This poem came from a day when grief was greater than action. I was not looking for a way around it, and I was not trying to leave it behind. I was simply in it. In that place, God did not wait for me to become strong first. He became my strength—not only for the day, but for every moment inside it. Present. Sufficient. Triumphant even while the grief remained.
I have come to believe this is the kind of reliance God wants from us: not strength we manufacture, but strength we receive. Hour by hour. Moment by moment.
If you are standing in a stillness like that, I wrote this for you. You do not have to produce the next step. God can be the strength of every day and every moment. Through Christ, we can indeed be triumphant.
— the poet
Deuteronomy 33:25 Thy shoes shall be iron and brass; and as thy days, so shall thy strength be.
I have seen Him provide in ways I never thought possible.
I have seen His tender care rest over those near and dear to me.
From that seeing, this poem was born.It did not come from a life untouched by sorrow, but from the quiet places where He met us still—where He held what we could not hold, and gave what we did not know how to ask for. These lines are only a small offering of thanks: that even ordinary hours, even aching hours, may become a hymn of praise.
May they lead you not to the poem, but to Him.— The Poet
Psalm 34:1 I will bless the LORD at all times: his praise shall continually be in my mouth.
Habakkuk 3:17–18 Although the fig tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines; the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat; the flock shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls: Yet I will rejoice in the LORD, I will joy in the God of my salvation.
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.
Psalm 147:3 He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.
May every part of us become a song— the work, the waiting, the word we speak, the quiet rooms, the crowded street, the strength we give, the rest we keep.
Not only lifted voices in the night, but how we walk and how we stay, how we receive what comes our way, how we endure, how we obey.
Let joy be music, let sorrow be too, let ordinary hours rise and ring. May all we are, in everything, be hymn and offering unto You.
This poem was written after the death of my mother. She was a professor, a Shakespearean actress, a writer, and, above all, a passionate follower of Jesus Christ. I wanted to tell the truth about missing her without letting grief have the last word.
She made words for a living, and she loved the Word. What she taught did not end when her voice did. It remains in her students and in her children. The poem tries to hold both things at once: that the Lord gives, and the Lord takes, and that His name is still to be blessed.
If you have loved someone and lost them, I hope you can borrow the peace this poem asks for—the peace He gives, and we take as a gift.
The Poet
Job 1:21
Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return thither: the LORD gave, and the LORD hath taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD.
Philippians 4:7
And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.
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.
Revelation 21:5
And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new. And he said unto me, Write: for these words are true and faithful.
Remember what you have received. Hold fast to it, and contend for the faith once delivered to the saints. The promises of God are yea and amen—not distant words on a page, but living fire given to the soul that believes. May that fire of faith be kindled in you again: not a passing warmth, but a steady flame that teaches you to treasure Scripture, to live it, to adore its beauty, and to walk the high places of gratitude and joy. Let it produce a fire in you, that all the world may see the light of Jesus Christ in you. Do not let go of what has been placed in your hands. Keep it. Guard it. Contend for it. Let it light a holy flame.
What follows is an English sonnet: fourteen lines in three quatrains and a closing couplet, rhymed ABAB CDCD EFEF GG.
The Poet
For all the promises of God in him are yea, and in him Amen, unto the glory of God by us. —2 Corinthians 1:20
Remember therefore how thou hast received and heard, and hold fast, and repent.” —Revelation 3:3
Beloved… it was needful for me to write unto you, and exhort you that ye should earnestly contend for the faith which was once delivered unto the saints. —Jude 1:3
Let us hold fast the profession of our faith without wavering; (for he is faithful that promised;) —Hebrews 10:23
Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven. —Matthew 5:16
God’s promises are yea and amen still, firm-spoken, sure, and sealed in Christ the Son; believe this word, and you shall climb the hill of gratitude, where joy and praise are one.
Not shadowed vales, nor long and weary plains, but sunlit ridges, bright with grace bestowed, where every step His living truth sustains and gratitude itself becomes the road.
Hold fast the holy fire you have received; let all the world look on and see its flame, till Christ in you is known, seen, and believed, and every promise answers to His name.
Keep what was given on this brief sojourn— and let His beauty in you make them yearn.
Dedicated to my beloved Mom, Doris Harris-January 19, 1929-September 3, 2026
A majestic hymn in seven stanzas with refrain
A Note from the Poet
Dear reader,
This hymn was written for the hour when love feels interrupted and the heart still reaches for a name. It does not deny the wound. It simply refuses to let the wound have the last word.
The ones we miss are not gone into nothing. In Christ they are more alive than ever—free of pain, walking the streets of gold with the King of kings. Until we join them at His throne, we sing. Grief may walk with us for a season; triumph walks farther.
These lines are offered for the tender, grieving heart that seeks shelter. That refuge is His Word, and the Person of Jesus Christ, under whose wings the mourning may rest—and in due time mount up with wings like eagles. It is found also in friends and in those who surround us with loving care.
Beneath the shadow of His mighty wings A refuge waits for tender, grieving hearts; There peace descends and holy comfort sings, And healing comes as His own love imparts.
He covers thee with feathers soft and true, A shield against the arrows of the night; His faithfulness a rampart ever new, A fortress strong, a never-failing light.
Though grief may press and tears in silence fall, The one who rests beneath the Lord Most High; Still comfort comes to answer every call, Protected by the One who hears the cry.
So trust in Him and find thy hiding place, Enfolded in the wings of boundless grace.
To the reader If you have lost a parent, this is for you. The Word of the Lord can heal the heart.
-the Poet
My soul is weary with sorrow; strengthen me according to your word.
— Psalm 119:28
He will cover you with his pinions, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness is a shield and buckler.
-Psalm 91:4 (ESV)
Your Word, O Lord, is gentle first— a balm on grief, a hand on fear, a quiet oil upon the heart that says, I see you. I am here.
Then hope stands up inside the dark and love begins to fill the room. What ached is not denied or hid; it is made whole, then given bloom.
Your Word does more than soothe the night. It lifts. It opens. It makes way. The spirit, healed, remembers height and takes the wide, unborrowed day.
We rest in what Your Word has given. We love because Your love is sure. Your Word is comfort, then is sky. Grief yields. Fear fades. And still we rise.
13 But I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are asleep, that ye sorrow not, even as others which have no hope.
14 For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him.
15 For this we say unto you by the word of the Lord, that we which are alive and remain unto the coming of the Lord shall not prevent them which are asleep.
16 For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first:
17 Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord.
18 Wherefore comfort one another with these words.
Dear Reader,
This sonnet was written after the death of the last parent, when the world feels changed and yet is not empty. The rooms still hold light. There are still people who remember how you began. And heaven is not silent, for those you love are with Christ.
When the last parent dies, something irreplaceable is gone. They remembered your beginning more completely than anyone else on earth. That ache is real. Scripture does not ask you to hide it; even Jesus wept. Name the grief. Then lift your eyes: your help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.
You are not without witnesses. There are people who saw you grow—family, old friends, those who stood nearby through the years—and they still remember how you began. That memory is a gift. It means your early life has not vanished. It still lives in other hearts.
And there is a greater comfort still. Those you love are with Christ. The grave is not the end of them, and grief is not the end of you. The same Lord who received them keeps you, keeps the people who remember you, and keeps the promise that love is stronger than death.
If you are walking through that changed world, this was written for you. May it honor what you have lost, bless those who still remember you, and leave you with hope that does not fade.
— The Poet
When both who gave me breath have gone before, the world itself seems tilted, thin, and strange. Their room is empty on that quiet floor; the hallway looks the same, and yet is changed.
No voice now answers “child” down that hall, no thinning hand to bless or hold me fast. The ordinary light feels spare as air; the future stretches, emptied of the past.
Yet death is not the master of this night: they live in Christ, whose promise cannot fail. He spoiled the grave and flung the door to light; and love outlives the flesh that once grew frail.
We mourn, but not as those who mourn in vain; in Christ they live, and we shall meet again.
I wrote this in the days after my mother died, when the news of earth felt like a weight no heart should carry. Grief can make the world sound finished. The words of God say otherwise.
I did not go first to argument, or to the bare idea of heaven. I went to Scripture — the Gospels, the old promises, the letters that still burn — because God does not whisper around the grave. He speaks through it. He put His Son in a tomb, and then He broke it open. He names death an enemy, and He promises that enemy its last day. The valley is real. So is the Shepherd. So is the morning on the other side.
And this is the word I held when I could hold little else: those who die in Christ are not ended. The best is yet to come. Their story is not closing. It is beginning. What we call loss is, in Him, the first breath of a life that death cannot edit, diminish, or recall.
If you come to this poem grieving someone you love, I will not pretend the wound is small. I will tell you what the Word told me: hope is not a mood we invent. It is a victory already spoken. The grave is not the throne. Christ is. And the one who has gone ahead is not lost — but alive, and ahead of us, where the joy only grows.
Read this slowly. Then read His words as one reads a banner after a war: the field is dark, but the King has won.
— The Poet
When earth’s own tidings press like winter rain,
the smoke of cities, rumours dark and wide,
the graves that multiply across the plain,
the headlines rolling like a bitter tide—
then lift your eyes: the stone is rolled away,
the garden kindles with a risen sun;
Death’s iron lock is broken in the day,
the Victor walks—the long dark war is won.
He stills the storm and multiplies the bread,
He drinks the cup, then leaves the tomb undone;
and those who trust Him find that even death
is swallowed in the morning He has won.
So when the world is iron, loud and dread,
the Christian walks through death and is not dead—
West’s Gold Arch, Where the Risen Christ Is Claimed by Cloud and Light
Dedicated to my Mom and to the university our family loves, Bob Jones University!
A note from the poet
Dear Reader,
I was so blessed to grow up on the campus of Bob Jones University. Recently, my beloved mother passed on September 3, my father’s birthday. Her funeral was held in the War Memorial Chapel. Her casket, covered with pink and white roses, sat beneath this canvas.
She taught speech and drama at Bob Jones University for fifty-four years. She, my father, and this university influenced thousands—including my twin brother and me for Jesus Christ.
I dedicate this poem to my Mom and to the university our family loves. I wanted to write what the painting has always said to me: that one day we will all ascend to Jesus, whether by death or by the rapture.
—The Poet
An ekphrastic poem
Gold frames the arch where Christ begins to rise;
His garment pale against the clouded skies.
The seraphs crowd the brightness he has won;
Their lifted arms complete the burst of sun.
Below, the air is amber, rose, and stone;
A swirl of faces turns toward him alone.
One kneels; one reaches; none can hold that height;
