My weary heart...

From Spurgeon's sermon,

Herein is a wisdom which must be more than equal
to all minor perplexities.
Hear this, then, O poor soul in suspense!
The Lord says, "I have redeemed you."
I have already brought you out of the labyrinth in which
you were lost by sin, and therefore I will take you out of
the meshes of the net of temptation, and lead you through
the maze of trial.
I will bring the blind by a way that they know not,
and lead them in paths which they have not known.

We make our sorrows great under the vain idea
that they are too small for the Lord to notice.
I believe that our greatest miseries spring from
those little worries which we hesitate to bring to our
heavenly Father.

He that redeemed us never forgets us--
His wounds have graven us upon the palms of His
hands, and written our names deep in His side.
Jesus stoops to our level, for He stooped to bear
the cross to redeem us.

The Lord's memory is toward the little in Israel.
He carries the lambs in His bosom.

Oh, how my weary heart prizes redeeming love!

Who gives us all things richly to enjoy...
"Who gives us richly all things to enjoy." -1 Tim. 6:17

Our Lord Jesus is ever giving, and does not
for a solitary instant withdraw his hand.
As long as there is a vessel of grace not yet
full to the brim, the oil shall not be stopped.
He is a sun ever shining;
he is manna always falling round the camp;
he is a rock in the desert, ever sending out
streams of life from his smitten side;
the rain of his grace is always dropping;
the river of his bounty is ever flowing,
and the well spring of his love is constantly overflowing.

As the King can never die, so his grace can never fail.

Daily we pluck his fruit, and daily his branches
bend down to our hand with a fresh store of mercy.

Who has ever returned from his door unblessed?
Who has ever risen from his table unsatisfied,
or from his bosom unemparadised?

His mercies are new every morning and fresh every
evening. Who can know the number of his benefits,
or recount the list of his bounties?

Every sand which drops from the glass of time
is but the tardy follower of a myriad of mercies.

The wings of our hours are covered with the silver of his
kindness, and with the yellow gold of his affection.
The river of time bears from the mountains of eternity the
golden sands of his favor.
The countless stars are but as the standard bearers
of a more innumerable host of blessings.
Who can count the dust of the benefits which he bestows
on his people, or tell the number of the fourth part of his
mercies towards us?

How shall my soul extol him who daily loads us with
benefits, and who crowns us with lovingkindness?
O that my praise could be as ceaseless as his bounty!
O miserable tongue, how can you be silent?
Wake up, I pray, lest I call you no more my glory, but my
"Awake, psaltery and harp: I myself will awake right