This line was set down because grief can feel like the last word, and it is not. Christ has already entered the grave and come forth. The cross took the full measure of sorrow; the empty tomb answered it. Grace is not a gentler feeling beside the loss—it is the risen Lord Himself, greater than every grave He has overcome.If these words find you in a hard hour, let them stand as they are: grief may be great, yet in Christ grace is triumphantly greater. The victory is already His, and therefore already yours.
Since my mother went Home, I have found myself writing again and again about the triumph waiting for the true believer. This sonnet rose from that hope: that death is not a long night, but only a change of breath—one still drawn on earth, the next already before the Throne. I offer them in gratitude, in sorrow, and in triumphant joy, knowing we do not grieve as those who have no hope.
—The Poet
1 Thessalonians 4:13–14
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.
For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him.
There is no sting. The Christian does not die
so much as change the air that fills the lung.
One breath is dust; the next, a brighter sky
already singing what the grave unsung.
The body drops its borrowed coat of clay;
the soul steps through as through an opened door.
No interval of dark, no wandering way—
earth’s final gasp is Heaven’s corridor.
Death comes like thunder that has lost its crack,
a shadow startled by too sudden sun.
The stone rolls inward on an empty track;
the race is finished ere it is begun.
O Death, thy needle snaps against the bone.
We breathe once here—and wake before the Throne.
Corinthians 15:55–57
O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?
The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law.
But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.
If you later want one more on a separate page, not under this poem:
John 11:25–26
Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live:
And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this?
If you have not lost a parent, this may sound like church language laid over an absence. If you have, you will hear the pause between the giving and the taking. That pause is the whole poem. I repeat the words because once is not enough, and because Job said them first, standing in a ruin, and somehow they did not break. I am trying to stand the same way. Blessed be the name—not as a denial of tears, but as a way to keep speaking while the tears are still coming.
Job 1:21 The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.
Revelation 21:4 He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore.
The Lord gives. The Lord takes. Blessed be the name of our God.
If it is a mother He takes— the Lord gives, the Lord takes. Blessed be the name of our God.
If it is a father— the Lord gives, the Lord takes. Blessed be the name of our God.
Yes, we grieve. We are earthly still, and made of dust.But oh— what wonders they are seeing now. What company of the holy leans in to speak with them. What bodies they wear: glorified, healed, whole, and young.
No more pain. No more suffering. No more weight of the world on the shoulders we knew.
They are with their Creator.
The Lord gives. The Lord takes. Blessed be the name of our God.
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.
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.
I count it a privilege to have grown up on the campus of Bob Jones University, surrounded by brilliant, Christ-centered, humble, talented, and faithful professors. How blessed was I that Jesus let me be born into all of this—their lives were living testimonies, quietly radiant with devotion, marked by sacrifice, and poured out for the glory of the One they served. In recent years, many of these dear saints have gone home to be with their Lord and Savior. Truthfully, I cry over every one. Yet even as tears fall, I rest in the certain knowledge that their sacrifices and eternal rewards far exceed anything we can imagine this side of glory. Through decades of faithful service, they have touched thousands upon thousands of students, leaving an indelible imprint of Christ upon generation after generation. This poem is my humble tribute—to them, and to so many others who have crossed into their eternal home.
With deep gratitude, love, and admiration for their Christ-centered service— a lasting example of faith poured out for His glory,
To God be the glory—always and only.
The Poet
Psalm 116:15 Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.
2 Corinthians 5:8 We are confident, I say, and willing rather to be absent from the body, and to be present with the Lord.
Philippians 1:21 For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain.
John 14:2 In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.
John 14:3 And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.
Revelation 14:13 And I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their works do follow them.2 Timothy 4:7 I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith:2 Timothy 4:8 Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, shall give me at that day: and not to me only, but unto all them also that love his appearing.
Matthew 25:21 His lord said unto him, Well done, thou good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord.
Hebrews 12:1 Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us,
Hebrews 12:2 Looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith; who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of the throne of God.
How my heart aches when word arrives like evening’s hush that a saint I have loved has crossed the final threshold into the everlasting home prepared for them.
I and many others were granted the rare privilege of watching their Christ-centered gifts unfold— talents refined in the furnace of devotion, a brilliance that never sought its own glory but steadily reflected the radiance of the Crucified.
At their side I learned the quiet art of a faith made flesh, and still I aspire, with imperfect resolve, to carry even a faint echo of that light into the ordinary hours they no longer share.
Yet the ache abides: a sacred hollow where their presence once dwelt, a hushed space once filled with their voice of praise. With grateful hands I release them into the scarred embrace of the Savior who first claimed their heart, while mine continues onward— marked forever by the honor of having seen, having learned, and still striving to mirror, however faintly, the Christ they so faithfully revealed.
In quiet reverence for every service man and woman who answered the call and never returned, I offer this lament. May these words honor their sacrifice and remind us of the profound cost of freedom.
In crimson fields where silent sentinels stand,
where poppies once bowed low to blood-soaked sand,
they answered freedom’s call with steady breath
and gave their lives for freedom—facing death.
Through desert glare that blistered skin and soul,
through mountain gales that howled like wolves on patrol,
When earthly eyes at last in death grow dim, And final breath escapes the mortal frame, The soul awakes—not lost in darkness grim, But bathed in light that bears the Savior’s name.
No grave could hold what Christ has made His own; The veil is torn, the chains of flesh undone. In one swift instant, heaven’s joy is known— The believer rises to behold the Son.
What splendor bursts upon the ransomed sight! The throne of God in radiant glory shines; The Lamb once slain now reigns in perfect light, And every tear is wiped from weary eyes.
No pain, no sorrow, no more parting’s sting— The streets of gold reflect eternal day; The saints in white with joyful voices sing, While angels join the everlasting lay.
They see the face they longed for through the years, The loved ones gone before now safe and whole; No trace of grief, no weight of earthly tears— All made complete within the Savior’s soul.
Precious in His sight, the death of His saints— A doorway opened to the Father’s breast; Where faith gives way to sight, and hope to praise, And perfect love enfolds the soul at rest.
O glorious dawn! The mortal put away, The corruptible clothed in immortality; What eye hath not seen, what ear hath never heard, Now floods the heart with pure felicity.
Here is no night, for Christ Himself the Light— The tree of life bears fruit in endless spring; The river of life flows clear and bright, And worship rises on the angels’ wing.
Beloved mourner, when thy heart is torn And grief lies heavy on the weary breast, Know this: thy loved one walks in perfect morn, Awake in glory, safe in endless rest. They gaze upon the Savior’s radiant face, Where sorrow’s shadow never dares to fall; Rejoice in hope — by God’s abundant grace, One glorious day you too shall meet them all, Arrayed in light where death has lost its claim, And endless joy shall swallow every pain.
