"Do not fear the death of self, sacrifice, or a life of struggle. These are the very fires that forge a man into the image of Christ." - Paul Washer
Daily Bread
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Qoute - Paul Washer
Daily Bread
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Psalms 139:1-24 (ESV) - You Have Searched Me and Known Me!
(1) To the choirmaster. A Psalm of David. O LORD, you have searched me and known me! (2) You know when I sit down and when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from afar. (3) You search out my path and my lying down and are acquainted with all my ways. (4) Even before a word is on my tongue, behold, O LORD, you know it altogether. (5) You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me. (6) Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high; I cannot attain it. (7) Where shall I go from your Spirit? Or where shall I flee from your presence? (8) If I ascend to heaven, you are there! If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there! (9) If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, (10) even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me. (11) If I say, "Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night," (12) even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is bright as the day, for darkness is as light with you. (13) For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb. (14) I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well. (15) My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth. (16) Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them. (17) How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them! (18) If I would count them, they are more than the sand. I awake, and I am still with you. (19) Oh that you would slay the wicked, O God! O men of blood, depart from me! (20) They speak against you with malicious intent; your enemies take your name in vain! (21) Do I not hate those who hate you, O LORD? And do I not loathe those who rise up against you? (22) I hate them with complete hatred; I count them my enemies. (23) Search me, O God, and know my heart! Try me and know my thoughts! (24) And see if there be any grievous way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting!
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Here are some questions that are meant to help us identify the idols in our lives. I read them on the Desiring God Blog, and I thought they were really convicting so I wanted to share them here.
1.What do you most highly value?
2.What do you think about by default?
3.What is your highest goal?
4.To what or whom are you most committed?
5.Who or what do you love the most?
6.Who or what do you trust or depend upon the most?
7.Who or what do you fear the most?
8.Who or what do you hope in and hope for most?
9.Who or what do you desire the most? Or, what desire makes you most angry or makes you despair when it is not satisfied?
10.Who or what do you most delight in or hold as your greatest joy and treasure?
11.Who or what captures your greatest zeal?
12.To whom or for what are you most thankful?
13.For whom or what great purpose do you work?
1.What do you most highly value?
2.What do you think about by default?
3.What is your highest goal?
4.To what or whom are you most committed?
5.Who or what do you love the most?
6.Who or what do you trust or depend upon the most?
7.Who or what do you fear the most?
8.Who or what do you hope in and hope for most?
9.Who or what do you desire the most? Or, what desire makes you most angry or makes you despair when it is not satisfied?
10.Who or what do you most delight in or hold as your greatest joy and treasure?
11.Who or what captures your greatest zeal?
12.To whom or for what are you most thankful?
13.For whom or what great purpose do you work?
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Of Authors Great and Gone
Of Authors Great and Gone
~By John Horn
'Twas as a boy I loved to read,
And to the classics gave I heed,
To knights of yore, and tables round,
My youthful mind would lightly bound.
To tales of boys who thought like men,
As steady with the sword, as pen,
Whose noble deeds shone evermore,
Regardless, whether rich or poor.
I ask your patience for a time,
Peruse, for me, this little rhyme,
In which, unworthily, 'tis true,
I paint the authors, grand, and few.
The wordy prose of Verne is full,
With concepts grand, alluring pull,
Where scientific thought prevails,
And future's present he unveils.
His men are hearty, bold, and fierce,
Whose open minds knowledge has pierced,
They conquer lands unseen before,
Descending to earth's molten core.
Across the frozen wastes they glide,
Circling the globe with noble stride,
Beneath the waves a path they find,
Though dangers lurk, they are not blind.
Into his men Verne inculcates,
Grand, thoughtful, careful, noble, traits,
And power which could almost be,
Possessed by super-humanry.
And yet, his books contain a charm,
Adventure's strong, uncovered arm,
And boy doth read with bated breath,
'Till right hath caused the villain's death.
Now leave we Verne's prophetic works,
To tread ground where the savage lurks,
And gallant sailors, ships do save,
With "Cooper of the wind and wave."
The sun-bronzed woodsman tracks his prey,
Through gloomy night and shining day,
While painted warriors watch his path,
Prepared on him to wreak their wrath.
With hawkish eye the hunter fires,
Contributing to savage pyres,
His hand is firm, it doth not shake,
His eye as bright as crystal lake,
His limbs like iron bars suspend,
His cause the weaker to defend,
His tongue, unguided, without lie,
His heart prepared, if needs, to die.
The woodland forests stretch to meet,
The mighty ocean's watery street,
Upon the tides sail ships of fame,
Sailored by men of noble frame.
Romanticized the seas have been,
By rivers of J. Cooper's pen,
And pirates lift their bloody flag,
A Spanish galleon soon to bag.
With great precaution journeyed they,
A spy might find their pirate bay,
And 'pon the gallows stark they'd be,
A gruesome picture of the sea.
The gloomy woods and sparkling sea,
Depart we now for G. Henty,
The prince of story-tellers, long,
Holds fast the heart of boy-hood strong.
With armies, brave, the pages flow,
And England's banners proudly show.
His horseman's sword he never stays,
For stallions charge, not dappled drays.
The jockeys are not dressed for show,
Accoutered stern, spears row on row,
The art of war they have long known
Professors grim, with hearts of stone.
The history of each tribe he tells,
Their wars, their peace, and what propels
Their quest for ne'er diminished pow'r,
For which are killed, of youth, their flow'r.
Meanwhile, the hero, brave and young,
A boy of which songs will be sung,
Doth battle life with courtesy.
And thus the pen of George Henty.
The historyed wars and long campaigns,
Dissolve into antiquos rains,
As "Ballantyne the Brave" comes forth,
To prove the world his noble worth.
With gravity and joyous mien,
The earth's remotest parts they've seen,
From desert plains to Arctic wastes,
And sparkling coral seas he hastes,
Into Brazilian jungles thick,
Their paths, his boyish heroes pick,
As well the streets of London town,
They tread 'neath skies of foggy brown.
Himself a man of count'nance firm,
His men unlike the sinnish worm,
Instead their thoughts to ethereal skies,
Soar nobly as the eagle flies.
A boyish laugh, a humored strain,
A conscience clear, left without stain,
A purpose firm, a Christian love,
A deep belief in Him above,
Thus carefully they thread life's toils,
Acquainted with earth's humble soils,
Bereft of pride's eroding hate,
With good sense placed inside their pate.
Aye, Ballantyne a master is,
The art of painting greatness his,
And with respect we turn the page,
Upon this grand, enduring sage.
'Twas Robert Louis Stevenson,
With fingers deft his stories spun,
For Ballantyne he read while young,
And on each word breathless he hung,
Then as a man he soon became,
Himself an author, gained great fame.
"Pieces of eight," the parrot cried,
Treasures of hate, and many died,
As on that classic, dreaded isle,
Lurked pirates fierce, besmeared and vile,
By years debauched, senseless of right,
Dark shadows cast by flick'ring light.
'Twas also on the Scottish moors,
That Balfour met with kingly lures,
Caught 'twixt the Stuart hierarchy,
And England's German monarchy.
Yes, blood was spilt upon the sands,
Some innocent, by wicked hands,
Some shed in hope of better days,
When bright would shine enduring rays.
And so a heritage he twined,
With murderous scenes, and love combined,
With deft hands, weaving mortal threads,
To enter Britain's youthful heads.
If Stevenson ambitiously,
Wrote tales of kings and piracy,
Then Dickens of humanity,
Recorded sorrows dutifully.
The bleakness of the times he wrote,
The flowing tears of men, did note,
Oppressed by knaves, reincarnate,
Of ancient warlords, spreading hate,
Whose riches gained, by tyranny,
O'er feeble wretches gave them glee,
Soci'ties poor, England's outcasts,
Necessedly in constant fasts,
For food is dear, and wages low,
Thus writes Dickens, and he should know,
Himself rescued from vile slums,
By dint of small and hard-earned sums.
And yet upon life's softer side,
He doth occasion'lly abide,
Where crimson bloom the cheeks of maids,
When into sight their love parades.
And so dear reader, you have come,
Through years of scratching pencils' hum,
Unto the last of my chosen,
I thank your patience once again,
For journ'ying with the authors great,
Who long are gone, and yet whose slate,
Is covered with the joyous thanks,
Of those like me in boyhood's ranks.
Copyright, John Horn, 2010
Ballantyne the Brave Blog
~By John Horn
'Twas as a boy I loved to read,
And to the classics gave I heed,
To knights of yore, and tables round,
My youthful mind would lightly bound.
To tales of boys who thought like men,
As steady with the sword, as pen,
Whose noble deeds shone evermore,
Regardless, whether rich or poor.
I ask your patience for a time,
Peruse, for me, this little rhyme,
In which, unworthily, 'tis true,
I paint the authors, grand, and few.
The wordy prose of Verne is full,
With concepts grand, alluring pull,
Where scientific thought prevails,
And future's present he unveils.
His men are hearty, bold, and fierce,
Whose open minds knowledge has pierced,
They conquer lands unseen before,
Descending to earth's molten core.
Across the frozen wastes they glide,
Circling the globe with noble stride,
Beneath the waves a path they find,
Though dangers lurk, they are not blind.
Into his men Verne inculcates,
Grand, thoughtful, careful, noble, traits,
And power which could almost be,
Possessed by super-humanry.
And yet, his books contain a charm,
Adventure's strong, uncovered arm,
And boy doth read with bated breath,
'Till right hath caused the villain's death.
Now leave we Verne's prophetic works,
To tread ground where the savage lurks,
And gallant sailors, ships do save,
With "Cooper of the wind and wave."
The sun-bronzed woodsman tracks his prey,
Through gloomy night and shining day,
While painted warriors watch his path,
Prepared on him to wreak their wrath.
With hawkish eye the hunter fires,
Contributing to savage pyres,
His hand is firm, it doth not shake,
His eye as bright as crystal lake,
His limbs like iron bars suspend,
His cause the weaker to defend,
His tongue, unguided, without lie,
His heart prepared, if needs, to die.
The woodland forests stretch to meet,
The mighty ocean's watery street,
Upon the tides sail ships of fame,
Sailored by men of noble frame.
Romanticized the seas have been,
By rivers of J. Cooper's pen,
And pirates lift their bloody flag,
A Spanish galleon soon to bag.
With great precaution journeyed they,
A spy might find their pirate bay,
And 'pon the gallows stark they'd be,
A gruesome picture of the sea.
The gloomy woods and sparkling sea,
Depart we now for G. Henty,
The prince of story-tellers, long,
Holds fast the heart of boy-hood strong.
With armies, brave, the pages flow,
And England's banners proudly show.
His horseman's sword he never stays,
For stallions charge, not dappled drays.
The jockeys are not dressed for show,
Accoutered stern, spears row on row,
The art of war they have long known
Professors grim, with hearts of stone.
The history of each tribe he tells,
Their wars, their peace, and what propels
Their quest for ne'er diminished pow'r,
For which are killed, of youth, their flow'r.
Meanwhile, the hero, brave and young,
A boy of which songs will be sung,
Doth battle life with courtesy.
And thus the pen of George Henty.
The historyed wars and long campaigns,
Dissolve into antiquos rains,
As "Ballantyne the Brave" comes forth,
To prove the world his noble worth.
With gravity and joyous mien,
The earth's remotest parts they've seen,
From desert plains to Arctic wastes,
And sparkling coral seas he hastes,
Into Brazilian jungles thick,
Their paths, his boyish heroes pick,
As well the streets of London town,
They tread 'neath skies of foggy brown.
Himself a man of count'nance firm,
His men unlike the sinnish worm,
Instead their thoughts to ethereal skies,
Soar nobly as the eagle flies.
A boyish laugh, a humored strain,
A conscience clear, left without stain,
A purpose firm, a Christian love,
A deep belief in Him above,
Thus carefully they thread life's toils,
Acquainted with earth's humble soils,
Bereft of pride's eroding hate,
With good sense placed inside their pate.
Aye, Ballantyne a master is,
The art of painting greatness his,
And with respect we turn the page,
Upon this grand, enduring sage.
'Twas Robert Louis Stevenson,
With fingers deft his stories spun,
For Ballantyne he read while young,
And on each word breathless he hung,
Then as a man he soon became,
Himself an author, gained great fame.
"Pieces of eight," the parrot cried,
Treasures of hate, and many died,
As on that classic, dreaded isle,
Lurked pirates fierce, besmeared and vile,
By years debauched, senseless of right,
Dark shadows cast by flick'ring light.
'Twas also on the Scottish moors,
That Balfour met with kingly lures,
Caught 'twixt the Stuart hierarchy,
And England's German monarchy.
Yes, blood was spilt upon the sands,
Some innocent, by wicked hands,
Some shed in hope of better days,
When bright would shine enduring rays.
And so a heritage he twined,
With murderous scenes, and love combined,
With deft hands, weaving mortal threads,
To enter Britain's youthful heads.
If Stevenson ambitiously,
Wrote tales of kings and piracy,
Then Dickens of humanity,
Recorded sorrows dutifully.
The bleakness of the times he wrote,
The flowing tears of men, did note,
Oppressed by knaves, reincarnate,
Of ancient warlords, spreading hate,
Whose riches gained, by tyranny,
O'er feeble wretches gave them glee,
Soci'ties poor, England's outcasts,
Necessedly in constant fasts,
For food is dear, and wages low,
Thus writes Dickens, and he should know,
Himself rescued from vile slums,
By dint of small and hard-earned sums.
And yet upon life's softer side,
He doth occasion'lly abide,
Where crimson bloom the cheeks of maids,
When into sight their love parades.
And so dear reader, you have come,
Through years of scratching pencils' hum,
Unto the last of my chosen,
I thank your patience once again,
For journ'ying with the authors great,
Who long are gone, and yet whose slate,
Is covered with the joyous thanks,
Of those like me in boyhood's ranks.
Copyright, John Horn, 2010
Ballantyne the Brave Blog
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Quote of the month by David Brainard
"I care not where I go, or how I live, or what I endure so that I may save souls. When I sleep I dream of them; when I awake they are first in my thoughts. No amount of scholastic attainment, of able and profound exposition of brilliant and stirring eloquence can atone for the absence of a deep impassioned sympathetic love for human souls."
Monday, May 24, 2010
Psalms 78:2-7 (ESV) - I will open my mouth
I will open my mouth in a parable; I will utter dark sayings from of old, (3) things that we have heard and known, that our fathers have told us. (4) We will not hide them from their children, but tell to the coming generation the glorious deeds of the LORD, and his might, and the wonders that he has done. (5) He established a testimony in Jacob and appointed a law in Israel, which he commanded our fathers to teach to their children, (6) that the next generation might know them, the children yet unborn, and arise and tell them to their children, (7) so that they should set their hope in God and not forget the works of God, but keep his commandments;
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Quote of the Month - St. Augustine
Do you wish to rise? Begin by descending. You plan a tower that will pierce the clouds?
Lay first the foundation of humility. ~Saint Augustine
Lay first the foundation of humility. ~Saint Augustine
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Wanted!
I thought this was a pretty good western short film so here it is. A group of young men made this, and I saw it on the Ballantyne the Brave Blog.
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