Behold the Potter’s Masterpiece: How Christ Gave Wings to Dust and Turned Weakness into Triumphant Song by Debbie Harris

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I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.
— Philippians 4:13 (KJV)


But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us.
— 2 Corinthians 4:7 (KJV)

In realms of trial where impossible tasks arose,
A humble vessel, clay of mortal dust,
Faced towering seas and mountains clad in impossibilities
That mocked all human strength with iron thrust.
No arm of flesh could break the binding chain,
No mortal wit could chart the victor’s road;
Yet Heaven’s whisper pierced the hush of strain—
“Through Christ, all things!”—and glory’s torrent flowed.
Then surged the Almighty wind, not theirs but Thine,
A blaze of eagle-wings on dawn’s own crest;
The clay was lifted, crowned with fire divine,
And charged the breach in triumph manifest.
Through weary flood and trials that blocked the way,
Through walls of doubt that barred the shining road,
They rose exultant on the Lord’s own grace,
Each victory singing, “Christ has won the day!”
O splendor wrapped in weakness glorified!
The impossible yielded, the vast task bowed in awe,
The mountain danced, the chains of doubt dissolved,
While heaven’s trumpets rang without a flaw.
They stood transfixed upon the vict’ry field,
A fragile jar yet overflowing grace,
And marveled as the skies themselves revealed
The hand of God in every radiant trace.
Behold the Potter’s triumph fully unveiled—
From dust He forged a conqueror bold and bright;
The reed became a trumpet, strong and hailed,
The timid and anxious leaped on holy height!
All glory, honor, power to the Throne!
The vessel nothing wrought, yet all was won;
They only yielded, watched, and stood alone
In holy awe—for Christ the King had done it all, and won!

Celestial Investment by Debbie Harris

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To every child of little means who sows in secret—
cup of water, loaf of bread, and quiet faithfulness—
your labor is not in vain.
This is for you, beloved of the Risen King.

When earthly coffers stand with iron gates
And mortal wealth slips through the beggar’s hand,
When fields lie fallow, sealed by cruel fates,
And hope itself seems buried in the sand—

Fear not, O soul! Lift high thy conquering head!
Let not thy heart in shadowed silence pine,
Nor envy those who heap their fleeting store—
For Christ has triumphed! He is risen from the dead!
Thy righteousness, thy victory divine!

His scarlet robe now clothes thee royally,
His wounded hands have shattered every chain;
What earth denies, His boundless triumph brings,
And crowns thy poverty with endless gain!

Arise and shine! Let every righteous deed
Blaze as thy treasure—cup of water poured,
A loaf for hungry souls in deepest need,
A word that breaks the captive’s iron cord!

These are the coins no thief can ever claim,
The gold no rust nor moth shall e’er defile.
The heavenly ledgers blaze with living flame,
Recording every act with heaven’s joyful smile.

So labor not for dust that time devours—
Sow boldly in His love and reap eternal powers!
For Christ the Victor lives and reigns in thee—
Thy present strength, thy song, thy royalty!

When evening falls and earthly lights grow dim,
When labor seems but scattered seed once sown,
Look up! The risen King who conquered sin
Prepares His banquet at His glorious throne.

There every tear upon the barren ground,
Each hidden kindness offered in the night,
Shall blaze as crowns of glory, jewel-crowned,
In mansions flooded with unquenchable light!

Therefore, rejoice, thou child of little means—
Thy Father rules the measure of thy days!
Let Jesus be thy wealth, thy joy, thy dreams;
Let His triumphant Name be all thy praise!

This fleeting life shall soon be swallowed whole
In everlasting triumph, full and vast.
The Lion and the Lamb upon the throne
Declares thee victor—“Enter joy at last!”

Hallelujah! Christ is risen! Death is slain!
All hail the Lamb who reigns forevermore!
My treasure is in heaven—Christ alone—
My King, my Victory, my All in All!

No Such Thing as Regular: Crowned as Royal Heirs of the Eternal Kingdom by Debbie Harris

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In Heaven’s blazing gaze where no mere mortal hides,
No “regular” soul exists—only the sanctified.
You are redeemed, plunged deep in the Lamb’s own crimson flood,
Washed whiter than fresh snow by His holy, healing blood.

Justified, forgiven, sealed with Pentecostal fire,
Joint-heir with Christ the Lion, risen from death’s dark pyre.
Royal sons and daughters, breathing His immortal breath,
Children of the King of Kings, robed in righteousness.

Your Father rules on sapphire throne wreathed in stars and flame,
His glory burns within you, pulsing out His holy name.
All glorious within—a temple forged of purest gold,
A living crown of splendor that eternity can’t hold.

When hellish darts come screaming through the shadowed midnight air,
Tipped with poison, forged in hate, barbed with black despair—
Rise, O royal heir! Let heaven’s trumpet blast!
Lift high your shield of faith and watch those arrows fall at last.

They shatter into sparks before the Morning Star’s pure light,
For you are blood-bought royalty, arrayed in garments bright.
No common traveler here—no victim of the night—
You are a prince, a princess, crowned in everlasting light.

Regular? Never. Redeemed? Forever!
Crowned with living jewels no darkness can dissever.
Sealed by the Spirit’s flame, you shine with heaven’s might—
Walk tall, O child of the King, robed in glory, robed in light.

You are not ordinary—
You are eternally, gloriously royal.
Go shine, royal one.

While On Your Knees In Prayer, Miracles Happen by Debbie Harris

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While on your knees in prayer,
miracles happen

— not by luck, not by stars,
but because Christ is the Source.

He who spoke worlds into being
now bends near when you bow low.
Every healing, every door flung open,
every chain that suddenly falls
flows straight from the hands
still marked by nails.

The weight you carry loosens
because the One who carried the cross
now carries you.

What seemed impossible
bows its knee at His name
and stays.

Eyes closed, you see the scars
that bought every miracle.

In the hush between heartbeats,
Christ Himself is listening—
and He answers.

Keep kneeling.
This ground is holy.
Miracles are listening,
and their Source
is always Christ.

No Diamond Gleams Like Mercy’s Light: The Treasure Found in Christ Our Lord by Debbie Harris

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For the glory of Christ alone.

In the hush of dawn where shadows flee,
A gift descends, not bought with gold,
Not wrapped in silk or earthly plea,
But whispered soft in hearts grown cold.

Salvation—pure, through Jesus’ name,
The Lamb who bore our every stain,
Who faced the cross, endured the shame,
And rose victorious, breaking chains.

No diamond gleams like mercy’s light,
No treasure hoard can match its worth;
It lifts the lost from endless night,
And births new life from barren earth.

Oh, precious gift! Beyond all measure,
Freely given, humbly received—
In Christ alone we find our treasure,
Redeemed, restored, forever freed.

Bow low, dear soul, and claim this grace,
The greatest wonder time has known;
For heaven’s joy floods every place
Where Jesus Christ is Lord alone.

A Call For Biblical Boldness by Debbie Harris

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We are not summoned to the silent shade,
Nor veil our flame beneath a coward’s bushel.
With holy fire we rise, unashamed,
Proclaiming Christ — the Lamb, the Price, the Crucified.
Bold be our tongues, unbowed and Spirit-led,
Declaring Jesus — Sovereign, King, and Name!
No whispered creed, no soft apology,
But trumpet thunder splitting heaven’s frame.
We will not kneel to open-minded sin,
Where every trail is paved as equal truth.
Narrow the gate, the way austere within —
Christ’s holy path is to see from the mountainous Biblical view.
Be bold! Be brave! Let no foul wind betray
The Rock on which our anchored feet are stayed.
Rejoice, O saints, along the narrow way —
Where joy runs deep and grace becomes our wage.
Eyes fixed above, through tempests we ascend,
On Christ the solid Summit we endure.
Wide is the road that flatters self to its end,
But narrow climbs the path that leads to pure.
Let heaven and earth forevermore confess:
Jesus is Lord — the Name above all names, forever blessed!

The Seriousness of Calling Yourself a “Christian” Without Any Recognizable Fruit by Debbie Harris

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Jesus Christ our Lord is the true Vine,
The source of all life and living sap.
God the Father is the Gardener wise,
He tends and watches every branch with care.

Every branch that stays joined to Christ
But hangs empty — no fruit, no clusters in sight —
Even after many seasons of mercy and grace,
The Father cuts it off and takes it from its place.
He will not let dead wood remain attached.

But every branch that bears some fruit,
He prunes with care, though it may sting and hurt,
So stronger shoots and heavier clusters grow,
And richer, sweeter fruit appears on earth.

We must abide in Christ, and He in us.
A branch cut off can never bear its own.
It withers quickly, turns brittle, dry, and brown,
And lies there useless, barren, and alone.

Jesus is the Vine, and we are the branches.
Whoever abides in Him will bear much fruit.
But apart from Christ we can do nothing —
We wither, fade, and slowly die.

If anyone does not abide in Christ,
He is cast out like a withered, lifeless limb.
Men gather up the dry wood from the ground,
And burn it in a fire fierce and grim.

God is patient, slow to wrath and kind,
He gives chance after chance, as with the fig tree.
He digs, He waters, waits with hope in mind —
But patience ends, the fruitless branch is cut free.

By their fruits you surely know the tree,
Faith without works is dead and hollow too.
The Spirit’s fruit is plain for all to see:
Love, joy, and peace in all we say and do.

So hear this warning deep within your soul:
Do not wear the name “Christian” with a barren life.
If no obedience and no real fruit appear,
The Gardener’s blade will cut you from this life.

Stay rooted deep in Jesus Christ each day,
Let His rich life flow strong through every part.
Then lasting fruit will grow without delay,
And you will please the Father’s loving heart.

I’ve seen it happen with my own eyes,
Branches once green now cut away and dry.
Lives that once walked close to the Lord
Now scattered, withered, passing by.

So let us examine our hearts today,
While mercy still calls and grace remains.
Abide in Christ, bear fruit while you may —
Lest we too are cut off from these earthly plains.

Humanity’s Shadowed Light: Complexities of the Christless Heart by Debbie Harris

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In shadowed vales where no Redeemer trod,
Yet common grace still scatters seeds of good,
Man bears the image, marred but not erased,
And often walks with noble heart and mood.
He loves his children, tends the wounded beast,
Gives alms in secret, risks his life for friend;
Yet in his breast the ancient serpent’s yeast
Still works unseen, and waits its fatal end.

Without the Cross, the soul retains its spark—
Bright deeds of mercy, courage, truth, and art—
But lacks the root that holds it through the dark,
The living Vine that binds the fractured heart.
Thus cruelty, though not in every breast,
Finds easier soil where Christ is not enthroned;
It wears a thousand faces, finely dressed,
In systems cold where love is never owned.

Behold the cultured man of gentle speech,
Who weeps at poetry and feeds the poor,
Yet votes for laws that grind the helpless each,
Or turns away when conscience knocks his door.
The tender mother, fierce in love’s employ,
May still despise the stranger at her gate;
The honest scholar, seeker after joy,
May justify the scaffold and the hate.

O complex race! Half angel, half in chains—
Thou buildest hospitals, yet prisons too;
Thou singest ballads sweet of soft refrains,
Then march to war with hymns of vengeance new.
Thou pitiest horses, dogs, and woodland deer,
Yet traffic souls for pleasure or for gain;
Thou speakest peace, yet harbor secret fear
That turns to cruelty when loss brings pain.

Not every soul without the Savior’s name
Is brute or tyrant walking earth’s sad sod;
Yet all, unanchored, drift toward the same
Slow-cooling love, the gradual death of God.
For conscience fades when not renewed by grace,
And self becomes the measure and the law;
The kinder heart grows weary in the race,
And turns at last to serve its hidden flaw.

Thus shines a twilight beauty, real yet frail,
A borrowed light that glimmers, then grows dim;
Till Christ restore the heart that will not fail,
And flood with dawn what now is veiled and grim.
O fallen race, in whom such glories dwell,
Yet chained to shadows deeper than we see—
Come to the Lamb whose mercy cannot fail,
Lest even thy kindness prove a gilded tree.

The Redeemed Heart: An Ode Against Every Type of Cruelty by Debbie Harris

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In Christ’s dear name, where crimson mercy flows,
Redeemed souls rise, washed clean from Adam’s stain;
No longer thrall to sin’s unfeeling throes,
But bound in love’s bright, everlasting chain.
If thou art His, and bear the Savior’s mark,
Then hate the lash that scars the tender back,
The fist that strikes the child in shadowed dark,
The blade that lays the harmless creature slack.

O cruelty, thou viper from the pit,
Thou mock’st the Lord who healed the broken reed;
Who gathered lambs and bade the sparrow flit
Beneath His gaze, in gentle, sovereign heed.
He wept for Lazarus, for Jerusalem’s woe,
And stooped to lift the fallen, bruised, and low.

Shall we, bought dear with blood on Calvary’s tree,
Endure the groan of woman in her chains?
The orphan’s cry that rends the midnight sea,
The beast that bleeds beneath uncaring reins?
Nay—let the redeemed soul blaze with holy ire,
A furnace hot against each brutal wrong;
For love and hatred twine as sacred fire:
Love to the weak, and hatred fierce and strong.

To every hand that lifts in needless pain,
To every tongue that wounds the widow’s breast,
To every eye that sees and turns in vain—
The Christ within cries, “This shall find no rest!”
For He who made the eagle, ox, and dove,
And fashioned man in His own image bright,
Commands us guard the weak with jealous love,
And tread down cruelty with warrior’s might.

Thus walk, O soul, in garments white and pure,
A pilgrim marked by pity’s thorn-crowned brow;
Let mercy be thy banner, swift and sure,
Till heaven’s dawn dissolves all shadows now.
In Jesus’ name, where every tear is dried,
No cruelty shall stand—hate it, justified.

To Mother: The Eternal Hearth of Grace by Debbie Harris

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Dedicated to my amazing and brilliant Mom.

O thou, whose gentle hands first shaped the clay
Of this frail vessel breathing mortal air,
Whose voice, a silver thread in dawn’s first ray,
Dispelled the shadows of a world’s despair—
Thou art the hearth where all my winters warm,
The hidden spring that feeds the desert heart,
The steadfast star that guides through every storm,
The quiet strength that bids the soul take part.

Not marble monuments nor crowns of gold
Could match the silent labor of thy days:
The midnight watches, stories newly told,
The unseen mending of a thousand ways.
Thy love, like ancient rivers, deep and wide,
Flows on when all the fleeting empires fade.

Thou gav’st me roots that clutch the sacred earth
And wings to seek the heavens’ farthest dome;
In every triumph, in each quiet birth
Of thought or deed, thy spirit is my home.
Should ages crumble and the stars grow dim,
Still shall my grateful heart remember Him
Who lent thee to me for this little while—
My first, my last, my everlasting smile.

Mother, in thee true beauty finds its home,
And heaven’s quiet grace is fully known.