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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)    |
| When the moment finally comes changing chapters brings its grief. The action lumbers o'er its sums, "increasing tension or relief?" The die is cast. Result is known. To choose some other course,...not now. The life of man three years has grown. Before the Sovereign all must bow. (Philippians 2:5-11, KJV) For when the moment's finally here, the time to act is at the door. New things to come are sometimes clear, but often they're just feet to floor. In confidence we forward go because we've heard the Master's call. Results are His to always know, if stand we do, or at times fall. Thus failing forward causes pain for those, who'd have life perfect be. "The forest trees their toughness gain by winds no eyes can ever see." by Jay O’Toole on September 19th, 2025   |
Two shifts more, so much remains in store. What excitement can the future see? The schedule's new. From the old we've been now set free. But what to do requires the task to fall on me. Last week I worked with "tired" on display, and tired I am, I say. Retired day. by Jay O’Toole on September 18th, 2025 |
| When the world is moving too fast to keep up, or maybe I'm moving too slow, I'll be looking around for an old coffee cup to think through these things, and to know. Can the old coffee cup make these things go away? I little doubt very much that it can, but reversing my field in the thoughts, that I say can my hopeful new thoughts there expand. Can the old coffee cup help me fast bag the trash, that hath need of the bagging each day? For coffee and bagging would seem rather rash when they fall on the floor in display. Can the old coffee cup help me tidy the loo when the loo is a loopy big mess? Not in route, but it's best when the loo is then through, overcoming this task, often test. Can the old coffee cup when the world is too fast help me find a slow pace at a pace? Or will this insure that the slowness won't last in opposing speed's common disgrace? I have a great hunch that the "horse" of this world would feel better if not all tied up, and my hopes not on him by his mount yet unfurled, but sitting alone with my cup. by Jay O’Toole on September 17th, 2025 |
| Friendship. What a lofty gift! Maintained in hearts of meaning shared, the mutual hope of lives we lift shows daily how the loved one's cared. But how is friendship kept by one when the other finds friendships abroad. The lonely friend thinks, "What was done to make these feelings, now be rawed?" So many years ago these two had hearts adjoined in love's first kiss. No day would pass with sunset through, before shared future hopes in this. But now the old one finds his place amid Life's bits and pieces, that mound around his feet, and slow his pace, where once was daily, joyful sound. "Not needed" seems old friendship's song, "I've found my hopes in newer friends." How could this friend do hurtful wrong? How few the days, that help him mend. Old age is friendship's mournful bane when one stays young through others found, while fading, hoary pate in vain has slipping hope, which once was bound. How much the shelf on friendship finds the dust of years in uselessness! The strength of newness often blinds to hearts made sad by lacking bless. by Jay O’Toole on September 16th, 2025 |
Longing for Home, the Place I've not been, but it's not the sad wish to die. I long for Christ's Glory, the Hope He did win, and the porch where my heart can just sigh. Down here we must live such hobbit-hole days, since walking out there is not safe. Just when we think harm, and the angry displays are gone, there's the scream of a wraith. Looking up to the sky, longing for Him to come, there to cling to His sides, 'neath His robes evermore to sing praise for His long-empty tomb, finding Joy like the last days of Job. O, Dear Heart, find your peace in the Savior, Whose pain has bought rest for your long earthly sigh. Defeated He seemed, to buy us such gain. His Merits can't the Accuser deny. The sigh of relief, for that I now long. I stay in this flesh for support to help other souls to hear His great Song, and to do godly things of import. Is great sighing still bound in your stiff-chested clinch? Do you long to release and just rest? Doth anxiety weigh on your soul past each cinch? Are you longing to be fully blest? There's relief in the sight of God's Own Dearest Son. Look to Him, and all sighing is freed for His death clothes were folded. The Day He has won. His Salvation will meet every need. by Jay O’Toole on September 15th, 2025 |
Fluffy clouds in the blue, blue sky, picture of a lake, gentle floating far, seems nigh, a moment's rest to take. Water vapors make the clouds, but air makes the skies so blue. Just opposite the lake water shrouds. White floats have air all through. The Lord creates the clouds, lakes, too. He moves them with the wind. So, look above when you're a little blue. That's where your heart will mend. by Jay O’Toole on September 14th, 2025 |
| The little birds upon the heights amid the torrents of rain find peace and rest, these gifts so bright, ensconced in the crag's refrain. Let wind, let rain assail the rock, protecting the tiny souls of fowls or folks around the clock, who rest within His folds. In temporal life or lasting Grace the Lord shows care to those He made and bought for his Own Place. We're blest because He Chose. by Jay O’Toole on September 13th, 2025 |
| "Dear Lord, my heart is broken sore. I have no time to heal, before another steps on Shore through Death's cold, sullen teal. "Why are these days so fraught with loss? Why does the sun not shine? When will these hurtful days we toss to see Your Face, so fine? "The days of Man are waxing worse, implacable at best. Such malice is their daily thirst, so grievous is the test. "But some day soon when Jesus comes all Hope stands at the doors of all embracing all His sums, Who still the lost implores. "Amen. 'Tis Thee. Amen, fore'er. Amen. In Hope we stand. Amen, while here. Amen, o'er there. Amen, by Your best Plan." by Jay O’Toole on September 12th, 2025 |
| He knits our days, these threads of life, to make us what we ought to be. The dangers that we face are rife, until our final Home we see. As clay upon the potter's wheel, we feel the crush of molding Hands. Our hopes to be with Him are real, but wait we must on His best plans. The threads of age from silver pate adorn the floor where'er we walk. Yet, growing old is truly great when silver shows in wisdom's talk. When days are through in pieces laid the vase of craftsman's royal hue. The spirit flies to Him as bade. The days of life are lasting new. A moment yawns. The threads and clay of different pieces, lifetime's craft now gone from sight to lasting Day. This side now mourns. The other laughs. by Jay O’Toole on September 11th, 2025 |
| A small child in a pastor's home had heard the Gospel many times at church and play. With John 3:16 from the lasting Word revival sermons brought me unto that day. With Hell so clear this frightened child just froze. The car ride home was terror too extreme. Those teary eyes would burst, conviction knows. "I thought I ought to have gone down front!" I fairly screamed. My dad, he led me to a chair to sit. With Bible verses he led me to the Lord. In prayer I asked the Lord my soul to get, but certainty has ofttimes been quite blurred. On Sunday I was baptized by my Dad. I started walking in a childlike way. I wanted to do good, avoid the bad, but still corrections needed spankings on display. What changed my life from night to day to last. Th'affections of my heart have become new. My love for Jesus is not ever best, but real for His Spirit has made my life anew. Word Count: 169 Line Count: 20 Form: iambic pentameter by Jay O’Toole on September 10th, 2025 |
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