Spurgeon