How Every Earthly Glory Fades Before His Holy Chord by Debbie Harris

29 Saturday Aug 2026

Posted by in Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational

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A Note from the Poet

Dear Reader,

These lines were born of a single thought: that when the soul at last hears the symphony that is in Jesus Christ our Lord and Saviour, every lesser music grows faint. The world does not vanish; it is simply out-sung.

I have tried to set that moment in the older measure—rhyme and cadence such as our fathers used—so that the ear might linger long enough for the heart to follow. If the verse has any worth, it is only as a small echo of a greater harmony. Read it slowly, if you will, and may the same music find you.

— The Poet

Revelation 5:9

And they sung a new song, saying, Thou art worthy to take the book, and to open the seals thereof: for thou wast slain, and hast redeemed us to God by thy blood out of every kindred, and tongue, and people, and nation.

Revelation 15:3

And they sing the song of Moses the servant of God, and the song of the Lamb, saying, Great and marvellous are thy works, Lord God Almighty; just and true are thy ways, thou King of saints.

Colossians 3:16

Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly in all wisdom; teaching and admonishing one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing with grace in your hearts to the Lord.

When first the symphony in Christ is found,

Our Lord and Saviour, source of every tone,

The lesser lights that once so brightly crowned

Grow faint, and every earthly glory’s gone.

The world’s loud clamor, gold and fleeting fame,

The passing joys that once held sovereign sway,

Now dim before the music of His name,

As stars grow pale before the breaking day.

The heart that chased each scattered, broken sound

Finds rest within that vast and holy chord;

And all that once was bright on mortal ground

Fades quietly before the risen Lord.

O Jesus Christ, in whom all things cohere,

In Thee the universe is tuned and clear.

**To God be the glory always and only.

A Poem of Waking in the Holy City by Debbie Harris

29 Saturday Aug 2026

Posted by in Christian Poetry, Inspirational, Thanksgiving, Triumphant

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A Note to the Reader

Dear Reader,

This is not a map of Heaven. Scripture has already given what we are allowed to know. I have only tried to wake inside those promises: a new body, a holy city, the ordered joy of angels, the faces of the redeemed, and Christ Himself, no longer believed at a distance but seen.

If the gold and the gates appear, they are not the treasure. They are the floor and the door. The treasure is the Lamb who died and lives again. The city needs no sun because He is its day. Faith ends not in imagination, but in sight.

I have written in the second person because the hope is not a spectacle for someone else. It is offered to the one who still walks the long night and keeps the Name. This poem is but a humble attempt to capture the exquisite beauty of Heaven! In reality, there will be no words. For the scripture tells us in 1 Corinthians 2:9 (KJV)

But as it is written, Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.

Read the poem slowly. Beauty is not the enemy of truth. A line may be lovely and still lead you to Jesus Christ, King of Kings and Lord of Lords! If the loveliness stops at itself, it has failed. If it makes Him nearer, it has done its work.

The work is His.

The rest is waiting.

—The Poet

1 Corinthians 15:51–53

Behold, I shew you a mystery; We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed,

In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.

For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality.

Philippians 3:21

Who shall change our vile body, that it may be fashioned like unto his glorious body, according to the working whereby he is able even to subdue all things unto himself.

Revelation 21:4

And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.

Revelation 21:21

And the twelve gates were twelve pearls; every several gate was of one pearl: and the street of the city was pure gold, as it were transparent glass.

Revelation 21:23

And the city had no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it: for the glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof.

Revelation 22:1–2

And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb.

In the midst of the street of it, and on either side of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month: and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.

Revelation 22:5

And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light: and they shall reign for ever and ever.

1 Corinthians 13:12

For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

2 Corinthians 5:7

(For we walk by faith, not by sight:)

1 John 3:2

Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is.

Revelation 22:4

And they shall see his face; and his name shall be in their foreheads.

John 20:27

Then saith he to Thomas, Reach hither thy finger, and behold my hands; and reach hither thy hand, and thrust it into my side: and be not faithless, but believing.

Matthew 25:21

His lord said unto him, Well done, thou good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord.

Hebrews 12:22–23

But ye are come unto mount Sion, and unto the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to an innumerable company of angels,

To the general assembly and church of the firstborn, which are written in heaven, and to God the Judge of all, and to the spirits of just men made perfect.

Revelation 5:11–12

And I beheld, and I heard the voice of many angels round about the throne and the beasts and the elders: and the number of them was ten thousand times ten thousand, and thousands of thousands;

Saying with a loud voice, Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory, and blessing.

Revelation 1:17–18

And when I saw him, I fell at his feet as dead. And he laid his right hand upon me, saying unto me, Fear not; I am the first and the last:

I am he that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen; and have the keys of hell and of death.

Revelation 22:13

I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last.

Revelation 21:6

And he said unto me, It is done. I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life freely.

Waking is not a startle here.

It is a slow unfurling, like a rose

that never knew a frost or fear,

the first true breath a body knows.

The lungs take light instead of air.

The heart keeps time with something vast.

No ache remains, no weight, no wear—

the old machine is overpassed.

The skin is new. It holds the day

the way still water holds the sky.

Each nerve is tuned to praise and play;

each cell remembers the design.

You stand. The standing is a song.

The floor is gold that does not glare

but drinks the brightness all along

and gives it back as living air.

A river moves with liquid glass.

Its banks are lined with trees that heal.

The leaves keep time as ages pass

and every wound they touch is sealed.

Then sound arrives—not crash, not cry,

but ordered glory, rank on rank:

the seraphim whose faces fly

with fire that never scorched or sank;

the cherubim with wheels of sight;

the thrones that hold the weight of peace;

dominions keeping day from night

so joy may never know decrease;

then virtues, powers, principalities,

archangels bright as lifted swords,

and angels countless as the seas

who speak in one accord of words.

They do not rush. They form a way.

A living aisle of wing and light.

A welcoming that does not sway

from order into mere delight.

One steps. His face is kind and keen.

He does not ask what you have done.

He only smiles, as if he’d seen

your name before the world begun.

Beyond him, faces you have loved

in stories older than your blood:

the shepherd-king whose harp once moved

the dark; the man who faced the flood;

the mother who kept every word

and pondered them against her heart;

the fisherman who saw the Lord

and left the nets to take his part.

They do not crowd. They simply are—

as real as bread, as clear as flame.

No statue’s calm, no distant star:

they know your name. They speak your name.

The city rises, gate by gate

of pearl that never learned to close.

No shadow leans. There is no late.

The light itself is what it knows.

And then the center—not a throne

of metal lifted over men,

but Jesus, known as He is known,

the Lamb who died and lives again.

You see Him. Seeing is the end

of faith that walked the long night through.

The glass is gone. The shadows bend.

The distant Hope is here and true.

The eyes that wept, the hands once torn,

the side the spear was made to find—

He wears them still, not as a scorn,

but as the mercy of His mind.

He looks at you as if the world

had waited only for this hour.

No thunder splits. No banner’s furled.

Just love that has no need of power.

He speaks, and every golden street

falls still, as if the city hears

the sentence it was built to meet,

the word that gathers all the years:

“Well done, thou good and faithful servant.”

The phrase is old. The meaning new.

It settles in the bones like current.

It makes the finished work come true.

You do not bow from terror’s claim.

You kneel because the joy is deep,

because the One who knows your name

has kept the promise He would keep.

And all the ranks of heaven wait

in that bright hush after the word,

as if the universe’s weight

were lightened by what you just heard.

Then music starts again—not loud,

but full, the way a river fills

the quiet places of a cloud

and turns the high, cold air to hills.

You rise. The new body knows how.

The gold is warm beneath your feet.

What once was faith is vision now.

The far-off Lord is near, complete.

The city keeps no sun for guide,

no moon to nurse a lesser flame.

The Lamb is day on every side.

The light is Jesus. So is the Name.

The saints are walking in that light.

The angels finish what they began.

The song is doctrine burning bright:

the Word made flesh, the Son of Man.

No sun is asked to start the day.

The Lamb is light. The song is won.

The First and Last is All in All.

The work forevermore is done.

**To God be the glory always and only.

The Glory Is Not Ours to Own: Of Him, Through Him, To Him by Debbie Harris

29 Saturday Aug 2026

Posted by in Celebratory, Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational, Royally Redeemed, salvation, Thanksgiving

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A note from the poet

Dear reader,

This is not an account of what I made. It is an attempt to tell the truth about what I was given.

Every line that looks like skill was first a mercy: breath, light, a mind that could hold a cadence, a heart that could be taught to see the gift and not the giver last. If the poem works, that is not proof of ownership. The mountain does not lift itself. The song does not write its own hand.

I wrote it as thanksgiving—to the Father who unclasps the morning, to the Spirit who steadies a trembling line, to the Son through whom the empty cup is made enough. Whatever is weak in it is mine. Whatever is true already belonged to Him.

Read it as you would receive bread: not as a display of the baker, but as a share in a feast you did not spread.

If any word here helps you return what you hold, it has done its work.

—the poet

Romans 11:36

For of him, and through him, and to him, are all things: to whom be glory for ever. Amen.

— The last stanza almost speaks this verse aloud: from You, through You, unto You.

1 Corinthians 4:7

For who maketh thee to differ from another? and what hast thou that thou didst not receive? now if thou didst receive it, why dost thou glory, as if thou hadst not received it?

— No vault of skill… can claim the glory that appears.

1 Chronicles 29:14

But who am I, and what is my people, that we should be able to offer so willingly after this sort? for all things come of thee, and of thine own have we given thee.

— We lift the thanksgiving we bring / and find it already given—free.

James 1:17

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.

— The opening movement: light, gift, Father of fountains, Source unspent.

From the first bright syllable of light

that split the deep and named the day,

each breath, each gift, each lifted height

is given, held, and kept Your way.

Father of fountains, Source unspent,

Your hands unclasp the morning gold;

the rivers run at Your consent,

the harvest swells because You hold.

Spirit of fire who broods and burns,

who teaches clay to sing and stand,

You kindle what the heart discerns

and steady every trembling hand.

And You, the Son, the living Word,

the Mercy walking in our dust:

through You the broken world is stirred,

through You the empty cup is just.

All strength that rises when we fall,

all talent flashing from the dark,

all bread that answers hunger’s call

comes streaming from Your wounded mark.

No vault of skill, no hoard of years,

no midnight labor, proud and lone,

can claim the glory that appears—

the glory is not ours to own.

The mountain does not lift itself;

the cedar does not praise its root;

the eagle riding thermal wealth

is borne by what it cannot compute.

So we, who once were barren ground,

now bear the fruit we did not plant;

the song that fills this gathered sound

was written by a hand we cannot grant.

You are the well, the bread, the feast,

the lamp that will not gutter out;

You are the first and final Priest

who turns our scarcity to shout.

When winters lock the field in white

and every talent seems too small,

Your sufficiency becomes our light—

enough, and more than all.

The throne is Yours, the triumph Yours,

the crown that never dims or rusts;

the praise that rolls from distant shores

returns to You because it must.

Father, Spirit, crucified King,

Triune abundance, undivided Three:

we lift the thanksgiving we bring

and find it already given—free.

All that we are, all that we hold,

all that we dare and all we do

is from You, through You, unto You:

Christ Jesus—source, and end, and All.

**To God be the glory always and only.**

In the Holy Word: Gold Beyond the Ground by Debbie Harris

26 Wednesday Aug 2026

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Psalm 19:9-10

The fear of the Lord is clean, enduring for ever: the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.

More to be desired are they than gold, yea, than much fine gold: sweeter also than honey and the honeycomb.

Psalm 119:72

The law of thy mouth is better unto me than thousands of gold and silver.

Psalm 119:127

Therefore I love thy commandments above gold; yea, above fine gold.

Proverbs 3:13-15

Happy is the man that findeth wisdom, and the man that getteth understanding.

For the merchandise of it is better than the merchandise of silver, and the gain thereof than fine gold.

She is more precious than rubies: and all the things thou canst desire are not to be compared unto her.

Proverbs 2:1-5

My son, if thou wilt receive my words, and hide my commandments with thee;

So that thou incline thine ear unto wisdom, and apply thine heart to understanding;

Yea, if thou criest after knowledge, and liftest up thy voice for understanding;

If thou seekest her as silver, and searchest for her as for hid treasures;

Then shalt thou understand the fear of the Lord, and find the knowledge of God.

Psalm 107:20

He sent his word, and healed them, and delivered them from their destructions.

Hebrews 4:12

For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any twoedged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.

Romans 12:2

And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God.

2 Timothy 3:16-17

All scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness:

That the man of God may be perfect, throughly furnished unto all good works.

Dear Reader,

These few lines come from a heart that has found lasting treasure in the Word of God.

If these words stir something in you, I invite you to dig deeper—there is more gold waiting than we can ever fully uncover.

With love,

The Poet

In the Holy Word of God, true gold is found—

transformative, healing, rich beyond the ground.

Friend, dig here for treasures still untold.

**To God be the glory always and only.

One Of These Days by Debbie Harris

25 Tuesday Aug 2026

Posted by in Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational, Praise, Royally Redeemed, salvation

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A Note from the Poet

Dear Reader,

These words were written in the quiet hope that one day the trumpet will sound—whether soon or after many years—and call us all home. May the ancient promises hold you steady while we wait, and may the thought of that bright gathering bring you peace.

With anticipation,

The Poet

1 Corinthians 15:51–52

Listen, I tell you a mystery: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed—in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed.

1 Thessalonians 4:16–17

For the Lord himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. After that, we who are still alive and are left will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And so we will be with the Lord forever.

One of these days—

perhaps with the next breath of dawn,

or after long seasons of waiting—

the trumpet will sound.

Clear and sudden,

cutting through the hush of graves

and the ordinary noise of living,

it will call us home.

The dust will stir,

the sleeping will rise,

and those still walking these roads

will lift their faces to the sky.

No more measured years,

no more “soon” or “later”—

only the bright gathering,

the long-promised return.

And we will go,

all of us together,

toward the place prepared,

toward the One who waits.

One of these days…

the trumpet will sound,

and we will all be going home.

One of these days…

***To God be the glory only and always.

Gathered Like Jewels: Precious in His Sight by Debbie Harris

23 Sunday Aug 2026

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Dear Reader,

Psalm 116:15 has been a quiet companion to me for many years:

“Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his saints.”

Lately it has grown even dearer. So many of the saints I have loved with all my heart are going home. One by one, the familiar voices that once prayed with me, laughed with me, and walked the narrow road beside me are being called into that brighter country. I feel the ache of their absence… and yet I also feel the deep, steady comfort of this verse. Their going is not loss in the eyes of Heaven. It is precious. It is noticed. It is held.

If you, too, are watching dear ones step through the veil, may these lines remind you that the same Father who treasures their departure also holds you close while you wait.

With love and gratitude,

— the poet

In the quiet chambers of eternity’s gaze,

Where stars bow low and silence softly sings,

A life once fragile, clay-bound, brief in days,

Is lifted like a jewel on angel wings.

Not the cold edge of the grave’s dark knife,

Nor the hush that settles when the breath departs,

But the moment Heaven leans with gentle life,

And the Father’s eyes grow soft with costly hearts.

Precious —

As the rarest pearl from the deepest sea,

As the final note of a long-held melody

That spent itself in praise so pure and free.

His saints do not slip unnoticed into night;

They are gathered, counted, cherished in His light.

A Shepherd who has watched each careful step,

Now gathers the lamb into His loving arms,

Not with sorrow that would make the heavens weep,

But with the quiet joy of homecoming’s charms.

The dust returns to dust, yet the soul —

Oh, the soul — is carried like pure gold

Through the thin veil into unending whole.

No accident, no afterthought, no loss.

In the sight of the Lord that final breath

Is rarer than gold refined through fire’s cost,

More valued than the morning’s first pure dew.

For He who numbers every single hair

Also numbers every heartbeat’s end with care,

And calls it precious beyond all compare.

So let the earth weep its soft, gentle tears;

Heaven does not weep the same soft way.

It opens wide its gates of gleaming pearl

And whispers over every saint who falls asleep that day:

“Come home. You were always Mine, complete.

And your going…

is precious in My sight, so sweet.”

**To God be the glory always and only.

There Is Nothing Like the Quiet Comfort of God by Debbie Harris

23 Sunday Aug 2026

Posted by in Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational

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A Note from the Poet

Dear Reader,

If your heart is weighed down by sadness or grief, please know that these words were written with you in mind. In the quiet places of sorrow, there is a comfort deeper than any human comfort—the God of all comfort, who meets us gently through His living Scriptures. May these lines become a small lamp in your darkness, reminding you that you are seen, you are loved, and you are never alone.

With deepest care,

The Poet

2 Corinthians 1:3-4

Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort; Who comforteth us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God.

Romans 15:4

For whatsoever things were written aforetime were written for our learning, that we through patience and comfort of the scriptures might have hope.

Psalm 119:50

This is my comfort in my affliction: for thy word hath quickened me.

Psalm 34:18

The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.

There is nothing like the quiet comfort found

When burdened hearts draw near the Word of grace,

And in the Scriptures’ calm, without a sound,

Meet God of all comfort face to face.

No storm of doubt can shake the soul that leans

Upon the Father’s mercies, soft and pure;

His holy pages soothe the aching scenes

Where once sadness and grief held their power.

He speaks not only in the wind or fire,

But through the living Book that calms the night;

A refuge sure when all our strengths expire,

A lamp of truth that turns our tears to light.

O God of all comfort, deep as any sea—

In Thee and in Thy Word the heart is free.

**To God be the glory always and only.

When Suffering Comes and Darkness Falls, His Love Will Never Fail Hymn by Debbie Harris

23 Sunday Aug 2026

Posted by in Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational, Love Of Family

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Dear Reader,

From this quiet poet’s note: I wrote this hymn with this in mind—When suffering comes and darkness falls, His love will never fail—especially in the face of death, prolonged sickness, or the slow, heartbreaking decline of those we love with age. Do not mistake the night for the absence of love. Watching a beloved body weaken, memory fade, or life slip away can feel like the heaviest curtain of all, drawing close over the window of the heart. Yet His love does not flicker with the fading light of health or years. It does not thin when the path grows steep with pain, hospitals, or final goodbyes. It does not fail when the tears come unbidden and the questions about why rise louder than any answer we can hear. Hold this truth the way a traveler holds a small, steady lantern in the deepest valley: the darkness is real, the suffering is real, the watching and the waiting are real—but the love that holds you, and holds those you love, is older than both and stronger than either. You are not walking alone through the sickroom, the quiet decline, or the shadow of death. Even here—especially here—His love will never fail. Rest in that, dear one. The morning is already on its way.

With love and prayers,

The Poet

Stanza 1

When suffering and sorrows come

Like storms that veil the light,

When burdens crush the trembling heart

And day gives way to night,

Lift up your eyes to heaven’s throne—

The Lord remains the same.

Refrain

He holds you in His sovereign hand

Through every grief and pain;

His steadfast love will never fail

Till morning breaks again.

Stanza 2

The tears that fall in secret hours,

The sighs too deep for words,

Are treasured by the God of grace

Who knows each unspoken chord.

He bears the weight you cannot lift

And walks the shadowed way.

Refrain

He holds you in His sovereign hand

Through every grief and pain;

His steadfast love will never fail

Till morning breaks again.

Stanza 3

Recall the Christ, the Man of grief,

Who bore the cross alone;

He drank the cup of human woe

To make you fully known.

His wounds still speak of endless grace

That meets you in the dark.

Refrain

He holds you in His sovereign hand

Through every grief and pain;

His steadfast love will never fail

Till morning breaks again.

Stanza 4

Though trials rise by His design

To purify the soul,

He wastes no tear, forsakes no child,

But makes the broken whole.

The furnace of affliction yields

A faith more pure than gold.

Refrain

He holds you in His sovereign hand

Through every grief and pain;

His steadfast love will never fail

Till morning breaks again.

Stanza 5

When sickness claims the ones we love

And death stands at the door,

When hearts are torn by helpless watch

And sorrow wounds the core,

Remember Jesus wept at tombs

And shares the tears we pour.

Refrain

He holds you in His sovereign hand

Through every grief and pain;

His steadfast love will never fail

Till morning breaks again.

Stanza 6

When friends grow distant, strength grows thin,

And hope begins to fade,

The Spirit intercedes within

With groans that cannot be stayed.

He lifts the fainting spirit high

And whispers, “I am near.”

Refrain

He holds you in His sovereign hand

Through every grief and pain;

His steadfast love will never fail

Till morning breaks again.

Stanza 7

The night is long, yet dawn will break

Across the eastern skies;

No sorrow lasts beyond His will,

No pain escapes His eyes.

He turns the mourning into song

And wipes away all tears.

Refrain

He holds you in His sovereign hand

Through every grief and pain;

His steadfast love will never fail

Till morning breaks again.

Stanza 8

So rest, O soul, in boundless love

That never shifts its course;

The One who planned the darkest hour

Will bring the brightest source.

Until we stand on heaven’s shore

Where sorrows are no more.

Refrain

He holds you in His sovereign hand

Through every grief and pain;

His steadfast love will never fail

Till morning breaks again.

**To God be the glory always and only!

You Are Held By Debbie Harris

22 Saturday Aug 2026

Posted by in Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational, Praise, Royally Redeemed, Thanksgiving, Triumphant

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You Are Held

(Free Verse & Rhymed)

Dear Reader,

These two poems — one free verse, one rhymed — were written from the same quiet place: a desire to point you to Jesus Himself.

Whether the lines breathe freely or move in gentle rhythm, they carry the same truth. May you find in them a soft place to rest in His finished work, a steady light from the One who walked the cross-road for you, and the deep assurance that you are held by Christ alone.

With care,

The Poet

Free Verse

Jesus loves you deeper

than the ocean’s unmeasured floor,

far beyond the trembling strength you clutch today

or the answers that still hide in fog.

His love does not wait for sunlit mornings

or hearts already whole and shining.

It finds you in the bruised twilight,

in the long ache of doubt,

in the weather that will not clear —

the same Jesus who stretched His arms wide on the cross

and still stretches them toward you now.

When sorrow settles like heavy rain on your shoulders,

when fear floods the low places of the heart,

when the map of your days dissolves into mist —

Christ is already there,

walking the road that has not yet appeared,

nothing about your night a surprise to the One

who carried every night to Calvary.

You were never meant to shoulder

the whole dark sky alone.

Bring the questions that burn,

the grief that sits like stones in your chest,

the disappointment that tastes of ash.

Come exactly as you are —

unwashed, unfinished, still breathing —

to the open wounds of Jesus.

His blood is enough. His scarred hands are enough.

He sees every hidden page of your story:

the tears that fell in rooms no one entered,

the quiet wars fought behind closed eyes,

the fragile courage it took

simply to rise and keep walking

when the path had grown over with thorns.

And He meets every page with the same mercy

that flowed from His side.

You are not forgotten in the wilderness.

Not invisible beneath the weight of stars.

Not too shattered, too tangled,

or too far for the reach of the risen Christ.

So hold on to Him.

Take the next small step

even when the whole road vanishes into shadow.

Let Jesus meet you in this exact breath

and remind you that His presence

has never once stepped away.

You may not know what dawn will bring,

but you can trust the One

who already stands in the morning light —

the same Jesus who left the tomb empty

so that your tomorrow could be filled with Him.

You are deeply loved by Christ.

You are seen by His eyes of compassion.

You are held by His nail-scarred hands.

Even now — especially now —

His grace is the quiet current carrying you,

His love the steady lamp at your feet,

leading you, one trembling step at a time,

straight into the heart of Jesus.

Rhymed

Jesus loves you deeper still

than oceans no line can measure,

beyond the strength you try to will

or answers lost in weather.

He finds you in the bruised half-light,

when fear and doubt draw near,

the Christ who hung on Calvary’s height

still draws you close and near.

You need not bear the storm alone,

the sky that presses low.

Come as you are — to Him alone —

His wounds already know.

He sees the tears that fell unseen

in rooms the world forgot,

the quiet wars, the in-between —

and meets them with His blood.

You are not lost among the thorns,

not broken past repair.

The risen Lord who wore the crown

still walks beside you there.

So take the next step, soft and true,

though morning hides from view.

His grace, His cross, His love hold you —

and Jesus holds you too.

**To God be the glory always and only!

Faith, Hope, And Love by Debbie Harris

22 Saturday Aug 2026

Posted by in Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational, Praise, Royally Redeemed, salvation, Triumphant

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Dear Reader,

Here are two versions of the same poem — one in free verse, one in rhyme.

They both speak of the three things that remain when everything else falls away: Faith, Hope, and Love.

I wrote them as two different doors into the same quiet room.

Step through whichever one feels most open to you.

Or walk through both.

May these words meet you gently,

and may something in them stay with you

long after the page is closed.

— the poet

Free verse version

In the quiet cathedral of the heart

where the soul kneels in silence,

Faith stands—

a pillar of pure, living light,

stronger than diamond,

impossible to break.

It is the white root that drinks the darkness

and blossoms into a star.

No storm can shake it;

no night can put it out.

Faith is the still center

around which the broken world turns—

one clear, unwavering note

that keeps sounding

beneath every crashing hour.

Hope arrives like the first silver crack

in the black cloth of night—

a pale, stubborn petal

opening against a hard sky.

It is the green shoot

that splits stone with soft, relentless force,

the long flight of wild geese

sewing bright threads across a torn sky.

Hope tastes like rain on dry earth,

smells like crushed flowers and far-off fire.

It gathers the broken pieces of yesterday

and breathes them into a path of trembling dawn.

And Love—

Love is the final great flood,

the scarlet tide that covers every shore.

It is incense melting into flame,

the slow, beautiful drowning

that suddenly becomes flight.

Love pours itself out completely—

soft crimson velvet over bone and breath,

the ocean that kisses the farthest cliff

and never asks the cliff to answer.

It is the last language of dying stars,

the sudden recognition that leaps

between two lonely hearts

across the glittering dark.

These three remain,

woven into one shining whole:

Faith the golden thread that never frays,

Hope the silver thread that never ends,

Love the living color that soaks everything

until every part of the world—

seen and unseen—

burns with the same unbearable beauty.

Rhymed version

In the quiet cathedral of the heart

the soul kneels down in silence deep;

Faith stands—a pillar of pure light,

stronger than diamond, sure and steep.

The white root drinks the dark of night

and blossoms into star so bright.

No storm can shake its steady throne;

no night can claim it for its own—

one clear, unwavering, living tone

beneath the hours that crash and moan.

Hope comes, a silver crack of day

torn through the black cloth of the night,

a pale, stubborn petal that will stay

and open to the hardest light.

Green shoot that splits the stone apart

with soft, relentless, growing art;

wild geese that sew the torn sky through

with threads of gold and silver-blue.

It tastes of rain on earth long dry,

of crushed sweet flowers and fire nearby,

and gathers pieces broken, sere,

to breathe a trembling dawn appear.

And Love—the final scarlet tide

that covers every waiting shore;

incense that melts in flame and glides,

the drowning that becomes pure soar.

It pours itself out, nothing kept—

crimson velvet where bone has slept,

the ocean kissing farthest stone

and asking nothing back, alone.

Last language of the dying stars,

the leap across the glittering bars

where two lone hearts at last are known

within the dark that is their own.

These three remain, one shining whole:

Faith the gold thread that holds the soul,

Hope the silver that will not cease,

Love the color that brings release

until the seen and unseen burn

with beauty none can ever unlearn.

To God be the glory always and only.**