Sunday, June 7. I went to the sacrament this morning at the _Cathedral_, but found no particular blessing, tho’ my heart was afterwards refreshed, while waiting upon God in private duties. Sunday 14. My soul was much blest in private prayer this morning, but the rest of the day I was so weighed down with drowsiness that I could scarce read or pray with any satisfaction: however, my mind was in a serious frame most of the day. Sunday 21. I went to the sacrament at _Werburgh_’s church, and found my heart affected with a lively sense of God’s love to my soul in sending his Son to die for me. O that this his love might stir me up to love him again, for altho’ he is in himself altogether lovely, yet nothing but a deep heart-felt conviction that Jesus loved me, and gave himself for me, can induce us to love him again. But ah! I cannot, cannot love. “This is my shame, my grief, my hell, I do not love the bleeding Lamb; The Lamb that loved my soul so well, This is my grief, my hell, my shame.” Sunday 28. In private prayer this morning my soul was greatly blest, and I found sweet enlargement in praying for the blessing, both for myself, and for my dearest parents; likewise I found liberty to pray for all my relations and friends, for the church, and for all the world. Blessed be the Lord for this undeserved mercy. In the evening I was stirred up by Mr. _G――――s_ discourse from _Hebrews ii. 3_. _How shall we escape, if we neglect so great salvation?_ Lord, how shall I escape? Only by flying to the wounds of Jesus; that is the only city of refuge. O may I escape thither, as _Lot_ did to _Zoar_, e’er the storm of divine vengeance be poured on this guilty head.