Category Archives: Christ-centered poetry

When Pulpits Are Full of Wolves in Sheep’s Clothing by Debbie Harris

24 Monday Nov 2025

Posted by in Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational, Spiritual Warfare

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The poem is a stark warning against false teachers and hypocritical leaders who hide predatory motives behind religious appearances.

It paints the image of wolves dressed as gentle pastors who use Scripture, soft words, and promises of blessing to manipulate, guilt-trip, and financially exploit vulnerable believers. Beneath polished sermons and smiling faces lie greed, control, and spiritual abuse.

The true Shepherd (Christ) is contrasted with these impostors: He was the Lamb who was slain and still bears scars; the wolves only pretend to carry His marks while they devour the flock.

The urgent call is to the Church: wake up, test every spirit, and return to the authentic voice of the Good Shepherd. When pulpits are occupied by deceivers, genuine safety and guidance are found not in impressive buildings or charismatic leaders, but in personal intimacy with Jesus—alone with the Scriptures and the Holy Spirit, on your knees, listening for the One who knows and calls His sheep by name.

In short: Discern the wolves, reject the counterfeit, and cling only to the true Shepherd who keeps you close and speaks louder than the predators.

The sanctuary glows with stained-glass lies,
soft light on velvet pews,
while at the lectern stands the wolf
in starched collar, gentle voice,
quoting Scripture like a lullaby
to hush the trembling sheep.

He speaks of love with honeyed fangs,
promises heaven for a tithe,
teaches grace while counting coins
beneath the table with clawed feet.
His smile is Sunday-morning bright,
his eyes are midnight counting sheep
not for shepherding,
but for slaughter.

Beware the shepherd who smells of blood
yet wears the fleece of the flock he flees.
His gospel is a gilded trap,
his prayer a noose of pretty words.
He preys upon the widow’s mite,
devours the orphan’s cry,
and calls it ministry.

The true Lamb once was slain;
these wolves merely dress the part.
They howl in minor keys of guilt
and call the trembling “lost,”
then lead the flock to private pastures
where the grass is green with greed.

O Church, awake!
Your watchmen sleep with open mouths
and dreaming teeth.
Test every spirit, weigh each word
against the ancient plumb line
carved by nails into a tree.

When pulpits are full of wolves in sheep’s clothing,
the only safe place left
is on your knees,
not in their sanctuaries,
but in the wild,
where the Good Shepherd still calls
by name,
and knows His own
by scars.

The Demonic Sin of Cultural Marxism by Debbie Harris

24 Monday Nov 2025

Posted by in Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Inspirational, Spiritual Warfare

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The poem portrays “cultural Marxism” as a malevolent, almost demonic spiritual force that disguises itself as compassion and progress. It systematically attacks and inverts every traditional pillar of Western civilization: family, sex roles, nationhood, religion, truth, beauty, and freedom of speech.

Rather than using open revolution, it works subtly through schools, media, and culture, teaching younger generations to despise their own inheritance, to see strength as oppression, loyalty as hate, and moral boundaries as tyranny. The poem presents this process as a deliberate, satanic unraveling of the natural and divine order, leaving people isolated, guilt-ridden, and enslaved under the guise of liberation. In the end, it is revealed not as a mere political ideology but as an ancient, serpentine evil masquerading as enlightenment.

In shadowed halls where old gods used to dwell,
A new creed slithered, born of envy’s breath,
It wore the mask of mercy, spoke of hell
As heaven’s foe, and promised life through death.

It cursed the father, scorned the mother’s womb,
Unsexed the child before it learned to stand,
Turned beauty into shame, and every room
Of learning into ash beneath its hand.

It preached that strength is violence, truth a chain,
That borders are but scars upon the earth,
That every oath of blood is stained with pain,
And nationhood a sin before its birth.

With velvet tongue it whispered, “All is power,”
Then seized the schools, the screens, the sacred scroll,
And hour by hour, in academic towers,
It fed the young on bitterness of soul.

It loosed the bonds that hold the world upright—
The covenant of man and wife, of kin,
Of altar, hearth, and law—and called it light
To walk unmoored, unjudged, unshackled sin.

And still it hungers. Every fallen spire,
Each silent church, each tongue that fears to speak,
Becomes its incense on a hidden pyre
Where freedom burns and only masters speak.

Yet deep beneath its sermon’s honeyed rot,
A colder voice, ancient, serpentine,
Rejoices in the soul it almost bought—
The demonic sin that calls itself divine.

Boasters, Blasphemers, and the Breaking of the Dragon’s Reign by Debbie Harris

24 Monday Nov 2025

Posted by in Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, King of Kings, Persecution, Royally Redeemed, Spiritual Warfare

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Title: Boasters, Blasphemers, and the Breaking of the Dragon’s Reign

This prophetic poem is a poetic meditation on 2 Timothy 3:1–5 (KJV), Paul’s warning to Timothy about the moral and spiritual collapse that will mark “the last days.” It expands the apostle’s list of sins, weaves in Revelation’s imagery of the ancient serpent (the dragon = Satan, Rev 12:9; 20:2), and closes with the triumphant hope that these very “perilous times” signal the imminent overthrow of evil and the return of the King.

Core Scripture (KJV)

2 Timothy 3:1–5
1 This know also, that in the last days perilous times shall come.
2 For men shall be lovers of their own selves, covetous, boasters, proud, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy,
3 Without natural affection, trucebreakers, false accusers, incontinent, fierce, despisers of those that are good,
4 Traitors, heady, highminded, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God;
5 Having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof: from such turn away.

Supporting End-Times References Echoed in the Poem

  • Revelation 12:9 – “that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan” (the dragon imagery)
  • Revelation 20:2 – “he laid hold on the dragon, that old serpent… and bound him”
  • Matthew 24:12 – “because iniquity shall abound, the love of many shall wax cold”
  • Luke 21:28 – “when these things begin to come to pass, then look up… your redemption draweth nigh”
  • Revelation 19:11–16 – The King returns “through the smoke and the flames” to judge and reign

The poem therefore moves from warning (2 Timothy 3) to hope (Revelation’s ultimate victory), declaring that the very darkness Paul foresaw is the death-throe of the dragon and the herald of Christ’s return.

In the last days, perilous times shall come
when the heart forgets its ancient drum.
Men will crown themselves with mirrors and gold,
lovers of self, and lovers of cold.

They boast in the streets where the shadows play,
proud as towers that lean and sway;
blasphemers of heaven, mockers of grace,
children who curse the father’s face.

Unthankful tongues and unholy hands,
no mercy in eyes, no truce in lands;
love grows thin as winter’s breath,
natural bonds lie bruised in death.

False accusers hiss like serpents awake,
fierce as wolves when the weak hearts break;
they slander the good and betray the trust,
rash and swollen with the poison of lust.

Pleasure they worship, a glittering throne,
higher than God, more dear than His own;
they wear the mask of the pious and pure
yet deny the power that makes men endure.

From such, turn away, the apostle cried,
when the age grows sick and the salt has died.
Yet even in ruin, a whisper remains:
the King still comes through the smoke and the flames.

Hold fast, little flock, though the night is long;
the dragon is raging—his kingdom is done.

When Demonic Anti-Semitism Rises, All of Heaven Weeps in Unsilenced Grief by Debbie Harris

24 Monday Nov 2025

Posted by in Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Inspirational, Persecution, Spiritual Warfare

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“When Demonic Anti-Semitism Rises, All of Heaven Weeps in Unsilenced Grief”

The poem is a prophetic lament from the perspective of Heaven itself. As demonic anti-Semitism surges again on earth, the entire celestial realm is plunged into profound, audible grief. Seraphim hide their faces, the ceaseless “Holy, holy, holy” becomes a sob, and the throne-room floor is flooded with crystal tears that shatter like broken menorahs. Michael’s sword drips not with the blood of enemies but with divine sorrow, for even archangels cannot cauterize this ancient lie. The Torah scrolls themselves weep ink, the Ancient of Days covers His face in anguish, and the sea of glass before the throne turns red, reflecting stars that now resemble burning yellow badges.

Heaven’s weeping is not weakness but outraged recognition: the same satanic hatred that once nailed the Jewish Messiah to a cross has returned to torment the people from whom He came. The poem ends with a solemn vow—the tears of Heaven will not cease until the earth itself learns shame and repents of this resurrected evil. It is both elegy and indictment, a cry that the spiritual realm is neither silent nor indifferent when God’s covenant people are targeted by demonic hatred.

When demonic anti-Semitism rises,
all of Heaven weeps.

The seraphim fold their six wings like broken umbrellas
over eyes that have watched Abraham count stars
and still cannot unsee the smoke.

Crystal tears fall from the throne-room floor,
each drop a shattered menorah,
ringing against jasper and carnelian
like alarm bells no one is allowed to silence.

Angels who once sang “Holy, holy, holy”
now choke on the third repetition,
their voices raw from shouting down the pit
where old slanders put on new flesh.

Michael’s sword drips not with blood
but with the salt of divine grief,
each tear hissing where it strikes the blade
because even archangels cannot burn away
the lie that says God’s firstborn are forsaken.

In the silence between sobs
you can hear the scrolls weeping ink,
Torah parchment curling like skin in fire
every time another Jewish child
is taught to fear the sound of his own name.

Above the firmament,
the Ancient of Days covers His face
with hands that once wrote on stone
and now cannot write fast enough
to outrun the graffiti of swastikas
scrawled across the walls of the world.

And still the tears fall,
heavy as guilt,
heavy as history,
until the sea of glass before the throne
turns red with sorrow
and every reflected star
looks like a yellow badge burning.

Heaven weeps,
not in weakness
but in recognition:
the same hatred that drove nails
now sharpens its tongue against the people
from whom salvation first came.

When demonic anti-Semitism rises,
all of Heaven weeps,
and the tears do not stop
until the earth itself
learns to be ashamed.

Machetes at Midnight: Surviving Religious Cleansing in Nigeria by Debbie Harris

24 Monday Nov 2025

Posted by in Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Persecution

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In the red dust of Nigeria rise
acacias shaped like broken crosses;
before the dawn, in secret, they meet,
mothers and fathers guarding their losses.

Mothers with babies bound to their backs,
Bibles held close as their only shield;
smoke of burnt villages stains the air,
yet low their singing is never stilled.

Masked riders thunder out of the night,
blades catching starlight, cold and cruel;
they drag the daughters who will not bow,
they silence sons who speak the truth.

Schoolyards lie empty, desks overturned,
sanctuaries shattered, windows bleed light;
yam fields drink blood of the ones who believed,
moon hangs above like a wound in the night.

Under the ashes a Bible lies open,
pages unburned though the building fell;
a child lifts verses still warm from her hand,
words that outlived the fire of hell.

In the camps a thousand voices arise,
one song in many tongues, one stubborn Yes;
no weapons answer the roar of the guns,
only the promise that God will bless.

Deborah stoned for speaking the truth,
Pastor Lawan slain at the pulpit’s rim,
Grace Taku’s throat cut while praising His name—
their blood cries louder than lies about them.

Nigeria, vast and wounded land,
when will you hear your children cry?
When will the silence be broken at last
and justice roll down like rain from the sky?

Yet the church does not curse the dark—
she kindles it, small flame by flame:
funeral songs and wedding praise,
bread and cup shared without shame.

Seeds are planted in bullet holes,
Scripture scratched on prison stone;
the wounded Bride still kisses the sword
and whispers, “Father, bring them home.”

One day the smoke will lift and clear,
green shoots will break through concrete and bone;
travellers will ask who gardened here—
the answer: those who sang alone.

Until that morning, pray for the saints
who carry the cross we wear as gold;
their wounds are doors—do not look away,
step through, and the story will be told.

The persecuted church in Nigeria stands—
a lamp on a hill that cannot be hidden,
a city set high though the night presses hard,
salt of the earth, light of the world unforbidden.
Though they kill the body, the soul they cannot slay;
these are the seed that falls and dies, yet rises to stay;
these are the overcomers by the blood of the Lamb
and the word of their witness—forever they stand.

More to Be Desired Are They Than Gold,Yea, Than Much Fine Gold by Debbie Harris

22 Saturday Nov 2025

Posted by in Christ Centered Devotionals, Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational

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The poem is a single, soaring hymn of praise to the Holy Bible as the living, life-giving Word of God.

It begins with the human soul lying dead in the dust of sin and despair, then shows how the gentle rain of Scripture falls upon that dust and causes new life to spring forth, green, fragrant, and rejoicing.

From there it traces the entire pilgrimage of the believer:

  • The Bible becomes a chain of steady lamps along the dangerous, narrow path, turning midnight into morning.
  • Its promises taste sweeter than wild honey dripping from the rock.
  • When enemies weave nets of lies, Scripture flashes like a sword of fire and sets the captive free.
  • Before dawn, hungry souls rise to meet the Word and find fresh manna, warm and fragrant, every single morning.
  • The heart learns to love God’s commandments more than the richest king loves his glittering treasure, and living rivers burst forth within.
  • Finally, Scripture binds, seals, and nails the soul fast to God, transforming trembling sinners into joyful, unshakable trees planted by rivers of water, whose leaves never wither and whose fruit never fails.

The whole movement is one of resurrection, guidance, delight, deliverance, sustenance, and everlasting fruitfulness, all flowing from the open pages of the Holy Bible. It is a universal prayer that every heart on earth would come to love, trust, and live in this Word that is forever settled in heaven, more precious than thousands of pieces of gold and silver, and able to make the simple wise unto everlasting life.

In short: the poem celebrates the Holy Bible as the inexhaustible treasure that revives the dead, guides the lost, feeds the hungry, frees the captive, and keeps the redeemed forever alive in the presence of God.

Let every heart that once lay prone in dust
be raised beneath the gentle rain of Scripture;
the Holy Bible falls like mercy’s mist,
and withered ribs put on the green of life,
breathing the fragrance of a risen race.

Let every pilgrim faltering on the steep,
where pride’s loose stones betray the trembling foot,
behold the lamps of God’s own Word hung deep
along the narrow way; the sacred page
turns midnight into morning, and each step
rings clear upon the height with heaven’s light.

Let every tongue that hungers taste and say
how verses of the Holy Bible melt
more sweet than honey dripping from the rock;
one line, and barren souls become a sea
of golden wheat beneath a harvest moon,
where quiet winds of peace forever move.

When lying cords are woven through the gloom
to snare the innocent, let Scripture rise
like sudden sunrise on a blade of steel;
the nets fall black and burned, the captives rise
laughing beneath a sky the Word has flung
wide open with its everlasting light.

Before the lark awakes, before the dew
has vanished from the grass, let watchers keep
their silent vigil with the open Book,
and find warm manna broken in their hands,
fresh from the Holy Bible every dawn,
still fragrant with the breath of God Himself.

Let every heart love Scripture more than kings
love coffers heaped with gold and glittering stone;
let living waters from its pages leap
on crystal wings and sweep old sins away.

Bind every soul with cords no storm can sever,
seal every spirit on the arm of Love,
drive every thought like nails the Word drives home;
so shall the trembling stand in perfect peace,
and joy shall clothe them like a wedding dress.

For lo, the Holy Bible stands enthroned
in heaven’s height, a star no darkness dims;
and all who graft their lives upon its truth
become fair trees beside the river of God,
whose leaves shall never fade, whose fruit is sure
through summer’s blaze and winter’s longest night.

Amen.

We Receive a Kingdom That Cannot Be Shaken: A Hymn of Reverence, Gratitude, and Eternal Victory by Debbie Harris

21 Friday Nov 2025

Posted by in Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational, Jesus Christ, King of Kings, Praise, Royally Redeemed, Thanksgiving

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Rooted in Hebrews 12:28, the poem celebrates the staggering gift of an eternal, unshakable kingdom that believers are already receiving amid a world that is crumbling. Earthly empires rise in smoke, their crowns and scepters shatter, mountains melt, and graves claim every merely human glory; yet God’s people stand secure on Mount Zion, the city that cannot be moved.

The cross itself becomes the guarantee: the slain Lamb now reigns, His wounds transformed into royal jewels, and every scar a proof that this kingdom is forever “shake-proof.” Because Christ has triumphed over sin and death, His people live in confident hope, wearing an unseen crown and bearing the weight of coming glory even now.

The poem moves from awe-filled reverence (falling before a holy God) to exultant victory (rising to serve the King of Kings with trembling joy). It ends with a final, defiant hallelujah: while hell despairs and death lies crushed, the redeemed lift their voices in worship, tasting already the wine of endless days in the one realm that no power can ever overthrow.

In short, it is a song of majesty, unbreakable hope, and ultimate victory for all who serve the Lamb who was slain—the eternal King of Kings and Lord of Lords.

(Hebrews 12:28)

Therefore, since we are receiving
a kingdom that cannot be shaken—
let us be thankful,
and so worship God acceptably
with reverence and awe.

We stand on ground that will not yield,
while thrones of earth dissolve like mist;
the fires may roar, the mountains slide,
yet here our footing keeps its tryst.
No earthquake moves the city’s wall,
no tempest tears its banners down—
for we have come to Zion’s hill
and wear the Victor’s hidden crown.

The smoke of empires climbs and fades,
their iron scepters snap like reeds;
but mercy built our fortress here
on promises that never bleed.
The Lamb once slain now wears the scars
as royal jewels upon His breast—
and every wound that bought our peace
has made His kingdom shake-proof, blest.

So lift your heads, you blood-bought host,
the night is gone, the dawn is sure;
the trumpet soon will split the sky
and call the heirs to what endures.
With reverence deep and holy fire
we fall, we rise, we kiss the rod—
then stand to serve with trembling joy
the King of Kings, the Lord our God.

Let angels hush, let hell despair,
let death itself lie crushed and still;
we bear the weight of glory now—
a kingdom no grave ever will.
Come, take the cup, come wear the crown,
come taste the wine of endless days—
for we have seen the throne that stands
when every other throne decays.

Hallelujah to the Lamb,
Hallelujah to the King—
forever reigns the unshaken realm
where hope and majesty take wing.
Amen.

“Ye Shall Not Add… Neither Shall Ye Diminish”:A Cry Against the Alteration of God’s Holy Word by Debbie Harris

20 Thursday Nov 2025

Posted by in Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational

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he poem is a fierce, urgent warning that the single most soul-destroying habit a person can adopt is to tamper with the Word of God (adding to it, subtracting from it, softening it, or reinterpreting it to suit human preference).

It portrays such alteration as a slow-acting but lethal poison: a tiny change (one jot, one tittle) seems harmless at first, yet it quietly corrupts the heart, removes the anchor of truth, and ultimately leaves the soul shipwrecked and estranged from God.

Modern attempts to “update” or “humanize” Scripture are exposed as proud rebellion: men making themselves kinder than God and forging a false mercy that becomes an eternal funeral pyre.

The closing charge is absolute: lay down the pen, touch not one syllable, stand in awe and trembling. Better to be broken by the unflinching rod of the true Word than to die smiling under a counterfeit gospel. The words of Scripture are settled forever; to meddle with them is to invite spiritual ruin.

  • Deuteronomy 4:2
    Ye shall not add unto the word which I command you, neither shall ye diminish ought from it, that ye may keep the commandments of the LORD your God which I command you.
  • Deuteronomy 12:32
    What thing soever I command you, observe to do it: thou shalt not add thereto, nor diminish from it.
  • Proverbs 30:5-6
    Every word of God is pure: he is a shield unto them that put their trust in him. Add thou not unto his words, lest he reprove thee, and thou be found a liar.
  • Joshua 1:7
    Only be thou strong and very courageous, that thou mayest observe to do according to all the law, which Moses my servant commanded thee: turn not from it to the right hand or to the left, that thou mayest prosper whithersoever thou goest.
  • Jeremiah 26:2
    Thus saith the LORD; Stand in the court of the LORD’s house, and speak unto all the cities of Judah, which come to worship in the LORD’s house, all the words that I command thee to speak unto them; diminish not a word.
  • Matthew 5:18-19
    For verily I say unto you, Till heaven and earth pass, one jot or one tittle shall in no wise pass from the law, till all be fulfilled. Whosoever therefore shall break one of these least commandments, and shall teach men so, he shall be called the least in the kingdom of heaven: but whosoever shall do and teach them, the same shall be called great in the kingdom of heaven.
  • Galatians 1:8-9
    But though we, or an angel from heaven, preach any other gospel unto you than that which we have preached unto you, let him be accursed. As we said before, so say I now again, If any man preach any other gospel unto you than that ye have received, let him be accursed.
  • Revelation 22:18-19
    For I testify unto every man that heareth the words of the prophecy of this book, If any man shall add unto these things, God shall add unto him the plagues that are written in this book: And if any man shall take away from the words of the book of this prophecy, God shall take away his part out of the book of life, and out of the holy city, and from the things which are written in this book.

Beware the hand that dares to bend
The living Word to private end;
No poison drips so slow, so sure,
No blade cuts deeper, none more pure
Than subtle change of what God said,
A shifted line, a verse half-dead.

The soul that drinks that altered stream
Will sicken in a silent dream;
First taste seems sweet, the change so small,
A jot, a tittle, that is all.
Yet day by day the fever grows,
Till truth lies bleeding no one knows.

Men call it wisdom, call it light,
To trim the Word for modern sight;
They soften threats, they blunt the rod,
And crown themselves more kind than God.
But mercy forged in human fire
Becomes the soul’s eternal pyre.

I’ve seen the wreck on every shore—
The heart that thought it needed more
Than what was written, plain and clear;
It added comfort, stifled fear,
Then woke to find the anchor gone,
And every star of guidance none.

O trembling hand, lay down the pen,
Let not one sacred syllable bend!
The Book that thunders, “Do not add,”
Still holds the power to make hearts glad
Or break them on the whetstone true;
Its ruin is its healing too.

Touch not the Word, though curiosity burn;
The soul that tampers shall itself be torn.
Better to bleed beneath the rod
Than smile forever estranged from God.
Stand trembling, stand in dust and awe—
The Word is settled. That is all.

A Sonnet In Awe Of God’s Provision by Debbie Harris

20 Thursday Nov 2025

Posted by in Christ-centered poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Inspirational, Jesus Christ, King of Kings, Praise

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The sparrow rides a wind it never earned,
Its wings edged bright with light not of its own;
A widow’s jar still whispers flour, unturned,
The cruse bleeds oil where want should overthrow.

From flint-split heart the rock remembers grace,
Manna descends like mercy’s slow refrain;
Lions grow tame before the psalmist’s face,
The fourth walks fire and cools the furnace flame.

The barren womb breaks sudden into song,
The prisoner’s chains slip off like outworn skin;
The leper reaches—finds his hand made strong,
New flesh where rot had gnawed its way within.

We, beggars waking rich, stand stunned and dumb:
Love’s scandalous arithmetic o’ercomes.

In Awe of How God Provides for His Own by Debbie Harris

20 Thursday Nov 2025

Posted by in Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational, Jesus Christ, King of Kings, Praise, Thanksgiving

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The poem is a lyrical meditation on the wonder of divine provision. Drawing from biblical images (sparrows, ravens and widows, manna, water from the rock, Daniel in the lions’ den, Shadrach and his friends in the furnace, Sarah’s laughter, restored lepers, multiplied loaves), it celebrates God’s miraculous, often extravagant care for His people.

It portrays a God who turns scarcity into abundance, danger into safety, and emptiness into overflowing grace. Nothing is wasted in His economy; even tears and lost years are redeemed. The tone is one of stunned gratitude before the “scandalous arithmetic” of a Provider who refuses to let His own go hungry, leaving the speaker (and reader) in speechless awe and worship.

The sparrow lifts on a wind it never earned,
wings tipped with light that was not its making;
it drinks from a puddle cupped in broken stone—
a chalice the storm forgot to shatter.

A widow counts two coins that should have been one,
yet the jar keeps breathing flour, the jug keeps bleeding oil;
the prophet’s raven drops bread like dark forgiveness
on a fugitive hiding from his own prayers.

Out of the cracked heart of a rock, water remembers
how to be generous;
manna falls like slow punctuation
in the long sentence of the wilderness.

Even the lions in their hunger learn restraint
when a man stands in their den humming psalms;
the fourth figure walks the furnace, unconsumed,
cooling the flames with the hem of mercy.

See the childless womb that suddenly laughs,
the prisoner whose chains fall off like old skin,
the leper who reaches, and instead of losing a hand
finds it wrapped in new flesh.

Nothing is wasted—
not the five loaves, not the tears, not the years eaten by locusts.
He keeps every sparrow in a ledger of love
and every hair numbered like stars in a private sky.

So we stand, beggars who wake up rich,
carrying empty cups that keep overflowing,
stunned into worship by the scandalous arithmetic
of a God who will not let His own go hungry.

Amen.