My heart is full of Christ.
And so I write.

Ink stirs where blood once failed,
each syllable a vein of grace.
The Cross still rises in my chest—
its shadow lengthens down the page.

I do not write to crown the stars
nor carve my name where stone forgets.
I write because He wrote me first
upon the wounds that stilled my breath.

Grace seeps from the pen’s worn edge
like water from a fractured clay,
clear, unbidden, bearing light
through every crack that will not close.

Hope rises slow in resurrection lines
while sorrow learns the lift of minor keys.

My heart, brimmed full and trembling still,
spills not as one who has arrived,
but as one carried, held, and led—
word after quiet word,
breath after trembling breath,
line after fragile line.