What does it mean that the heart knows its own bitterness (Proverbs 14:10)?

The seriousness of the guilt of sin is lost on fools: they make sin only an occasion for mockery, yet in spite of mocking at it, they indulge in it with apparently no qualms of conscience (v. 9). The upright, however, live above this low level, not only hating sin, but finding joy in the positive pursuit of good. "The heart knows its own bitterness, and a stranger does not share its joy" (v. 10). if one passes through bitter experiences, that bitterness is not likely to be shared by another, for the Lord deals personally with individuals. We must learn to accept personally such difficulties. Also, if we have occasions of deep joy, we cannot expect a stranger to share such joy. A friend may do so, but not a stranger.

How true it is "the heart knoweth his own bitterness, and a stranger does not intermeddle with its joy" (14:10). We can tell our troubles and sorrows to others, but the bitterness of the heart cannot be revealed, but it is known to One who is touched with our sorrows and the bitterness of life through which we pass, for He Himself passed through it also.

You will admit that it must be blessed for the Lord to have His redeemed people at home, and that it must be blessed for them to be there with Him, for as in the new earth there will be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying nor any more pain, and all tears will be wiped from all eyes, so must it be now in the presence of the Lord. You have no doubt as to all this, but what of yourself? You have sorrow and tears enough, you have been left lonely and desolate; and what a desolator death is! You hear the words of your friends, and they are sympathetic words, and are spoken for your consolation, but how cold the warmest of them seem to be. You feel that they do not understand what this means to you. There is a certain comfort in their words but they do not go far enough. There is a depth within you that they cannot reach, and your sorrow lies in that unreachable depth; there is a secret chamber within your heart that the most intimate of your friends cannot enter, and it is in that very chamber that this sorrow of yours has taken up its abode. Can there be any blessedness for you? Yes, for the Lord Himself has said, "Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted." And He will make good His own word, even to you. Your sorrow has made more room for Him in your life than ever there has been before; it has made you feel your need of Him as you never felt it before. He has never been far away from you. He is at your side now. He is waiting for you to admit Him into that secret chamber where your grief holds its sway. He would enter there that He might fill it with His own peace, the peace of His presence. He is the great Comforter, and He is this because He fully understands. Nobody else does. Your heart knows its own bitterness, and there are times when your best friends seem complete strangers to you, so little do they understand you and enter into your feelings, but it is not so with Him. He knows you through and through, He understands, and because He understands and knows all you are passing through, He can sympathize.

It is an evil age, the world far from God and knowing Him not; and man, its chief, chief in guilt and pride, yet liable to wrongs and vexations without end. How exposed then is the heart, whatever the position, to bitterness, unknown to others! So too it refuses a share in its joys to a stranger. Yet if grief before God isolates to God, "every family apart and the wives apart," joy overflows willingly to congenial souls, as the man and the woman in the parables of Luke 15 call friends and neighbours to rejoice on regaining what was lost.

From this day of manifestation there is no escape for any one. It is but very little we know about one another. We pass by, with very little notice, the humble cottage of the peasant, and admire at a respectful distance the palace of the prince, but the horrors or the happiness enclosed within seldom manifest themselves before our eyes. It is so with the individual; no other human being knows all that a man knows about himself, “The heart knows his own bitterness; and a stranger doth not intermeddle with his joy” (Prov. 14:10). We are all very careful to put the best side out, the rottenness within being jealously guarded from the vulgar gaze. But in that day “there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; neither hid, that shall not be known. Therefore whatsoever ye have spoken in darkness shall be heard in the light; and that which ye have spoken in the ear in closets shall be proclaimed upon the housetops” (Luke 12:2-3). In that day every man will appear just as he is, neither in his best nor in his worst, but in his true nature and character, without addition or subtraction, which might be used to decorate or to degrade.

Now notice here, dear friends, that the prophet's intense distress was concerning himself: "Woe is ME! for I am undone; because I am unclean," etc. He did not say, Woe are we! we are undone. No; true Christianity is a personal thing — "The heart knoweth its own bitterness." Many a sentimental professor in our day may be found ready to say, We are all sinners; we are not what we should be. Such talk about our Saviour, our religion, our society, etc., thus casting themselves in with others in a lump. But this will not do for God. This is not as the Spirit teaches. He convinces each one of his own sin. He so makes the conscience sensible of its guilt as to cause it to cry out, What must I do to be saved? "God be merciful to ME a sinner." "If I may but touch His garment, I shall be whole." "Woe is ME! for I am undone."

And, after all, we are individuals. "The heart knoweth his own bitterness; and a stranger Both not intermeddle with his joy" (Prov. 14:10). Mr. Bellett tells of a young lady who, when suffering from disease and drawing near to death, said, "that at times she found such joy in the thought of Christ that she was compelled to leave off thinking of Him." Doubtless she was physically too weak to bear it. It is probable that those who visited her knew neither what she suffered, nor the extent of her joy; yet how real were both to her! And we may surely say that this individual fellowship has cheered a countless Multitude of prisoners of Jesus Christ in lengthened captivity, and of martyrs in view of torture and death. And though our lot in England is cast in easy times, there are many true saints in isolation and profound distress: the tears of God's dear children have not ceased to flow.

The man of the world desires nothing better than uninterrupted peace and prosperity. The Christian can "glory in tribulations also," because every fresh difficulty or painful trial sends him to God in prayer, and each new experience of the Lord's unbounded love draws out his heart afresh in thanksgiving to God. Where this is the constant habit of the soul there will be no intemperate display of either joy or grief before the world. And so with this Shunammite; she has but one answer to all inquiries as to her trouble, for "the heart knoweth its own bitterness and a stranger intermeddleth not with its joys," and, in a way, even her husband appeared a stranger to her.

The poor imagine if they were only wealthy they would be contented. But riches only change their discontent. Some years ago a very wealthy man committed suicide. He seemed to have everything the human heart could wish. And he left a note in which he said: "I take my life because I am tired of living to eat and drink and sleep." He was an envied man, no doubt, but a stranger to contentment. Scripture says, "The heart knoweth his own bitterness." I met a wealthy merchant once in South Bend, Ind., who said, "If I could be sure the Bible was true and that there was salvation for me, I would gladly dump all my goods into the St. Jo river." His riches failed to bring him satisfaction. There is no real contentment out of Christ. I read of a Christian Quaker once who often spoke to his neighbors about their souls. But they all thought they were well enough off away from God, and imagined they were quite contented. One day this Quaker had the following sign set up in a fine ten-acre lot along the road: "I will give this field to any one who is really contented." Soon one of his most prosperous neighbors came along. "Hello! what's this?" he said, as he stopped and read the sign. "I'll claim that field," he continued. "If there is a contented man in all the country, I'm that man. I have one of the finest farms in all the county. It has been paid for years ago, and I have a fine nest-egg in the bank. My children are all in excellent circumstances and doing well. I enjoy the best of health. I am surely a contented man." So he went to the Quaker's door and demanded the field. "Ah, friend," said the Quaker, "if thee is contented, what does thee want of my field?" The man saw his mistake and acknowledged that, after all, he was not really contented. He had to relinquish all claim to the field.

The saint's joy and peace is not such a light, frothy joy as the world's. The parlour wherein the Spirit of Christ entertains the Christian is an inner room, not next the street, for every one that goes by to smell the feast. "A stranger doth not intermeddle with his joy" (Prov. 14:10). Christ and the soul may be at supper within, and thou not so much as see one dish go in, or hear the music that sounds so sweetly in the Christian's ears. Perhaps thou thinkest he wants peace, because he doth not hang out a sign in his countenance of the joy and peace he has within. Alas, poor wretch! may not the saint have a peaceful conscience, with a solemn, yea, sad countenance, as well as thou and thy companions have a sorrowful heart, when there is nothing but fair weather in your faces? "In laughter the heart is sorrowful" (Prov. 14:13).