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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)    |
Whose world this is I'll help them know. His House foresaken oft I trow. He always knows, if I take part with serving souls or just for show. To bring the Bible in my arm, it blesses me without alarm. The days of phones, that show The Word bring loving seeds from loving farm. Will dark and snow of coldest night discourage sons in that lone plight? Will days of Earth reduce the joy of that great Day in lasting Light? He preaches Hope in nights so bleak. I give my soul to One all meek. His Words are blessedness to speak. His Words are blessedness to speak. by Jay O’Toole on September 16th, 2021 |
The night hoists tent, and settles in, a resident of gloom. It hides the light as Man's own sin, a harbinger of doom. These earthly eyes see naught of peace. The hosts are closing fast. "Elisha, pray some great release. Reveal some soon repast." (II Kings 6:17-20) The evil spirits find repose within the dark of night, but spirits of the Lord are those, who serve Him to set right. The Lord's Own Christ is marching t'ward the hidden dogs of Earth to show His Pow'r on nether's horde for none can match His Worth. The dark is naught but day to Him, the night the very morn. When Heaven's sons sing forth their hymns they're lifted at the horn. The night, its tent through lonely hours still shudders at the thought of Edmund's torch, whose lightest pow'rs sees darkness flee as wrought. https://www.quotes.net/mquote/1084710 The fans of Narnia alike with those of Middle Earth may swoon a bit at Jadis' strike, and Sauron's rings of worth. However, Aslan raises dawn, and Gandalf's staff brings light. When Christ's Light's seen, the dark is gone, and Hell's the lasting Night. Though books of fantasy are great as hours are whiled away, it's God's Own Word we need to rate, Forever as today. The night hoists tent, and settles in, but only for a time. Salvation's paid. Now gone is Sin. We're ever in our prime. by Jay O’Toole on September 15th, 2021 |
Each life has times of doors and passageways when something old has passed, and new has come. We grieve when dwelling on the former days, unnoticing they're part of Life's long sum. The days of childhood with each laughing face becomes adult, who's growing still within. The numbered years become a seasoned grace, that walks with those before to ever win. The needed strength of parents bore the young, but growing young became the stronger youth, who help their parents with a ready tongue remind each aging day of heartfelt truth. The children walk beyond each heathered grave as stalwart soldiers, that Christ came to save. by Jay O’Toole on September 14th, 2021 |
So many little moments pass, a child was born, an old man slows, the younger man in running shoes completes the race he lives and knows. Each morning with its scrambled eggs, and coffee mug of almond milk, alert, now, for the tasks ahead with thoughts of hope as smooth as silk. And when the breath as vapor gone finds cold the body in the grave, a new Day dawns with lasting Light for those, the master came to save. Forever Day will never end for sleep is not a needed time. The Joy in Jesus gives us play, and blessed Hope in Day Sublime. by Jay O’Toole on September 13th, 2021 |
This weekend its over for being a child, at least that's according to days. For eighteen is when your adulthood is filed. Forever adulting just stays. Adult is a title, a job, and a role. We all have to do it, it seems, if we've been 'round the sun more than eighteen times whole, we're childlike when vacation deems. Must we go to our rooms when punishment sounds, or can we now do as we like? If we like we can distance when coughing abounds, and cases seem somewhat to spike. You've freedom to own your own car, buy your gas, and find your own job really soon. You've the joy to now graduate as soon as you pass, and set up your sights to the moon. With all kidding aside I now say in good pride, "It's an honor to see you full grown." There'll be tears. I can't lie, since your memories abide, but great days are ahead to be known. Happy Birthday, My Dear, for your best it is clear is ahead. So, don't crane to look back. There's no cause for your fear, but great joy and blest cheer for your gifting is full with no lack. The Lord give you His Best for in Him you are blest, since He paid for your past with His Blood. In His Wings you should rest for He guides your life's quest. This your flower is now in the bud. by Jay O’Toole on September 10th, 2021 |
New Year's Hope of Israel's Day comes as Yom Kippur has blest. "All's Complete!" let us say, "Come, Messiah, o'er this test." When was Jesus really born? In cold to freeze or warmer days? Was He the Lamb so roughly shorn to cover Sin as Scripture says? The Virgin travels through the sky. The Lion safely, neatly borne to come for Man's long furtive cry as bearing Sin his spirit's worn. Could this of truth be when he came? Did August share This Loaf of Bread? And in September bore He blame, that New Year's Hope would rise from the dead? No human heart can know this truth, except the human, Christ, the Lord, Who labored unknown in His Youth, secured and hidden, God's Lone Word. So sing we Christmas music, now, and hie we oft the Garden Tomb. Before the manger ever bow, and make each heart His living room. We'd miss His Birth, if for a day we stop the celebration grand, and New Year's Hope would not display, if the Empty Tomb, we treat as bland. For Christmas and the Rising Morn must ever live in Christian hearts. He split the matrix and was born to give each longing soul a new start. The New Year's not a Hope at all without the tandem Days of Christ. His Birth and Resurrection's Call bespeaks the everlasting Price. For One exists not without Both. This Christmas needs the Risen Third, that when the days of silent growth were ended, Christ the distance blurred. Now, hand-in-hand these two births, known. The first one opened the virgin's womb, and past the day of darkness shown the second opened Death's laughing tomb. For Christmas without Rising's naught, and Rising without Christmas can't be. Salvation on the Cross He bought, the Empty Tomb shows the saved are free. by Jay O’Toole on September 9th, 2021 |
| Two classes nestled in a high school hall. I sat in each intent to learn. The English Lit my heart enthralled, but Grammar kept me from a fall. Some parts of each did make me yearn. The English Lit of Robert Frost, and Robert Burns compelled me speak. The words I knew, but thoughts I lost, until with effort and great cost I found some truth I long did seek. The teachers, fair, did guide me right. I learned of poets, and the Bard. The skills they taught made future bright by reading books from morn to night. I write, now, poems by the yard. Remember this, O sighing wind, those classes are but yesterday. I'd never e'er my time rescind, but find, again, my middle thinned, and lift my teachers on display. by Jay O’Toole on September 8th, 2021 |
| He spit the mouthful on the floor. Disdain now covered all his face. "This cup of blame, I now abhor. Your coffee shop's a full disgrace." "I'm sorry, Sir. I'd like to bless you with a better coffee quest." "It tastes like mud. I've more distress than when I entered from my test." "I think it's so. It's what they say, 'The dirty chai or Joe is great when ground for you upon this day. 'Tis mea culpa on your plate." Why that's the thing I need to do, he thought within and paid his tab. A coffee shop so very new of muddy buddies from my lab. What shall I call this dirty source of coffee goodness made from mud? 'Twas then he knew the truth, of course, that "It Was Ground" is good or dud. by Jay O’Toole on September 7th, 2021 |
| Marshlands wait along the coast, calling, "Bring your heart." Nothing there would cause a boast, though great hope can start. "Must be low the salty tide. Smell the 'rotten eggs,' pluff mud fragrance will abide as wine." For some the dregs. Sunset builds cathedrals here, coasting boat or bench. Lapping waters lift each care, wafting breeze, the stench. Marshlands, such acquired tastes, aromas, so profound, for those, who roam the salty wastes their pleasures quite abound. Lumb'ring gators, scuttling crabs, snakes, and ocean fish tend their duties, moms, and dads provide some future wish. Exist, they do, these marshland homes because the shelf is long, and shallow, like a sunny dome, providing light's love song. The Blake Plateau off most the coast lights eighty sunny miles from dryish land, this ocean's toast creates some lazy wiles. Tides roll out to bare the mud. Sun bakes the potpourri. Each fragrance lands quite like a thud, until embracings free. Some places have a sweeter smell, but if you've grown up here the pluff-mud's odors often tell, "You're home, where land is dear." The coastal Georgia marshlands call, "Come, share this life, unique. There's pleasantness for one and all, beyond the pluff-mud's reek." by Jay O’Toole on September 6th, 2021 |
breath of relief blows cooler days are on their way sweetness from the heat by Jay O’Toole in September 3rd, 2021 |
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