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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)    |
The still life croons. The wall, the stage as apple's basso drips creating spicy sauce, the rage of tongue beyond the lips. These hosta mezzo tones in oil recite his music piece. The brush of Handel's greatest toil brings Nature's blest release. The Gleaners chorus fills the field. It echoes through the room to bless all hearts with sounds, that heal, unbar the heart's lone tomb. The Blue Boy peels the rafters rare. Soprano notes ring high as Gainsborough in wide-mouthed stare doth contemplate the Why. The treble formed in acrylic Bach, Jesu, Joy of Man's Desire to this new canvas all blest flock. Great hope creates the spire. A steak in watercolor fair doth tempt the tongue to eat, but ribs flamed prime or slightly rare confuse the hoped-for treat. Each canvas baked, a new delight. Each song sung from the heart. Each color feathered beauteous sight. Each word a wondrous start. by Jay O’Toole on July 5th, 2022 |
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