MAN WITHOUT FAULTS?
By – C.H. Spurgeon
He who boasts of being perfect is perfect in folly. I have been a good deal up and down the world, and I never did see either a perfect horse or a perfect man, and I never shall till two Sundays come together.
You cannot get white flour out of a coal sack nor perfection out of human nature; he who looks for it had better look for sugar in the sea. The old saying is, “Lifeless, faultless. About dead men we should say nothing but good; but as for the living, they are all tarred more or less with the black brush, and half an eye can see it. Every head has a soft place in it, and every heart has its black drop. Every rose has its prickles, and every day its night. Even the sun shows spots, and the skies are darkened with clouds.
The best wine has its dregs. All men’s faults are not written on their foreheads, and it’s quite as well they are not, or hats would need very wide brims. Yet, as sure as eggs are eggs, faults of some sort nestle in every bosom. There’s no telling when a man’s sins may show themselves, for hares pop out of the ditch just when you are not looking for them.
A horse that is weak in the legs may not stumble for a mile or two, but it is in him, and the rider had better hold him up well.
If we would always recollect that we live among men who are imperfect, we should not be in such a fever when we find out our friends’ failings. What’s rotten will rend, and cracked pots will leak. Blessed is he who expects nothing of poor flesh and blood, for he shall never be disappointed. The best of men are men at best, and the best wax will melt.
It is a good horse that never stumbles,
And a good wife that never grumbles.
But surely such horses and wives are only found in the fool’s paradise, where dumplings grow on trees. In this wicked world the straightest timber has knots in it, and the cleanest field of wheat has its share of weeds. The most careful driver one day upsets the cart; the cleverest cook spills a little broth; and as I know to my sorrow a very decent plowman will now and then break the plow and often make a crooked furrow.
[Quoted from C.H. Spurgeon’s ‘John Ploughman’s Talks’]