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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 drink some coffee 'fore I go, I sip a moment's rest. Some peacefulness to wait and know makes this my heart to bless. The sun is setting early now. The coffee keeps alert through evening work we must allow, before we sleep assert. The cup now emptied, things to do, I find the time is small, before I change, and start a new shift, that for which I'm called. Coffee cup, my faithful friend, the moments, they be few, responsibilities we tend, before we make thee new. by Jay O’Toole on November 15th, 2024   |
sun is vacant now balmy skies of wat’ry night expressionless floats by Jay O’Toole on November 14th, 2024 |
| What would cause a saint of grace to doubt the Lord one time? What would move him from his place in battlements sublime? What would shake him, who his all is given to the Lord? What wave would move him from his call as written in The Word? What awful imp would cause him doubt, who loves the Lord anon? What words or methods build redoubt, dispatching all, "Begone!"? How doth the Prince of Preachers fall down in depression's lair? How doth he preach salvation's call, yet end up languished there? How doth blest Christian flounder down in the river's darkened waves? How doth Evangelist's strong, firm ground seem miles above these graves? The wearisome toil of sadness serves to tenderize the soul. The flames of doubt in fining nerves salvation's lasting goal. Paul's fleshy thorns in pricking drove him to the Throne of Grace, where God's Own Voice, "The best I wove, thus making strength's own place." Is it possible to see a world of dying men, without salvation, still unfree, so languishing in sin, and not be sad, the core in me when most I've yet to win? Rebuffing grace, most will not hear, though I water both my knees. Salvation's Gift I make so clear, though deaf ears hear no pleas. So, Spurgeon preached for many years, and died with much to do, but much more done through doubts and fears than we've done, me and you. That Christian finally brought on shore by ministers of grace was staggered by the "so much more" of that blest, brilliant Place. The preacher, and the poet may have doubts about the Bliss, that others of their flippance say, "I've got me all of this!" But when we breathe our final breath, and step o'er to that Place, the staggering Truth 'bout after death, "No more can gain from Grace." Depression in the poet's heart, great doubts the preacher fights are known of God, right from the start, unsullied by these plights. The sober mind thinks through these things, while Terran life is now. Forevermore the hopeless wrings his hands defeated bow. O, Doubting Heart, the Gift of Grace is not by thine own pow'r. Redeeming Lord took your sad place, and faced your final hour. He hung, forsaken by His Father, that we might enter in. His Love for us is why He'd bother to pay for ev'ry sin. We could not birth ourselves to live this earthly, dying way. The second He also would give, beyond the words we'd say. Divine the Choice, that saves the soul. His mercy He applies. Compassion makes the chosen whole, but he thus hardened, denied. "Not we that will. Not we that run, but God of mercy shows." Salvation is not works we've done. It's wisdom God doth know. Whence come the doubts? I think 'tis this. The human weary heart can think great thoughts of lasting bliss, until the weary starts. Whence come the doubts? I think the weight of all the life, that lasts is more for soul and body great than rest is overpassed. Whence come the doubts? 'Tis not absurd, that Christian finds it hard to keep on going in The Word when past days are still marred. Whence come the doubts? The way is long with tasks still left undone. "Have I for self been so much wrong? Am I right with The Son?" Whence come the doubts? Will they leave soon? His strength's shown in those weak. The last state is His Bless-ed Boon. The Savior, He doth seek. by Jay O’Toole on November 13th, 2024 |
Moments when we take it in, weariness for kith and kin, forgiven of the root of sin, The Lord Alone can save. Moments make up every day when we pray, eat, work, and play, 'til the Trumpet Call, "Away!" May then death He waive. Moments are not all we seek. Life with others, mild and meek, good words, that we oft do speak as we wait for Home. Moments of our daily rest in The Lord we're kept and blest, living through each "down here" test, 'til His Time be come. by Jay O’Toole on November 12th, 2024 |
Dark the space with lightened skies, early is the eve. Soon the day its light denies as out the door I leave. Dark the space as color glass grows dim inside the frame. Quickly day has come to pass. Night, it cannot tame. Dark the space, before the eyes in steely, glassy stare removes the hope 'mid childlike cries in twinkling lights so rare. Dark the space envelopes room as silhouetting trees, hazy in the murky gloom, "The night is made of these." Dark the space, the time is o'er to see but car light mist. Day, the memory evermore. Hope, the need be kissed. by Jay O’Toole on November 11th, 2024 |
It's time to start my work anew, the daily tasking grind. I eat a meal when I am through, relax in time I find. To clean and make the place pristine is what I'm giv'n to do. I sweep, and mop, and throughly clean, a good job done for you. So many bags of trash are tossed because we eat and throw containers we don't need. The cost is such a waste, I trow. So, guys like me, we serve the good of our Society. A lower rung, like Bert, we should just "Step in Time," to free. Now, when I start, I see the piles, but I work by daily plan, that when I leave I see the tiles. They're shining, Cleaner Man! by Jay O’Toole on November 8th, 2024 |
| Snowy scenes, that are no more, Christmas morning's cozy quilt, looking out the plateglass window, feeling anticipation, joyous peace. Piles of papers, forlorn boxes, bereft, unwanted. Gifts, no more a mystery, played with, bored with, sloppy tears of "It's all done!" Family piles into the station wagon, disk sled at the ready. Can joy be restored? Flying down the whitewashed hill, landing on the pavement hard. Mom's terrified face as I miraculously come to a stop without sliding under some car. "Time to go!" She's done. Why is Christmas always such a build-up and let-down? Santa isn't real? AUGH! For years I've wanted to recapture the joys of childlike Christmas before it was a hoax. Music of the season brings memories of what was. Twinkle lights, glimpses of what was. Georgia pralines, eggnog, cinnamon, oranges, pine, all the joys and sadnesses of what can never be, again. Mom's not here. Dad isn't, either. Dad decorated so well for Christmas every year. Mom cooked amazing meals and snacks. I'm alone in the world with people, some my age, most are younger. I miss my forebears so badly at times. Oh, for a day of no responsibilities when the "big people" take care of me, again. I want to see and be with them, but I'm not a quitter. So much yet to do. The Lord is yet to call, "All aboard!" His Heavenly Train. Snowy scenes, joyful arms. Eternity lies before. Christmas wonders evermore, looking in His Face, feeling anticipation, joyous peace. Piles of deeds, days now gone, but life is never undone. Judgement Seat examines life. The worthless deeds are ashes on the floor. Deeds done for Christ, purified to precious stones, gold, and silver. sloppy tears of "I'm finally Here!" Homesick for a Place I've never been. Longing for a childhood, that can't grow up. Searching for a Self I can't quite find. Mystified by doubts, wondering if assurance is even possible. Honesty, thy name is "Too Old to Care!" Where can I find the good, that remains from youth? Does that little boy still live, "resting 'neath the sheltering wings?" Will the joys of my childhood be restored with the Ancient of Days, Who is ever young? "Dear Lord, make me ever hopeful in this life. Make my eyes to see clearly The Blessed Hope of the Everlasting Day. Always Your Word. Amen." by Jay O’Toole on November 7th, 2024 |
Rain clouds fill the weary sky. Tears of what must be. Days until the Jugment's nigh? Returning, when will He? Rain clouds fill my weary soul. Sunshine will again? Come, Lord, make our world new, whole. Save our lives to win. Rain clouds fill our future, now, before the Son of God will 'stablish Throne, before Him bow, forever cheer, applaud. Rain clouds filled with water, full, to fall upon the land. "Oh, save us, Lord, as white as wool, and give us strength to stand." Rain clouds rumble with the sound of God's activities. Washed and cleansed we're newly found, restored, the ones He frees. by Jay O’Toole on November 6th, 2024 |
Early in the afternoon the sun is setting low. Silhouetting, golden crown to bring the night we know. The sun is setting on this day. The night will show its will when the light has naught to say. Its absence, dark will fill. To hold a candle when the deeds of darkness flood about is weariness amid our needs. It's prone to tempt with doubts. But when at last long, lonely night gives way to wondrous day, we'll see our joy or ling'ring plight with one Truth, that we say, "The earthly candlesticks don't hold a candle to The Lord. This King fore'er is lasting bold. It's stated in His Word." by Jay O’Toole on November 5th, 2024 |
The first step in a coffee shop, aroma's in the air. The gift I never want to stop. Just close my eyes. I'm there. A hurricane may come this way. It's in the air, again. My heart is shaky, in dismay. It wonders, "Really? When?" Election? Has it been four years? It's in the air, again. Amid the "truths," and often jeers, will anybody win? A coffee shop in Antarctica. It's the place we need to be. In the air, each breath wins the new life from all we see. by Jay O’Toole on November 4th, 2024 |
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