And, then, we who are true pilgrims, are of all men the most miserable, on account of that ‘failing,’ that rankling sting in our hearts, when any of our friends has more of this world’s possessions, honours, and praises than we have, that pain at our neighbour’s pleasure, that sickness at his health, that hunger for what we see him eat, that thirst for what we see him drink, that imprisonment of our spirits when we see him set at liberty, that depression at his exaltation, that sorrow at his joy, and joy at his sorrow, that evil heart that would have all things to itself.  Yes, said Christian, I am only too conversant with all these sinful cogitations, but they are all greatly against my will, and might I but choose mine own thoughts, do you suppose that I would ever think these things any more?  ‘The cause is in my will,’ said Caesar, on a great occasion.  But the true Christian, unhappily, cannot say that.  If he could say that, he would soon say also that the snare is broken and that his soul has escaped.  And then the cause of all his evil cogitations, his vain thoughts, his angry feelings, his envious feelings, his ineradicable covetousness, his hell-rooted and heaven-towering pride, and his whole evil heart of unbelief would soon be at an end.  ’I cannot be free of sin,’ said Thomas Boston, ’but God knows that He would be welcome to make havoc of my lusts to-night and to make me henceforth a holy man.  I know no lust that I would not be content to part with.  My will bound hand and foot I desire to lay at His feet.’  Yes:  such is the mystery and depth of sin in the hearts of all God’s saints, that far deeper than their will, far back behind their will, the whole substance and very core of their hearts is wholly corrupt and enslaved to sin.  And thus it is that while their renewed and delivered will works out, so far, their salvation in their walk and conversation among men, the helplessness of their will in the cleansing and the keeping of their hearts is to the end the sorrow and the mystery of their sanctification.  To will was present with Paul, and with Bunyan, and with Boston; but their heart—­they could not with all their keeping keep their heart.  No man can; no man who has at all tried it can.  ’Might I but choose mine own thoughts, I would choose never to think of these things more:  but when I would be doing of that which is best, that which is worst is with me.’  We can choose almost all things.  Our will and choice have almost all things at their disposal.  We can choose our God.  We can choose life or death.  We can choose heaven or hell.  We can choose our church, our minister, our books, our companions, our words, our works, and, to some extent, our inward thoughts, but only to some extent.  We can encourage this or that thought; we can entertain it and dwell upon it; or we can detect it, detest it, and cast it out.  But that secret place in our heart where our thoughts hide and harbour, and out of which they spring so suddenly