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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 sit, to wait, to look around can often pass the time 'til hoped for subjects may be found as words become sublime. A drink of water, tea to sip, or coffee with its art may find some thought that gave the slip when we sat down to start. Alas, when racking my brain to find some writer's joyful piece, the weariness is just not kind to give my words release. But when I think about the state of where I am and why, the journaling becomes so great of that I can't deny. To "prime the pump" with life observed creates the writer's art. A pristine piece is finally served when sailing another part. Just ask the sculptor how was made the sculpture of a horse. The response is terse and not overplayed, "Remove what's not, of course." The journalist fills newsprint sheets with what is seen right there. He listens, and then just repeats observers with great care. How do we write some big, new thing? How do we daily start? Could be we simply watch and sing, while doing our gifted part. by Jay O’Toole on April 29th, 2025   |
high upon the bush magnolia blooms a-blazing scraping the blue sky by Jay O’Toole on April 28th, 2025 |
That April is the time of rain to water pretty blooms, we know this fact so sweetly plain, and open window rooms. Then May's the time blooms thrive so much to color lives with glee. We decorate with a joyous touch with smiles for you and me. For June's days filled with bride's bedecked and churches flowery splay. The sweetest honey bees have nect- perfume her joyous day. If April showers bring May flowers for June's wedding bowers, then what may be the sight's we see for all the future knowers? April, May, and June may sing a sibling trio true for wedded bliss doth often bring blest children, who are new. by Jay O’Toole on April 25th, 2025 |
| The Day of all days when Jesus arose brings hope to the hearts of all whom He chose. Desire for His Glory forever that grows. The lasting Redeemer Creation still shows. Through painfullest beatings, the Lord took my pain to bring me Salvation, right standing again. The Chosen of God, the best of all men, His death as my Substitute ever to win. The darkness was felt as he gave up the Ghost. The tomb was His Sabbath's most stony-eyed host. His death was the enemy's awfulest boast, but sunrise the Third was the sunniest, most. He's risen, indeed! And ne'ermore abased. The sins of my life by His Merits erased. The hope of my evermore shines in His Face. I have no desire to This Savior replace. by Jay O’Toole on April 24th, 2025 |
| My heart exults, and it is glad when rhymes are had within the bounds of joyful sounds. The day is full of words so good, but rhythmed wood? A knocking plank I cannot thank. Howevermore, I will adore the muffled snore sandpaper riffs as music shifts. by Jay O’Toole on April 24th, 2025 |
The sky now grumbles, darkening face. The day has hours to go. My hesitance to leave this place can't stop the schedule I know. The storm clouds grumble o'er our HIStory. The Earth has more time, too, but not much left for fancy free, 'til thoughts of wisdom do. It's peaceful now, though grumbling grows. The drummer of the skyward band impends the cadence, that it knows to show where we may quite soon stand. Dark the sky may drop its load when we must seek some sheltered place. The thunder rattles late abode as trembling hearts pursue God's Grace. Quoth Bunyan in his mighty tome, "Now flee the Wrath that is to come!" Abide His Wings, God's sheltering Home. Our sins on Christ, atonement's sum. by Jay O’Toole on April 23rd, 2025 |
Today it's hot, and soon 'twill be the land of summer heat, again, but now I sit 'neath clouds so free, that hide the sun from earthly men. The clouds can hide my thoughts as well, confusing what life seems to be, but clouds can't cover words that tell the Truth of God with hearts made free. These days are earthly, cloudy mush, uncertain paths, the way to walk. The clear Day with its green so lush will bring us time for coffee, talk. by Jay O’Toole on April 22nd, 2025 |
| To hope again beyond the tomb, emotions I can't fully speak. His week from glory then to gloom, arisen now His Face to seek. The Glory of the One, Who reigns is all that matters evermore. Salvation's Gift, removing chains, the Shepherd of the sheep's blest Door. At first He came the tiny Babe, but now He stands Death's crushing Foe. No more can gnarly mitts "outgrabe" to pull to death the King we know. 'Tis one day past the greatest day when The Victor changed Eternity. No more believers need dismay. Forever we'll His Glory see. When Jesus comes again to Earth, He conquers all this vast domain. May He your heart give second birth to snatch you from Hell's last insane. The King arrives on horse, most white to rule from whence He left at the first. His Kingdom will ne'er know the night illumined by His Glory's Burst. Eternal God, the Babe became, Who grew, enduring whip and curse. The lasting Word forever same, fulfilling every chapter, verse. by Jay O’Toole on April 21st, 2025 |
| He died upon a cross. WORST. DAY. EVER! All hope died with Him there. WORST. DAY. EVER! Our enemies in glee. WORST. DAY. EVER! Creator beaten sore. WORST. DAY. EVER! No peace have I again. WORST. DAY. EVER! The sun has now gone black. WORST. DAY. EVER! But finally, the SON arose! BEST. DAY. EVER!!! When finally, the sun arose! BEST. DAY. EVER!!! The grave lay empty of its prize. BEST. DAY. EVER!!! No thinking man of this denies. BEST. DAY. EVER!!! Redeemer, Savior, King of kings! BEST. DAY. EVER!!! Earth and Man forever sings! BEST. DAY. EVER!!! The Master of Eternity BEST. DAY. EVER!!! by His Blest Goodness makes us free. BEST. DAY. EVER!!! His WORD is True. He cannot lie. BEST. DAY. EVER!!! Salvation's Truth to lift the sigh. BEST. DAY. EVER!!! For men and women now rejoice BEST. DAY. EVER!!! Eternal God's sweet Free Will Choice BEST. DAY. EVER!!! All blessedness this life and E'er, BEST. DAY. EVER!!! we rest in Christ from all our care. BEST. DAY. EVER!!! BEST. DAY. EVER!!! by Jay O’Toole on April 20th, 2025 |
| Events so awful are now done. The passions of the crowd, released. The death-shroud blankets o'er The Son. All "Crucify Him!" screams are ceased. All evil beasts exult, "We've won!" Believers tremble in a hold. The hope of all that's good is gone. The world has darkened, demons bold. The silence of the chirping din could mark that even insects knew The Lord of all creation's been reduced in death as one who's through. A skullish mount in stillness lies. A boulder seals the cave's grave door. One wonders if the sky now cries at He, Whose strength was known before. So, one more rabble-rousing voice has been dispatched to silent be. He could have lived, if by His choice He had bowed to those who ruled o'er He. But which of these had known His Heart. He came not to be pleasant, fair, but to give lost ones a new start. He bore our shame and lasting care. The night agreed with Man's verdict. So, holding fast the bier ensconced. The new day would awake, untricked, unknowing, that now Time lay minced. What grave could hold auspicious Dead? What fiend could seal His lasting fate? What damned could know defeat had bred this Victory forever Great? by Jay O’Toole on April 19th, 2025 |
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