Category Archives: Persecution

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.