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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)    |
For what we know we know. In hope, we daily grow. The Master's Gift will show when He's enthroned. But sometimes we're in doubt. There is no clear way out. We want to run and shout. Our heart, it groans. To know the Gift of Grace no pride can ever trace. What joy to see His Face when ours is prone. We cannot work it out to change to faith our doubt. Election is about the God work shown. by Jay O’Toole on February 9th, 2023 |
colder days are gone milder nights to give relief strength for what’s to come by Jay O’Toole on February 8th, 2023 |
darkness, a blanket sleeping trees and flowers rest peaceful moments stay by Jay O’Toole on February 7th, 2023 |
The words are offered many days, each a potential meal for thought, but sometimes words will go their own way, the writer, a student taught. How furiously we sweep the floor, while words are pouring out! How furtively we beg, implore when waltzing thoughts about. At times our thoughts may sit alone. They leave the place we dance. The struggling heart may inward groan, while others leap and prance. To write them out, the words we'd use, don't always bring us joy, but typing letters will infuse some hope, that we'd employ. These poems may yet take us time, before they're molded firm. The sluice of rain brings loam its prime, 'til ripples find the berm. So, pushing words around the screen's like water's dancing flows. To sweep and sweep the concrete scene's like writing as it goes. To dance with words, until we have a seven vers-ed piece is like a cow, which groans to calve, until it finds release. by Jay O’Toole on February 6th, 2023 |
These trees become grand silhouettes, great arms, and feathery branches. The light is lost as night is met the need for darkness stanches. We say, “Goodbye” as friendships fade into the days now past us. We hope our words were best obeyed with memories held, not casted. The night orbs burn with twinkling lights the sun’s-light gracious gave them. We thank the Lord, that hope still bites through dourness of grave men. The silhouettes become the place for bright night lights to paint them. A silvery glow now lights each face as shadowed features acquaint them. Naught left to see within the yard, unlike Sir Carroll’s “muchness.” My eyes do strain to see quite hard of property’s new “lessness.” by Jay O’Toole on February 3rd, 2023 |
The sun goes down. The sun comes up upon the same ol' day. We build the same old coffee cup to go our same old way. Tomorrow will be February two, just like it was today. The next day after that we'll do the same, that we now say. I wonder when will cycles stop to bring us newer times? I wonder when we'll movie shop to reach a better clime. A groundhog sounds like someone who puts all their things around to keep a plot of land from you as selfishness abounds. Just start the clock a-going now. Make Punxsutawney past, that when tomorrow comes somehow the future then will last. by Jay O’Toole on February 2nd, 2023 |
Are the days gone by, now really in the past? Is there no benefit from thoughts of childhood, that still last to help the senior medalist? The days of joy, and playing in the yard, until the sun went down, creates the ancient and the bard, whose words would change a frown. The holiday's "eternity" brought joy to ev'ry heart. All wrapped in coats their "play" to free. Its laughter always starts. The days of mirth need be reborn. Let's hold that child upon the knee to stroke the pate of Self once torn, to comfort smallish me. We can't return to the days of yore in childlike body gone, but rest with him (or her) some more makes daily trials won. by Jay O’Toole on February 1st, 2023 |
Garland hangs around the space, reflecting lights about. The long, and thin, and silver chaise, the red and white doth shout. The vestiges of Christmas past enhance the winter's nights. These garlands make the season last to keep the lifetime bright. The child remembers garlanded trees with fluffy, silver rope. Their daily tactile picture frees to give the man some hope. by Jay O’Toole on January 31st, 2023 |
| In the hope of good to come The past must find its place to lie down The present rests in future Day's crown Each nemesis of tortured thoughts nip my heels Stepping forward, hope can grow, but doubt, it reels Logic knows the way ahead, but heart still feels When all's done the blessings of each joy bell peals. The future sings its Truth and hopes dance. Forget what's done, making blest advance. In the hope of good to come by Jay O’Toole on January 30th, 2023 |
The sun was shining wondrous bright. The pansies needed homes. The work required was far from light. I tousled up the loam. A three-pronged claw released the roots. My hands grabbed clods of grass, and throwing them past my big boots, I finished a big task. Garden soil, now, fully bare, I brought the cedar mulch, and smoothed the cover from here to there aroma to divulge. Well thought-out placement, flower faces found their homes in front of the greenhouse "castle," and it's graces, like a cake of loamy bundt. This joy, now done needs water's spray to quench the thirst of all, to settle roots in newest day, protection from God call. Such beauty blessed, I pray their safety now from cold and fauna, that they might e'er live. The frost tonight could make them freeze and bow, but hope in tact, I'll wait them time to give. The pansies last beyond the hardened freeze, but deer can be another thing, indeed. The ice can come and go on all of these, but "salad" brings them low of faunish greed. By grace we'll see the pansies soon, and joy at ev'ry sight. Tonight the cold may be a boon for springtime's joy, delight. by Jay O’Toole on January 27th, 2023 |
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