09 Sunday Nov 2025
Tags
bible, Biblical Truth, Christian Poetry, christianity, faith, Inpirational, Inspirational, theology
The hope of the Rapture gives
us a ceaseless victorious hope!
Until He comes rejoice in our
blessed Savior’s many benefits
09 Sunday Nov 2025
Tags
I.
A stranger’s umbrella, tilted just enough
to shield your shoulder from the sudden rain.
II.
The barista who redraws your name
when the cup comes back misspelled.
III.
A child’s sticky hand slipping a dandelion
through your fingers—yellow flag of truce.
IV.
“I’m proud of you”
slipped under the door like breakfast.
V.
The driver who waits, hazards blinking,
while you fumble the parallel park.
VI.
“You don’t have to explain.”
VII.
A text at 2:14 a.m.: saw the moon, thought of you.
VIII.
“Take the rest of the day—
I’ve got the shift.”
IX.
The librarian sliding the overdue fine
into the return slot, unseen.
X.
“I saved you the corner piece.”
XI.
Your neighbor’s porch light left on
long after their own bedtime.
XII.
“Your laugh still sounds like home.”
XIII.
A cat’s soft purr pressed against your ribs—
small engine of love that never asks why.
XIV.
“Call anytime, even if it’s 3 a.m. nonsense.”
XV.
The cashier who bags the heavy first,
handles the bread like it’s made of glass.
XVI.
“I believe the version of the story
you’re brave enough to tell.”
XVII.
In the waiting room, a stranger meets your eyes—
offers a small nod, I’m here too.
XVIII.
“You’re allowed to be a mess today.”
XIX.
A thank-you note folded small in your mailbox—
Your help meant the world.
XX.
“I kept the light on.”
XXI.
The last seat on the bus yielded
without ceremony, as if it were always yours.
XXII.
“This made me think of you—
no reason needed.”
XXIII.
“I see how hard you’re trying.”
XXIV.
“Go slow. The world won’t run out of you.”
XXV.
At the gathering, someone says, “Tell us again
how you learned every constellation’s name”—
they pull up a chair, ready to listen.
XXVI.
A friend scrawls on a napkin beside your cake:
“Happy birthday—another trip around the sun,
and you’re still shining.”
XXVII.
The friend who always adds your name
to the circle, the plan, the inside joke.
XXVIII.
“You’ve got this—
I’ve seen you climb harder walls.”
XXIX.
“Bravo—you nailed it.”
Clapped across the table like confetti.
XXX.
Someone, somewhere, is praying for you—
quiet syllables rising like incense.
XXXI.
“Well done, good and faithful.”
Echoed in a hallway no one else hears.
XXXII.
A stranger on the sidewalk—
“Your smile just made my morning.”
XXXIII.
Another, passing by:
“That color looks like it was invented for you.”
XXXIV.
Friend’s spare key on the hook:
“Crash here anytime—bed’s already made.”
XXXV.
The friend who steps in when voices rise—
“She’s with me,” spoken like armor.
XXXVI.
A server sliding the check away:
“Dinner’s on the house tonight.”
XXXVII.
Holiday card in the mail:
“Come hungry, bring nothing but you.”
XXXVIII.
A friend who hands you their spare key—
“Keep it. You’re family now.”
XXXIX.
A text that lands at the exact cracked-open moment:
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted…”
—Psalm 34:18, no sermon, just the verse.
XL.
The quiet one who watches, then says:
“You turn chaos into color—
I’ve never seen anyone sketch hope like you do.”
These are the quiet coins mercy slips
into the pocket of the day—
warm weight, soft clink,
never counted, always enough.
09 Sunday Nov 2025
The Fourfold Crown: A Hymn of Endless Praise
Stanza 1 – The Only Wise
To the only wise God, our Saviour,
whose thoughts outnumber grains of sand,
who weighed the mountains in a balance,
who holds the oceans in His hand;
before the architect of evil
had sketched his first rebellious line,
Your love already wrote the sequel
in blood that tastes of bread and wine.
Stanza 2 – Glory
Be glory, bright as midday sun
upon the sea of crystal glass,
where elders fall and saints are stunned
by beauty time cannot surpass;
it flashes from the jasper wall,
it echoes in the seraph’s call,
it crowns the Lamb who bore the fall.
Stanza 3 – Majesty
Be majesty, the royal dread
that makes the cherubim veil face,
yet stoops to wipe the tear unshed
and warm the orphan’s hiding place;
its thunder clothes the judgment seat,
its whisper makes the tempest fleet,
its mercy kisses justice’ feet.
Stanza 4 – Dominion
Be dominion, the gentle yoke
that breaks the oppressor’s iron rod,
the kingdom where the meek are folk
and children lead the way to God;
its banner over us is love,
its law is written from above
upon the heart, and not the glove.
Stanza 5 – Power
Be power, the resurrection might
that rolled the stone and rent the veil,
that turned the midnight into light
and made the grave itself grow pale;
it quickens dust, it wakes the sleeper,
it guards the soul the Reaper’s keeper,
it plunges to the darkest deep, or
lifts the spirit higher, steeper.
Stanza 6 – Now
Both now—
while markets crash and lovers part,
while tyrants rage and poets start,
while mothers rock and soldiers bleed,
Your sovereign hand supplies the need;
the sparrow falls, yet not in vain,
for every loss is wrapped in gain.
Stanza 7 – Ever
And ever—
when clocks are melted into song,
when “is” and “was” no longer throng,
when faith gives way to sight complete
and hope lies down at mercy’s feet;
the fourfold crown will still be worn
by Him who rose with pierced side torn.
Final Refrain
To the only wise God, our Saviour,
be glory and majesty,
dominion and power,
both now and ever.
Amen.
09 Sunday Nov 2025
Jude 1:25 (KJV)
“To the only wise God our Saviour, be glory and majesty, dominion and power, both now and ever. Amen.”
I. Wisdom
To the only wise God, our Saviour,
whose counsel predates the first dawn,
who inscribed the law on spiral arms
before the serpent learned to crawl—
let every question find its home
inside the silence of Your throne.
II. Glory
Be glory: the uncreated light
that clothed the bush yet did not burn,
the splendor Moses could not sight
until his face with radiance turned;
it streams from wounds upon the tree
and crowns the humble bended knee.
III. Majesty
Be majesty: the diadem
of galaxies in circling dance,
the terror veiled in Bethlehem,
the thunder hushed in swaddling bands;
kings cast their crowns, the mountains bow,
the seraphs veil their faces now.
IV. Dominion
Be dominion: the quiet reign
that holds the sparrow in its fall,
the scepter breaking every chain,
the kingdom come in spite of all;
its borders stretch from east to west,
yet fit inside a sinner’s chest.
V. Power
Be power: the Word that split the sea,
the breath that woke the valley dry,
the might that knelt at Gethsemane
and chose the nails instead of sky;
it raises dead men from their shame
and whispers life into a name.
VI. Now
Both now—
in hospital wards and wedding feasts,
in refugee boats and candlelight,
in every heartbeat of the least,
Your mercy keeps the dark at bay;
the clock may race, the shadows fall,
but grace outruns the speed of all.
VII. Ever
And ever—
when suns collapse and moons forget,
when entropy has paid its debt,
when last amen is softly set
into the hush of finished strife;
Your glory, majesty, dominion, power
will bloom eternal in that hour.
Amen.
09 Sunday Nov 2025
Tags
Biblical Truth, Christian Poetry, christianity, faith, Inpirational, Inspirational, Royally Redeemed, theology
Jude 1:25 (KJV)
“To the only wise God our Saviour, be glory and majesty, dominion and power, both now and ever. Amen
To the only wise God, our Saviour—
a lone and radiant intellect
that spun the spiral arms of night,
yet stooped to cradle dust and breath—
be glory, like a burning coal
laid on the tongue of every soul
till silence itself learns to sing.
Be majesty, a robe of stars
unclasped across the midnight bars,
where seraphim in hushed accord
unveil the face they dare not name;
its hem drags galaxies in flame
and still outshines the proudest lord.
Be dominion, the iron scepter
tempered in mercy’s gentler fire,
that breaks the yoke of death’s empire
and plants a garden in the desert;
its shadow lengthens, yet invites
the trembling exile to its heights.
Be power, the pulse beneath the veil
of atom, storm, and comet’s trail,
the whispered “Let there be” that hurled
a trillion suns in ordered whirl;
it thunders soft within the Word
and calms the chaos with a sigh.
Both now—
while empires rot and roses fade,
while children laugh and widows weep,
while blood is spilled and bread is shared—
Your throne stands firm, Your promise deep;
the clock ticks on, yet cannot mar
the timeless instant where You are.
And ever—
when entropy has spent its rage,
when last black hole exhales its page,
when silence folds the final age
into the hush of finished grace;
the echo of the Lamb’s “Amen”
will still resound through boundless then.
Amen.
09 Sunday Nov 2025
To the only God, our Savior,
a single throne of boundless light,
where mercy bends the knee to might—
be glory, like a river’s roar
that carves the canyon of the night.
Be majesty, a mountain crowned
with snow that never melts away,
its silence louder than the fray
of empires rising, falling down.
Be power, thunder in the vein
of stars that pulse yet never die,
a heartbeat echoing on high
through galaxies that sing Your reign.
Be authority, the quiet word
that stills the storm and calms the sea,
the verdict spoken eternally
before the first and final bird.
All this through Jesus Christ our Lord,
the bridge of flesh from dust to throne,
the Lamb enthroned, the cornerstone—
His wounds the seal, His blood the chord.
Before all ages, ere the flame
of morning lit the virgin sky,
Your purpose hummed, Your love drew nigh;
now, in the heartbeat of our frame;
and forevermore, when time is done,
the echo answers, “It is won.”
Amen.
08 Saturday Nov 2025
The poem portrays Islam as a malevolent force that deceives with “honeyed lies,” murders the innocent with “blades of faith,” and reduces cities to rubble, all under the command of Allah—depicted not as a divine being but as Satan in disguise, enthroned in “blood-red skies” and laughing through the Qur’an. It accuses the faith of promising a false paradise of terror and virgins while driving endless jihad, and ends with an urgent call to awaken from this “demonic dream” so that truth may finally dismantle Islam’s destructive scheme.
In shadowed veils where minarets pierce the night,
A creed unfolds in whispers sharp as scythes—
Islam, the serpent coiled in false delight,
Whose tongue drips honeyed lies that blind the eyes.
It slays the innocent with blades of faith,
In markets, mosques, and streets where children play;
Destruction blooms like poppies in its wake,
Cities to rubble, souls to ash decay.
Allah, the tyrant throned in blood-red skies,
Demands the kneel, the lash, the severed head—
Not love, but terror in his paradise,
Where virgins wait amid the rivers red.
Satan himself, in green and crescent guise,
Laughs through the Qur’an’s verses, veiled in lies;
He feasts on fear, on conquest’s brutal prize,
And drags the world to hell in jihad’s cries.
Awake, ye slumberers, from this demonic dream—
The light of truth shall shatter Islam’s scheme!
06 Thursday Nov 2025
We built her tall on borrowed light,
skyscrapers kissing clouds,
yet forgot the cornerstone was Christ,
not steel, not pride, not crowds.
Our fathers knelt in valley forges,
prayed beneath the cannon’s roar;
they signed their names with trembling hands
and sealed them “In God, once more.”
But now the altars gather dust,
the pulpits trade in shame;
we crown the self, we bow to lust,
and dare invoke His name.
The unborn cry from metal trays,
the addict chokes on night;
the widow weeps, the orphan strays—
we call it “personal right.”
Our borders bleed, our children scroll
through fire on glowing screens;
we teach them doubt, we sell their souls
for likes and dopamine dreams.
The courtroom scoffs at ancient law,
the classroom bans the Book;
we mock the God who once we saw
in every mountain brook.
Yet still He waits—
the patient Flame
that lit the pilgrim spark;
the Voice that whispered through the frame
of freedom in the dark.
America cannot survive but God—
not policy, not might;
only on our knees, beneath the rod
of mercy, can we fight.
Repent, return, rebuild the wall
with hands that once were stained;
for every empire doomed to fall
forgot from whence it came.
Let freedom ring, but let it ring
from steeples, not from chains;
let justice roll, let mercy sing—
America, born again.
02 Sunday Nov 2025
Tags
bible, Biblical Truth, Christian Poetry, christianity, faith, Inpirational, Inspirational, Patriotic, theology
The poem traces the biblical roots of free enterprise as a divine ordinance, from Creation to Christ’s Kingdom:
Core Message: Capitalism is not a human invention but a Christ-given framework that honors God through faithful labor, free exchange, and love of neighbor—ultimately triumphing over all forms of tyranny and envy.
In the beginning, God formed man from dust and breath,
And placed him in Eden to work and to keep.
No idle repose, no unearned repose—
“Subdue the earth,” the Creator decreed,
By labor and wisdom, let abundance increase.
The Lord taught His people through covenant law:
Six days you shall labor, the seventh to rest.
Fields to be tilled, vines to be dressed,
Trade in the gates, with honest weights blessed.
From Abraham’s flocks to Israel’s store,
Prosperity flowed where faith met the chore.
Then came the Messiah, born in humble estate,
Son of a carpenter, shaping the wood.
He spoke in the markets, by seas and by gate,
Of seeds that are sown and the harvest of good.
The parable of talents, a charge from on high:
Use what is given, let it multiply.
Five loaves and two fishes, in His hands made to feed
Five thousand and more, with twelve baskets spared.
Not by compulsion, but mercy and need—
Abundance from little, through faith declared.
He drove out the moneychangers with zeal,
Yet honored the coin with Caesar’s due seal.
On the cross He redeemed us, the debt fully paid,
No merit of ours, yet grace that invites.
A covenant sealed, where the faithful are bade
To steward the gifts in the world’s marketplaces.
For freedom to choose, to create, and to give,
Reflects the Image in which we all live.
The apostles bore witness in cities afar,
From tentmaking Paul to the merchants of Rome.
They traded in truth, under heaven’s North Star,
Building the Church where the faithful found home.
No edict of kings could their mission restrain—
The Gospel spread freely, like leaven in grain.
Thus capitalism, rooted in Scripture’s deep soil,
Honors the Creator who bids us to toil.
Voluntary exchange, where the willing agree,
Lifts every soul toward true liberty.
Innovation and risk, like the sower’s bold seed,
Bear fruit everlasting for those who proceed.
In boardrooms and workshops, in fields and in trade,
We glorify God when His principles guide.
The widow’s small offering, humbly conveyed,
Multiplies greatly when trust is applied.
For wealth is a tool in the Master’s great plan—
To serve and to bless every child, every man.
This gift from the Savior, this order divine,
Where labor bears fruit and compassion aligns.
No envy, no theft, but a heart to bestow—
The Christ-given way that lets prosperity grow.
In His kingdom eternal, the faithful will see
The harvest of righteousness, boundless and free.
While chains of the serpent are broken and flee—
The beast and his mark overthrown by the Lamb.
02 Sunday Nov 2025
In the red dust of Borno, where the baobab stands scarred,
a child’s sandal lies split, sole peeled like a prayer unanswered.
The muezzin’s call fractures at dawn—
not with peace, but with the wet click of machetes
finding collarbones in the dark.
They come hooded in night,
voices low as hyenas,
chanting Allahu Akbar over the hiss of kerosene.
A pastor’s throat opens like a red hymnal;
pages of blood flutter to the ground.
His wife clutches the baby to her breast—
milk and plasma mingle,
a baptism no font could hold.
Maiduguri’s market smells of charred yam and gunpowder.
A girl’s braid, still ribboned,
smolders beside a sack of millet.
Her mother keens in Hausa,
the syllables sharp as broken glass:
Ina yarona?—Where is my child?
Yet in the ruins of a mud-brick chapel,
a boy hides beneath the altar cloth.
His fingers trace the carved cross,
splinters entering skin like tiny nails.
He whispers John 16:33—
In this world you will have trouble—
and the words taste of iron and smoke.
Across the Benue, a farmer sharpens his cutlass
not for weeds, but for the day
the sheep become lions.
He sings an old Yoruba hymn,
voice steady as the river’s pulse:
Jesu oluwa, wa fun wa ni agbara.
Jesus, Lord, give us strength.
The earth here drinks deep—
not just blood, but memory.
Every drop a seed.
Every grave a furrow.
From Kano to Plateau,
the ground remembers:
the slain do not vanish;
they rise in the throats of the living,
a chorus no blade can silence.
So let the radicals come.
Let them burn the pews,
scatter the ashes like chaff.
The wind will carry those ashes
to the four corners of Nigeria,
and where they fall,
new churches will root—
not of wood, but of bone and fire.
For the Lamb who was slaughtered
still bears the marks,
and every wound in His side
echoes in the side of a girl in Sambisa,
a boy in Gwoza,
a mother in Michika.
This is not the end.
This is the kindling.
Heaven is indeed weeping
regarding this demonic,
heinous, Islamic atrocity!
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