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 |    We live much of life amid unique choices. Joy is anchored in The One beyond our life. |
| What would cause a saint of grace to doubt the Lord one time? What would move him from his place in battlements sublime? What would shake him, who his all is given to the Lord? What wave would move him from his call as written in The Word? What awful imp would cause him doubt, who loves the Lord anon? What words or methods build redoubt, dispatching all, "Begone!"? How doth the Prince of Preachers fall down in depression's lair? How doth he preach salvation's call, yet end up languished there? How doth blest Christian flounder down in the river's darkened waves? How doth Evangelist's strong, firm ground seem miles above these graves? The wearisome toil of sadness serves to tenderize the soul. The flames of doubt in fining nerves salvation's lasting goal. Paul's fleshy thorns in pricking drove him to the Throne of Grace, where God's Own Voice, "The best I wove, thus making strength's own place." Is it possible to see a world of dying men, without salvation, still unfree, so languishing in sin, and not be sad, the core in me when most I've yet to win? Rebuffing grace, most will not hear, though I water both my knees. Salvation's Gift I make so clear, though deaf ears hear no pleas. So, Spurgeon preached for many years, and died with much to do, but much more done through doubts and fears than we've done, me and you. That Christian finally brought on shore by ministers of grace was staggered by the "so much more" of that blest, brilliant Place. The preacher, and the poet may have doubts about the Bliss, that others of their flippance say, "I've got me all of this!" But when we breathe our final breath, and step o'er to that Place, the staggering Truth 'bout after death, "No more can gain from Grace." Depression in the poet's heart, great doubts the preacher fights are known of God, right from the start, unsullied by these plights. The sober mind thinks through these things, while Terran life is now. Forevermore the hopeless wrings his hands defeated bow. O, Doubting Heart, the Gift of Grace is not by thine own pow'r. Redeeming Lord took your sad place, and faced your final hour. He hung, forsaken by His Father, that we might enter in. His Love for us is why He'd bother to pay for ev'ry sin. We could not birth ourselves to live this earthly, dying way. The second He also would give, beyond the words we'd say. Divine the Choice, that saves the soul. His mercy He applies. Compassion makes the chosen whole, but he thus hardened, denied. "Not we that will. Not we that run, but God of mercy shows." Salvation is not works we've done. It's wisdom God doth know. Whence come the doubts? I think 'tis this. The human weary heart can think great thoughts of lasting bliss, until the weary starts. Whence come the doubts? I think the weight of all the life, that lasts is more for soul and body great than rest is overpassed. Whence come the doubts? 'Tis not absurd, that Christian finds it hard to keep on going in The Word when past days are still marred. Whence come the doubts? The way is long with tasks still left undone. "Have I for self been so much wrong? Am I right with The Son?" Whence come the doubts? Will they leave soon? His strength's shown in those weak. The last state is His Bless-ed Boon. The Savior, He doth seek. by Jay O’Toole on November 13th, 2024     |
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