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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)    |
| What do we do when they're just gone? Where can we look when there's no trace? How can we live without a dawn? How can we love no hugs to place? The little hamlet, Fairly Same, ensconced within a country vale. Its country goes by down-face name of Nevermore, so bored and pale. A hundred folks, quite blissful knit. They went to bed one autumn night, but in the morning peace was bit by cries, and wails, and deepest fright. "Where have they gone? Where can we look?" "How many now remain of us?" "I found his clothes in bedtime nook." "Her dolly keeps her mitten, thus." "Now all our children and one man have vanished in the air this day." "How could he silent keep his plan?" "How could his neighbors most betray?" No gift of Goodbyes for this town, no hope for breaking hearts to mend. They trudged their work. Each wore a frown with naught but clothes, effects to tend. How could they pray for none knew God, except the ones, who were not now? The preacher, whom they once had awed sure took their young in ghostly scow. by Jay O’Toole on September 20th, 2023   |
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