Cromwelliana

I walked through a museum recently and saw a bust of a man. His eyes were closed and his face serene. There was no label or explanation, either because the curators knew not who he was (which is unlikely), or thought it unimportant. The object conveniently filled a shelf and made the room more interesting. I identified him straight away as the great Oliver Cromwell, and that this was a copy of his 1658 death mask. He certainly gets a bad press at this time of year. 

Oliver Cromwell is ignored by most, misunderstood by many and despised by several more. Yet in my humble home at least, he if afforded a place of honour. I suspect that there are two dozen paintings or sculptures of him about the place, with half of them in my study. Why, you might ask, would such a man warrant so prominent a place in my affections? Was it his superb generalship, whose armies were respected throughout Europe? Was it his regard for civil liberty and religious freedom, under whose rule different Protestant denominations were tolerated and encouraged? Was it his love of the citizen’s freedom and dignity, which he valued over kingly privilege? The list could go on.

The main reason why I love the man, however, was his simple and sincere faith in Jesus Christ:

“You know what my manner of life hath been, oh, I lived in and loved darkness, and hated the light; I was chief, the chief of sinners. This is true; I hated godliness, yet God had mercy on me. O Riches of his mercy.”

-Letter written to Mrs St John, 1638

With which true Christian does this brief testimony not chime?