The Masterpiece of Beauty: How Christ, His Creation, and His Benefits Displace All Worldly Glory by Debbie Harris

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Dear Reader,I

If you have ever felt the world’s glitter grow thin, or sensed that some beauty greater than all its painted shows still waits to be known, then this sonnet is offered to you. It does not claim to exhaust the theme, only to point toward the One in whom beauty is not borrowed but original—the masterpiece Himself, whose radiance is traced in the works of His hands and in every benefit that flows from His grace.

May it serve, however faintly, to turn the eye from what fades to Him who does not fade, and to fill the heart, the soul, and the mind with that ceaseless beauty which alone can satisfy.—The Poet

One who hath gazed upon the Christ, and known
The radiance that burns beyond all art,
Finds every lesser glory overthrown,
And turns from every counterfeit of heart.

The world may spread her glittering array—
Her fleeting honours, pleasures, painted shows—
Yet none of these can hold the soul that may
Behold the beauty whence all light doth flow.

What once seemed fair grows pale beneath His eye;
What once seemed sweet turns bitter to the taste.
Heart, soul, and mind receive the gift most high—
The ceaseless beauty that His hand hath graced.

Thus Christ, the masterpiece, in all we see—
In nature, benefits, and majesty.

**To God be the glory always and only.

While the World Spins, Our Savior Is on the Throne by Debbie Harris

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Dear Reader

I wrote these few lines when the world felt especially restless—news, noise, and the ordinary weight of days all spinning at once. Sometimes that spinning is simply change and clamor. Sometimes it carries real darkness and evil. In either case, the need is the same: to remember that none of it is unsupervised. Our Savior is on the throne. The One who came for us, who bore our sin, who rose and now reigns, has not stepped away. He holds all things, and He holds His people.

These words are small. They are simply a reminder of a greater reality: that Jesus Christ is Lord, that the Triune God remains faithful, and that the promise still stands—He will never leave us or forsake us. May they point you back to Him when the spinning feels loud or dark, and may they give you cause to praise His name.— the poet

And so the world spins.
No matter how it spins,
our Triune God is on the throne.
Praise His name.
He will never leave or forsake us.

Sanctify Our Words, Our Speech, Our Deeds by Debbie Harris

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Dear Reader,

I was recently blessed and honored to return to the beloved and precious campus of Bob Jones University, where I was blessed to grow up, for the funeral of my beloved mother. She served as a Professor there for 54 years in Speech and Drama. Our family was moved beyond measure as we were surrounded by comfort, love, care, concern, and provision. It was as if Jesus Himself was wrapping us in His tender mercies, comfort, and love. What a beautiful picture of how the body of Christ is meant to treat one another.

What a contrast this is with the world, where such surrounding care is indeed not the case. And how tragic it is when, even among the Saints of God, we fail to guard our tongues—when gossip, slander, harsh criticism, murmuring, and cutting speech replace the kindness, encouragement, appreciation, gratitude, and love that should mark true believers.

These genuine words and deeds that we experienced are treasures that money cannot buy. May the Lord sanctify our words, our speech, and our deeds, that we might better reflect Jesus Christ and the tender mercies we have received.

With grace,
The Poet

Proverbs 16:24 —

Pleasant words are as an honeycomb, sweet to the soul, and health to the bones.

Genuine words and deeds
of kindness, encouragement,
appreciation, gratitude, and love
are treasures that money cannot buy.

Kind words are not small.
They settle like light
on weary shoulders,
naming what is good
when it is easy to miss.

Encouragement costs little
and returns multiplied—
a hand on the back,
a sentence that steadies,
a refusal to join the tearing-down.

Gratitude, spoken or shown,
rewrites the atmosphere
of a room, a church, a home.
Love that is patient with speech
refuses the easy cut
and chooses the harder, kinder path.

Such gifts should be seen in all
true believers. Yet lack of tongue control
is so prevalent in the Saints of God
today—gossip, slander, harsh criticism,
murmuring, and cutting speech.

These remain the marks
that money never measures
and that true believers
are still called to carry.
How tragic is this! How tragic!

Sanctify our words,
our speech, our deeds.

A Poem of Waking in the Holy City by Debbie Harris

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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.

Mercies New Every Morning: The Unbreakable, Cross-Bought Diamond of Our Triune God by Debbie Harris

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Dear reader,

These lines began as an overflow—an attempt to speak of a mercy that keeps arriving, fresh and unspent, with every sunrise. I have let the language rise with it, piling word upon word, because the reality itself feels larger than any single phrase can hold. May you find, somewhere in the light of the unbreakable diamond (mercy that cannot be scratched or shattered) or the kaleidoscope of morning, a reminder that this mercy is for you: unending, unshatterable, and new again today.

—the poet

Lamentations 3:22–23

It is of the LORD’s mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness.

Psalm 103:8, 11

The LORD is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy… For as the heaven is high above the earth, so great is his mercy toward them that fear him.

Romans 8:38–39

For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Hebrews 4:16

Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need.

1 Peter 1:3

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, which according to his abundant mercy hath begotten us again unto a lively hope by the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead.

Oh, His gracious, glorious, generous, golden mercy

that is new every morning

gives us unending, unshatterable, cross-bought hope,

grace, and enduring love

that can never be taken away.

For this undeserved, majestic, marvellous, mighty, overwhelming mercy

is like a searing, sovereign, unbreakable diamond—

blazing with infinite, unquenchable light,

harder than any hammer, hotter than any furnace,

brighter than ten thousand suns,

and utterly untouched, unscarred, unconquered

by every demonic fury, every dark assault, every hellish pursuit!

Oh, revel, royally redeemed—

for as the sun rises every morning in blazing, world-waking glory,

so the mercy of our triune God

erupts, explodes, and thunders upward

in a living kaleidoscope of unending colors—

crimson fire, molten gold, sapphire flame, and white-hot radiance—

that never fades, can never fail, will never dim,

and will always be gloriously, triumphantly, eternally renewed

every sunrise!

Oh, the gracious, glorious, generous, golden mercy

that is new every morning

is the spiritual riches

that give us ceaseless, victorious, triumphant

joy, strength, and an unending, eternal hope.

This keeps the free surg

The Quiet Rooms Where the Old Works Stayed: A Poem Against the Destruction of True Beauty By Godless, Christless Ideologies by Debbie Harris

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Dear Reader,

These lines were written under the conviction that beauty is not a human invention but a reflection of the One who made all things “very good,” and that the face of Christ is the true Image of the invisible God. The Cross stands as both the measure of love and the judgment of every lesser standard.

Where, then, are the artists in the line of Michelangelo—those who still love to paint, to draw, and to sculpt the sacred? Where are the hands that once labored for years over a single ceiling or a single figure because they believed the visible could bear witness to the Word made flesh? The ideologies named in the poem did more than prefer new styles. They taught many to distrust proportion, skill, and the long attention that once let sacred images speak of Christ. In doing so they turned from the very gifts by which the Church has, for centuries, sought to make the invisible visible.

If this poem calls to mind any work that still points beyond itself to Christ, or any face that refuses to be reduced to theory, then it has served its small purpose. The true Image remains. He is not waiting for our permission.

—The Poet

They came with manifestos, sharp as knives,
Progress’s prophets, liberalism’s scribes,
And Marx’s heirs who measured every line
By class and creed instead of the divine.

They called the marble cold, the oil too bright,
The sonnet’s form a cage that blocked the light.
True proportion was a bourgeois lie,
And harmony a tool to pacify.

They smashed the icons, stripped the altar bare,
Declared the painted Word a snare,
And taught that flesh made God was mythic claim—
Too particular, too bound by name.
The face of Christ became a problem:
Too human, too untheorized, too solemn.

They prized the broken, elevated pain,
Declared the beautiful a tool of gain.
A body that once bore the weight of sin
And rose was now a symbol to begin
Again in pure abstraction—form erased
Lest anyone should meet a living face.

Yet in the quiet rooms the old works stayed,
Unmoved by theory, still by light arrayed.
The hand that carved the thorn-crowned brow
Still speaks what every manifesto disavows.
The eye that sought proportion, line, and grace
Finds in the Cross the measure of true space.

They tried to bury truth beneath the new,
But beauty answers only what is true.
The Word made flesh does not require their vote.
He stands where every theory falls remote—
The Image of the Father, once despised,
Still drawing every eye that looks and sees.

So Much Greater by Debbie Harris

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Dear reader,

This line was set down because grief can feel like the last word, and it is not. Christ has already entered the grave and come forth. The cross took the full measure of sorrow; the empty tomb answered it. Grace is not a gentler feeling beside the loss—it is the risen Lord Himself, greater than every grave He has overcome.If these words find you in a hard hour, let them stand as they are: grief may be great, yet in Christ grace is triumphantly greater. The victory is already His, and therefore already yours.

— the poet

When grief

is great, grace

is triumphantly

so much greater!

The Civilization That Lives on a Vine It Hates by Debbie Harris

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Dear Reader,

These lines do not quarrel with compassion, nor with law, nor with the care of the weak. The poem grants them. It speaks instead against a quieter treason: to live on the fruit of a faith and refuse the root that bore it. A people may walk for years in the shade Christ planted—compassion, restraint, the worth of the small—and still lift the axe against the Vine. The stanzas ask only what remains when the source is severed and the harvest is still demanded, as if sweetness could outlive the life that made it.

The Poet

John 15:1–6 (KJV)


I am the true vine, and my Father is the husbandman. Every branch in me that beareth not fruit he taketh away: and every branch that beareth fruit, he purgeth it, that it may bring forth more fruit. Now ye are clean through the word which I have spoken unto you. Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, except it abide in the vine; no more can ye, except ye abide in me. I am the vine, ye are the branches: He that abideth in me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit: for without me ye can do nothing. If a man abide not in me, he is cast forth as a branch, and is withered; and men gather them, and cast them into the fire, and they are burned.

They love the mercy Christians learned to show,
the care of weak and poor, the ordered peace,
the schools and laws by which the nations grow,
the hope that tells the captive to release.

They walk the orchards older faith had planted,
and praise the fruit, and call the harvest good;
they drink the wells where charity was granted,
and take the sweetness as their native food.

Yet when the root is named—the wounded Lord,
the cross that fed the branches from its side—
they turn, as if the very name were sword,
and scorn the life by which the fruit is tied.

They keep the apples, cut the living tree,
and wonder why the orchard starts to die;
for fruit cannot outlast the source, nor be
itself once faith and root are set aside.

The Neutral Stance That Smiles and Yields the Field by Debbie Harris

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Dear Reader,

This poem is about Christ, not about manners. He is not one claim among others, set beside the markets and the state for us to weigh at our ease. He spoke of the cross, the empty tomb, and the blood, and He asked for love or hate, not a courteous distance. Stand for everything and you stand for nothing at all. To hear Him and still call neutrality fairness is to step back from Him while smiling, and to yield the field that belongs to Him.

Where is Biblical boldness? We need those who will be bold and take a stand for Jesus Christ no matter what the cost!

The poem is not against kindness to persons. It is against the silence that refuses Christ and names the refusal wisdom.

— The Poet

Neutrality, when the faith is named and known,
is not a pause between two equal claims.
It is the step that leaves the standard down
and calls the silence wisdom, not a shame.

The creed was never offered as a mood
to set beside the markets and the state.
It spoke of cross and empty tomb and blood,
and asked the hearer either love or hate.

To stand apart and judge both sides the same
is still to choose: the choice is not to stand.
The gate is narrow; drifting has a name.
It borrows light and will not take the hand.

So call the neutral stance what it has been:
a quieter treason, smiling while it yields.

A Hymn Of Provision by Debbie Harris

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Dear Reader,

Have you ever been overwhelmed by the provision of God? Not the idea of it, but the thing itself arriving when the jar was low, the day already spoken for, the map still saying sand. A morning portion. A meal that outlasted the worry. Rain on a field you had already given up.

This poem is a record of that habit. It keeps to an older measure, the heroic couplet, because provision often comes in pairs: enough, and then enough again. The figures are mostly the old ones—manna, ravens, the jar, the lilies, the later rain—not because the present is empty, but because those stories already know the shape of what still happens.If you have been carried that way, you will recognize the portions.

If you are in the stretch before the morning, the poem is not an argument. It is a place to set the empty cup and wait for the hand that still sets the table.

—the poet

Matthew 6:28–30, in the King James Version:

**And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?

Before the field is broken by the hand,
the cloud is loaded and the season planned.
He sends the rain the way a house sends bread,
and wakes the seed that lay as good as dead.
The desert, which has nothing of its own,
finds in the morning what the night had sown:
a thin white covering no sickle cut,
enough to answer hunger, not to glut.
What yesterday could save will fail by noon;
the faithfulness is measured to the sun.
The ravens find the man no road can reach,
and leave their portion, and return to each
their ordinary sky. They do not know
the name they carry, only where to go.
A widow’s jar, drawn down almost to dust,
will not admit that this must be the last.
The flask keeps pace with what the cooking needs;
the flame continues after worry pleads.
What holds here is not wealth laid up in grain,
but oil that answers oil, and meal that answers meal.
See how the lilies take their cloth and wear
what no one wove, and finer than a king could bear.
The sparrow does not plant or bind or keep,
and still is fed, and still is not too cheap
to count. He dresses grass that burns to smoke,
and fills the throat that has no word it spoke.
If field and bird are answered without speech,
what finer need is set beyond His reach?
The table laid in front of those who hate
is not a show of surplus, but of state.
The later rain arrives when mouths are dry,
and barns that stood wide open crowd the sky.
A river breaks where every map said sand;
the rock, once struck, becomes a watered land.
He leads beside the streams that bring men back,
and spreads a pasture where the ground was black.
The cup is not a measure, but a tide;
it climbs the rim, and does not drop, and does not hide.
What we call extra, heaven counts as due—
the faithfulness that keeps, and starts anew.