Dear Precious Reader,

In a world that spins seemingly out of control—headlines screaming chaos, cultures unraveling, and hearts racing from one crisis to the next—it can feel as though everything is falling apart. Yet beneath the surface, all things are quietly falling into place according to the sovereign hand of God. In times like these, the quiet strength we need most is not louder voices or tighter grip on our own lives, but the steady fruit of self-control cultivated deep within by the Holy Spirit.That is why I wrote this poem.It is not a call to white-knuckled willpower or religious striving. Rather, it is an invitation to surrender: to fix our eyes on Christ, abide in the Vine, and let His life become ours. Each stanza traces the daily battles we all face—anger, lust, gluttony, sloth, and reckless words—and points them to the cross where they were already defeated. Self-control, as the poem declares, is not ultimately “Christ and me,” but “Christ in me.” It blooms not from clenched fists, but from open, yielded hands.My prayer is that these words would stir your heart to ask the Holy Spirit afresh: “Cultivate Your fruit in me.” May you find, in the quiet dawn where tempests start, that His gentle power is enough to tame every storm within.With hope in the One who holds both the world and our souls,

Galatians 5:22-23 (KJV)
But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance: against such there is no law.

Proverbs 25:28 (KJV)
He that hath no rule over his own spirit is like a city that is broken down, and without walls.

In the quiet dawn where tempests start,
The soul bows low and seeks His heart.
Not by its strength, but His alone,
It tames the flesh that claims its throne.
When anger rises like a flood,
His gentle word becomes its blood.
“Be slow to wrath,” the Scripture cries—
It breathes His name and watches it die.
The eyes that wander, lured by sight,
Are fixed on Calvary’s holy light.
The cross stands tall where lust was slain;
In His pure gaze, they break the chain.
When appetite demands its feast,
They turn to Bread from heaven’s east.
One taste of Him and lesser bread
Loses its hold upon the head.
In weary hours when sloth would creep,
They rise and pray while others sleep.
His Spirit stirs the willing soul—
Discipline becomes the joyful goal.
When words rush forth like unchecked fire,
They pause and let His peace inspire.
A tongue refined by holy flame
Speaks life instead of bringing shame.
Each battle won is not their own—
The Victor rose and claimed His throne.
Abiding in the Vine, they see:
Self-control is Christ in thee.
So day by day they train the will,
Not clenched in pride, but yielded still.
For in surrender, power flows—
The fruit of Spirit ever grows.
The Lord keeps them steadfast, makes them strong,
To run the race, to finish long.
Till every impulse bends the knee,
And all reflects the One who sets them free.
Amen.