Dear Reader,

From the Poet:

If these lines feel sharp, it is only because the Word of God is sharper than any two-edged sword. I did not write to offend the world, but to awaken the Church. In an age that remakes Jesus into a harmless friend who approves of everything, I wanted to lift up the real Christ—the One who flips tables, calls for repentance, and offers blood-bought grace to empty hands.

This poem is both warning and invitation. A warning against every doctrine of demons that twists the Gospel into self-help, prosperity, or moral license. And a joyful celebration for the faithful few who are willing to walk the narrow, holy way—scarred feet, lifted faces, and eyes fixed on Jesus.

If you are weary of shallow faith and hungry for the real thing, then these words are for you. Count the cost, take up your cross, and walk on. The road is hard, but the fellowship is sweet, and the reward is eternal.

May the Holy Spirit use this poem to stir your heart, strengthen your steps, and fix your gaze on the only Savior who is worthy.

Soli Deo Gloria,

The Poet

In shadowed halls where crowds seek easy grace,

A feeble faith now fashions gods of clay—

A Jesus mild, who winks at every base

And calls the darkness light, the night the day.

He flips no tables in the temple court,

Nor thunders truth where lies have built their throne;

His “love” is license, tolerance a sport,

That crowns the flesh while crucifying stone.

Yet narrow is the gate, the way is strait,

Where holy fire refines the contrite soul;

Salvation comes not sealed by works or fate,

But blood-bought grace that makes the broken whole.

Repent, and trust the Lamb who bore the curse—

No other name, no other price will do.

The cross stands lone against the devil’s purse,

And empty hands alone may enter through.

All isms born of men, all liberal lies,

Are doctrines breathed from hell’s corrupted spring;

They twist the Gospel till the pure truth dies,

And call the serpent’s hiss a righteous thing.

Prosperity’s false prophets, sleek and bold,

Proclaim a heaven here on golden streets—

The Lord declares them anathema, cold,

And bars them from the flock His blood redeems.

O Church, arise! Let ancient thunder roll,

Cling to the Word that cannot bend or break.

The world will scorn the Christ who saves the soul,

But heaven crowns the faithful for His sake.

Yet joy awaits the remnant bold and true,

Who tread the narrow path with lifted face;

Their feet are scarred, yet hearts are born anew,

And glory’s dawn outshines the world’s disgrace.

They walk with Jesus through the sword and flame,

In sweet communion none can take away;

The King Himself will call them by their name,

And crown them with eternal, deathless day!

Rejoice, ye holy few, who count all loss,

For Him who loved and bought you with His blood—

Your narrow way leads upward to the Cross,

Where heaven’s welcome drowns the tempter’s flood!

Blessed are the few who choose this pilgrim road,

Though lonely, steep, and veiled in morning mist;

For every step draws nearer to their God,

And angels sing above the narrow twist.

Stand fast, dear saints—the narrow road is blessed.

The King is coming soon to claim His own.