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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)    |
To live this life depressed at best, unliving in our hopeless loss can make our days an endless test of painting words on the daily cross. The changes of some hoped-for goal can make us wade through pluff mud thick. We wonder, Could life e'er be whole? Each wondered thought makes the heart so sick. The pluff mud made of hopes passed o'er sucks boot, and foot, and leg far down. We wonder, Could we live through more? The sinking feeling shapes our frown. How many years will good be naught? How many hopes will fade away? How many times will we be taught as mem'rie's gone, and lessons fray? How often will Depression's wrap become a coat of soothing Same? How often will the searched-for map be the voice of one Accuser's blame? The awful stench of pluff mud "eggs" must be swift-stanched by Earl Grey tea. The life depressed in "living" dregs must fight the downpull to be free. The nevermore and prolly should weighs heavy now on a sinking frame. Where once was hope and often good the mirror must give up its blame. by Jay O’Toole on September 6th, 2023   |
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