Luke 12:32
KJV: Fear not, little flock; for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.
NIV: “Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom.”
AMP: Do not be afraid and anxious, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.
Psalm 56:8
KJV: Thou tellest my wanderings: put thou my tears into thy bottle: are they not in thy book?
NIV: Record my misery; list my tears on your scroll—are they not in your record?
AMP: You have taken account of my wanderings; Put my tears in Your bottle. Are they not recorded in Your book?
Matthew 16:18
KJV: …upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.
NIV: …on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not overcome it.
AMP: …on this rock I will build My church; and the gates of Hades (death) will not overpower it.
From the Poet
Dear Reader,
This poem is written with a heavy yet hopeful heart for our brothers and sisters in Nigeria who daily lay down their lives for the name of Christ. I have not walked their path, nor can I fully measure their suffering. I only know that Scripture calls us to “remember those in prison as if you were there with them” (Hebrews 13:3).
May these lines serve as both lament and encouragement — a small mirror held up to their steadfast faith, and a quiet call to the wider Church to pray, to speak, and to stand with them. Their wounds are real. Their hope is surer. One day, on earth or in Heaven’s glory, the world will see their scars transformed into trophies of a victory won not by the sword, but by the blood of the Lamb and the word of their testimony.
Until that morning breaks, let us hold them before the Father who bottles every tear.
With solemn respect and sisterly love,
The Poet
O steadfast remnant, tempered in the flame
Where Sahel winds bear scimitars of hate,
Thy altars glow though villages lie maimed—
Thy anthems pierce the darkness, undismayed.
In Middle Belt the herdsmen’s shadows fall
Like wolves upon the fold at break of day;
The mother’s final lullaby, the infant’s call,
Are answered only by the heavens’ gray.
Ten thousand spires reduced to ash and bone,
Ten thousand names the world refuses breath;
Yet from that dust a living Seed is sown—
The Christ who wept in Gethsemane draws near,
Counts every crimson drop, each stifled groan,
And whispers, “Little flock, be of good cheer.”
Thy cross is sharp, thy night without a star,
Yet His yoke settles gentle as the dew;
The Lion of Judah paces where you are,
And hell’s own legions cannot conquer you.
Though distant thrones avert their eyes in shame
And trade thy blood for profit sealed in oil,
The Lord of Hosts engraves each hidden name
In lamb’s own blood upon the deathless scroll.
From Jos’s wounded hills to Lagos spires,
Thy witness flares—a constellation pure;
Stephen forgives within thy funeral fires,
Polycarp’s calm endures thy furnace sure.
Rise, suffering vine, though trampled underfoot—
Thy roots draw life from aquifers unseen.
The wine pressed out beneath the heavenly foot
Shall overflow with glory unforeseen.
Cling to the faith the noble martyrs confessed,
The crown of life gleams for thy patient race;
What earthly loss, what tears, what sharp distress
Beside the beauty of His unveiled face?
Be strong, beloved Church—be not afraid.
The Judge descends with justice in His eyes.
Each bottle of thy tears, each price you’ve paid,
Becomes a jewel set in paradise.
Till then shine on, though blood may be thy crown—
The gates of hell shall never take thee down.
When morning breaks—on earth or Heaven’s shore—
Thy God triumphant in thy wounds made whole.