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 |    We live much of life amid unique choices. Joy is anchored in The One beyond our life. |
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“There are times when solitude is better than society, and silence is wiser than speech. We should be better Christians if we were more alone, waiting upon God, and gathering through meditation on His Word spiritual strength for labour in his service. We ought to muse upon the things of God, because we thus get the real nutriment out of them. . . . Why is it that some Christians, although they hear many sermons, make but slow advances in the divine life? Because they neglect their closets, and do not thoughtfully meditate on God's Word. They love the wheat, but they do not grind it; they would have the corn, but they will not go forth into the fields to gather it; the fruit hangs upon the tree, but they will not pluck it; the water flows at their feet, but they will not stoop to drink it. From such folly deliver us, O Lord. . . .” ― Charles Spurgeon “Our anxiety does not empty tomorrow of its sorrows, but only empties today of its strengths.” ― C. H. Spurgeon “Hope itself is like a star- not to be seen in the sunshine of prosperity, and only to be discovered in the night of adversity.” ― Charles Haddon Spurgeon “If sinners be damned, at least let them leap to Hell over our dead bodies. And if they perish, let them perish with our arms wrapped about their knees, imploring them to stay. If Hell must be filled, let it be filled in the teeth of our exertions, and let not one go unwarned and unprayed for.” ― Charles Spurgeon “A Bible that’s falling apart usually belongs to someone who isn’t.” ― Charles Spurgeon “Visit many good books, but live in the Bible.” ― Charles Spurgeon “When your will is God's will, you will have your will.” ― Charles Spurgeon https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/2876959.Charles_Haddon_Spurgeon (Philippians 2:13, KJV)    |
Moments resting 'tween workdays help me free the slog of weary muscles, that dismay, making water, grog. The anger toward a parent's death shows sadness inside out. The flowering of the bluish heath on their old-age grave is stout. These eight years now, Febrero's chill hath taken Mom away. The March, that took Dad from my will, 23 years display. The ones I'd wished "to have, to hold" all off-ramped Love's Turnpike, but God's lone best has been pure gold to heal each miss and strike. Each dog and cat we loved for years, that died and left us blue are honored with our many tears because their love was true. Emotions need these poem forms to lift up skyward, pain, since, earthly hearts have never norms, and heat brings often rains. Whence respite 'fore th'eternal one? Can earthly days know peace? Not in the self, but in The Son, Whose Mercy gives release. by Jay O’Toole on February 27th, 2025   |
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