One Of These Days by Debbie Harris

25 Tuesday Aug 2026

Posted by Debbie Harris in Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational, Praise, Royally Redeemed, salvation

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A Note from the Poet

Dear Reader,

These words were written in the quiet hope that one day the trumpet will sound—whether soon or after many years—and call us all home. May the ancient promises hold you steady while we wait, and may the thought of that bright gathering bring you peace.

With anticipation,

The Poet

1 Corinthians 15:51–52

Listen, I tell you a mystery: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed—in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed.

1 Thessalonians 4:16–17

For the Lord himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. After that, we who are still alive and are left will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And so we will be with the Lord forever.

One of these days—

perhaps with the next breath of dawn,

or after long seasons of waiting—

the trumpet will sound.

Clear and sudden,

cutting through the hush of graves

and the ordinary noise of living,

it will call us home.

The dust will stir,

the sleeping will rise,

and those still walking these roads

will lift their faces to the sky.

No more measured years,

no more “soon” or “later”—

only the bright gathering,

the long-promised return.

And we will go,

all of us together,

toward the place prepared,

toward the One who waits.

One of these days…

the trumpet will sound,

and we will all be going home.

One of these days…

***To God be the glory only and always.

You Are Held By Debbie Harris

22 Saturday Aug 2026

Posted by Debbie Harris in Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational, Praise, Royally Redeemed, Thanksgiving, Triumphant

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You Are Held

(Free Verse & Rhymed)

Dear Reader,

These two poems — one free verse, one rhymed — were written from the same quiet place: a desire to point you to Jesus Himself.

Whether the lines breathe freely or move in gentle rhythm, they carry the same truth. May you find in them a soft place to rest in His finished work, a steady light from the One who walked the cross-road for you, and the deep assurance that you are held by Christ alone.

With care,

The Poet

Free Verse

Jesus loves you deeper

than the ocean’s unmeasured floor,

far beyond the trembling strength you clutch today

or the answers that still hide in fog.

His love does not wait for sunlit mornings

or hearts already whole and shining.

It finds you in the bruised twilight,

in the long ache of doubt,

in the weather that will not clear —

the same Jesus who stretched His arms wide on the cross

and still stretches them toward you now.

When sorrow settles like heavy rain on your shoulders,

when fear floods the low places of the heart,

when the map of your days dissolves into mist —

Christ is already there,

walking the road that has not yet appeared,

nothing about your night a surprise to the One

who carried every night to Calvary.

You were never meant to shoulder

the whole dark sky alone.

Bring the questions that burn,

the grief that sits like stones in your chest,

the disappointment that tastes of ash.

Come exactly as you are —

unwashed, unfinished, still breathing —

to the open wounds of Jesus.

His blood is enough. His scarred hands are enough.

He sees every hidden page of your story:

the tears that fell in rooms no one entered,

the quiet wars fought behind closed eyes,

the fragile courage it took

simply to rise and keep walking

when the path had grown over with thorns.

And He meets every page with the same mercy

that flowed from His side.

You are not forgotten in the wilderness.

Not invisible beneath the weight of stars.

Not too shattered, too tangled,

or too far for the reach of the risen Christ.

So hold on to Him.

Take the next small step

even when the whole road vanishes into shadow.

Let Jesus meet you in this exact breath

and remind you that His presence

has never once stepped away.

You may not know what dawn will bring,

but you can trust the One

who already stands in the morning light —

the same Jesus who left the tomb empty

so that your tomorrow could be filled with Him.

You are deeply loved by Christ.

You are seen by His eyes of compassion.

You are held by His nail-scarred hands.

Even now — especially now —

His grace is the quiet current carrying you,

His love the steady lamp at your feet,

leading you, one trembling step at a time,

straight into the heart of Jesus.

Rhymed

Jesus loves you deeper still

than oceans no line can measure,

beyond the strength you try to will

or answers lost in weather.

He finds you in the bruised half-light,

when fear and doubt draw near,

the Christ who hung on Calvary’s height

still draws you close and near.

You need not bear the storm alone,

the sky that presses low.

Come as you are — to Him alone —

His wounds already know.

He sees the tears that fell unseen

in rooms the world forgot,

the quiet wars, the in-between —

and meets them with His blood.

You are not lost among the thorns,

not broken past repair.

The risen Lord who wore the crown

still walks beside you there.

So take the next step, soft and true,

though morning hides from view.

His grace, His cross, His love hold you —

and Jesus holds you too.

**To God be the glory always and only!

Faith, Hope, And Love by Debbie Harris

22 Saturday Aug 2026

Posted by Debbie Harris in Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational, Praise, Royally Redeemed, salvation, Triumphant

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Dear Reader,

Here are two versions of the same poem — one in free verse, one in rhyme.

They both speak of the three things that remain when everything else falls away: Faith, Hope, and Love.

I wrote them as two different doors into the same quiet room.

Step through whichever one feels most open to you.

Or walk through both.

May these words meet you gently,

and may something in them stay with you

long after the page is closed.

— the poet

Free verse version

In the quiet cathedral of the heart

where the soul kneels in silence,

Faith stands—

a pillar of pure, living light,

stronger than diamond,

impossible to break.

It is the white root that drinks the darkness

and blossoms into a star.

No storm can shake it;

no night can put it out.

Faith is the still center

around which the broken world turns—

one clear, unwavering note

that keeps sounding

beneath every crashing hour.

Hope arrives like the first silver crack

in the black cloth of night—

a pale, stubborn petal

opening against a hard sky.

It is the green shoot

that splits stone with soft, relentless force,

the long flight of wild geese

sewing bright threads across a torn sky.

Hope tastes like rain on dry earth,

smells like crushed flowers and far-off fire.

It gathers the broken pieces of yesterday

and breathes them into a path of trembling dawn.

And Love—

Love is the final great flood,

the scarlet tide that covers every shore.

It is incense melting into flame,

the slow, beautiful drowning

that suddenly becomes flight.

Love pours itself out completely—

soft crimson velvet over bone and breath,

the ocean that kisses the farthest cliff

and never asks the cliff to answer.

It is the last language of dying stars,

the sudden recognition that leaps

between two lonely hearts

across the glittering dark.

These three remain,

woven into one shining whole:

Faith the golden thread that never frays,

Hope the silver thread that never ends,

Love the living color that soaks everything

until every part of the world—

seen and unseen—

burns with the same unbearable beauty.

Rhymed version

In the quiet cathedral of the heart

the soul kneels down in silence deep;

Faith stands—a pillar of pure light,

stronger than diamond, sure and steep.

The white root drinks the dark of night

and blossoms into star so bright.

No storm can shake its steady throne;

no night can claim it for its own—

one clear, unwavering, living tone

beneath the hours that crash and moan.

Hope comes, a silver crack of day

torn through the black cloth of the night,

a pale, stubborn petal that will stay

and open to the hardest light.

Green shoot that splits the stone apart

with soft, relentless, growing art;

wild geese that sew the torn sky through

with threads of gold and silver-blue.

It tastes of rain on earth long dry,

of crushed sweet flowers and fire nearby,

and gathers pieces broken, sere,

to breathe a trembling dawn appear.

And Love—the final scarlet tide

that covers every waiting shore;

incense that melts in flame and glides,

the drowning that becomes pure soar.

It pours itself out, nothing kept—

crimson velvet where bone has slept,

the ocean kissing farthest stone

and asking nothing back, alone.

Last language of the dying stars,

the leap across the glittering bars

where two lone hearts at last are known

within the dark that is their own.

These three remain, one shining whole:

Faith the gold thread that holds the soul,

Hope the silver that will not cease,

Love the color that brings release

until the seen and unseen burn

with beauty none can ever unlearn.

To God be the glory always and only.**

The Presence of God Is a Royal Symphony by Debbie Harris

19 Wednesday Aug 2026

Posted by Debbie Harris in Celebratory, Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational, Jesus Christ, King of Kings, Praise, Royally Redeemed, Thanksgiving, The Light Of The World

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Dear Reader,

From the Poet—

These lines were born in quiet hours when the soul, thirsty and still, first heard the distant strains of a music not of this world. I have tried, with imperfect human words, to capture something of that royal symphony—the life-giving presence of God that does not merely visit, but resurrects; that does not merely comfort, but creates anew. May these verses serve as an open door rather than a finished chamber. Step through them gently. Listen not only with the ear, but with the heart. For the true symphony is not confined to ink and rhyme; it plays wherever His presence is welcomed, and it never ceases to give life. If even one note awakens in you a deeper hunger for that living Presence, then these pages have fulfilled their quiet purpose.

With reverence,

The Poet

In courts of light where death itself must flee,
A royal symphony begins to play;
The life-giving presence of the King Most Free
Awakens dust and turns the night to day.

Soft strings of mercy breathe upon the soul,
Like morning mist that kisses barren ground;
Each gentle note restores what time has stole,
And lifeless hearts leap up with living sound.

The brass of power proclaims a quickening word—
Dry bones arise, the withered bloom again;
While flutes of grace, like living waters heard,
Pour endless streams through every desert plain.

Celestial choirs swell in radiant throng,
Their harmonies a river pure and wide;
The presence of the Lord, so vast, so strong,
Floods every vein with life that will abide.

The harp of healing plucks the wounded deep,
Where sorrow’s thorns once choked the tender vine;
Its golden chords make broken spirits leap,
And every scar is bathed in light divine.

The drums of glory roll across the earth,
Awaking forests, seas, and silent stone;
Creation hears the music of new birth
And answers back in voices not its own.

The organ of eternity now speaks—
Vast pipes of wonder thundering above;
It lifts the lowly, strengthens all the weak,
And fills the void with everlasting love.

No measure ends, no final cadence falls;
The symphony of God forever streams.
His life-giving presence through the ages calls,
And every soul that listens lives and dreams.

O come, and lean into this royal song—
Let every breath be tuned to heaven’s fire;
For in His presence life is ever strong,
And death itself becomes a silenced lyre.

To God be the glory, always and only.

Prayers Too Small by Debbie Harris

19 Wednesday Aug 2026

Posted by Debbie Harris in Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational, Praise, Prayer

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A Note from the Poet

Dear Reader,

These two poems were born from the same place: the quiet, overwhelming discovery that our God is not only big enough, but willing enough, to meet us in the exact places of our need.

The first poem simply tells what happened—money that appeared where there was none, a stranger’s voice quoting Psalm 23 until a mother’s storm grew still, hospitality and kindness that asked for nothing in return, strength and calm that were never mine to claim. It is a record of miraculous provision, offered as a testimony that the same God still walks hospital corridors and long roads of worry.

The second poem is the breath that followed. After tasting such goodness, a question rose in me that I could not ignore: Perhaps my prayers have been too small. It is less a statement of achievement and more a humble invitation—to myself and to you—to enlarge our asking in the light of a God who has already proven He multiplies the little and fills the empty places.

I offer both poems together, not as polished theology, but as lived wonder. May they remind you that provision is real, that peace can arrive through the most unexpected voices, and that the God who has already given so much is still inviting us to pray larger than our fears.

With gratitude for the journey,

and hope that you, too, will taste the wideness of His hand,

—The Poet

I have tasted the wideness of Your hand:

money lying quiet between the thin leaves of a Book,

hospitality that asked for nothing and gave everything,

kindness so tender it broke open dry eyes,

an angel’s voice speaking Psalm twenty-three

until the storm inside a mother’s heart fell silent.

Strength arrived that was never mine to claim.

Calm settled deeper than breath.

And now the thought rises, soft and sharp:

Perhaps my prayers have been too small.

After provision rose where nothing lived,

after empty pockets and empty rooms were filled,

after peace that passes understanding rested on us—

how can I still ask for crumbs

when the table of heaven has already been set?

You are the God who multiplies the little,

who opens closed doors with a single word,

who walks hospital corridors and long southern roads,

who turns distress into quiet

and lack into more than enough.

So enlarge my asking, Lord.

Let me pray past the edges of my fear,

past the borders of what I can imagine,

past the limits of yesterday’s need.

Your goodness has already proven

that nothing is too hard,

nothing is too late,

nothing is beyond the reach of Your providential love.

Teach me to pray large—

not because I am bold,

but because You are bigger

than every small prayer

I once thought was enough.

To God be the glory—-always and only!

Miraculous Provision by Debbie Harris

19 Wednesday Aug 2026

Posted by Debbie Harris in Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational, Love Of Family, Praise, Prayer, Triumphant

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Our God is vast beyond the farthest star,

Almighty, tender, near as breath and bone.

In empty hands He places what we need,

And quiet comes that never was our own.

When fear rose high beside a hospital bed,

And mother’s soul trembled like a leaf in storm,

An unexpected angel spoke the ancient words:

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

Psalm twenty-three, remembered by heart,

Poured peace like living water through the room.

Her breathing slowed. The storm inside grew still.

That calm was not hers—it was His alone.

Money appeared where none had been before,

Hidden in the pages of a worn, open Book,

Enough to carry love across the miles

To stand beside her in the hour of need.

Hospitality arrived with open doors,

Kindness from strangers who became true kin,

Gifts no one could repay, yet freely given—

Each one a quiet miracle of grace.

Strength rose when strength had long since fled,

A steadying hand that was not flesh and bone.

The valley of the shadow lost its sting

Because the Shepherd walked the path ahead.

Green pastures opened in the barren place,

Still waters found us when the wells ran dry.

He prepared a table in the presence of fear,

And mercy followed every weary step.

This is no private story bound by time or name.

Wherever need is real and faith looks up,

The same great God still multiplies the loaves,

Still speaks the Psalm that quiets troubled hearts,

Still sends provision wrapped in human hands,

Still gives a peace the world cannot invent.

So let the soul that feels its own smallness rest:

Our God is big. Our God is great. Our God is near.

He leads. He keeps. He restores the fainting soul.

And all the days of our lives, His goodness follows.

To God be the glory——always and only!

In Christ Our All — Exquisite Provision and Victorious Hope by Debbie Harris

19 Wednesday Aug 2026

Posted by Debbie Harris in Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Praise, Royally Redeemed, salvation

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A Note from the Poet

Dear Reader,

These lines rose like dawn light warming a waiting tongue, born from the radiant declaration of Lamentations 3:24 — that the Lord is our portion. In every season, through every shifting wind and shadowed path, Christ is our everything: the sweet honey that surges through the pulse, the fragrant spice of unshakable hope, the thunderous voice that rolls across the open sky, our exquisite and inexhaustible provision.

May this sonnet pour golden radiance into your lifted eyes, set dancing feet upon paths of living light, and carry the triumphant, majestic joy that such a truth awakens.

With hope that soars,

The Poet

Note on Form

This poem is a Shakespearean sonnet: fourteen lines of iambic pentameter with the classic rhyme scheme ABAB CDCD EFEF GG.

Lamentations 3:24

“The Lord is my portion, saith my soul; therefore will I hope in him.”

In radiant dawn that warms the waiting tongue

And fills the air with sweet and living breath,

The soul announces triumph, freely sung:

The Lord alone is everything—true life past death!

It drinks the sweetness mercy pours like dew

And tastes the joy that sweeps away all pain;

It breathes the spice of hope the victors knew

And hears a voice that rolls like thunder’s reign.

Now dancing feet explore the paths of light;

A golden glow floods every lifted eye;

Warm honey surges through each pulsing beat

While winds of promise perfume the open sky.

So soul and sense rise up in pure delight—

In Christ our all—exquisite, triumphant light!

To God be the glory always and only.

From Him, Through Him, and To Him: All Things in Christ by Debbie Harris

03 Monday Aug 2026

Posted by Debbie Harris in Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Holy Week Monday, Praise, Royally Redeemed, salvation, Thanksgiving

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Romans 11:34–36

Dear Reader,

Come and stand a moment at the edge of this great deep. Here the apostle Paul, swept upward by the Spirit, falls silent before the unsearchable mind of God. He does not explain the mystery—he worships it.

Who has known the mind of the Lord? The question rolls like thunder across the ages, echoing the ancient cry of Isaiah and the whirlwind voice that once answered Job. No counselor has sat in the councils of eternity; no creature has first given to the Giver of all things. Yet from Him every river of existence flows, through Him every star holds its appointed course, and to Him every redeemed heart returns in praise.

In Christ the veil is parted. The eternal Word who was with God and was God has stepped into our dust, bearing the unsearchable wisdom in human flesh, pouring out the gift no hand could ever repay. At the cross the circle closes: all things from the Father, through the Son, for the glory that will never fade.

Read slowly. Let the questions humble you. Let the answer lift your eyes. And when the last line falls quiet, join the everlasting Amen.

Yours in the unsearchable riches of Christ,

The Poet

“Who has known the mind of the Lord?

Or who has been his counselor?”

“Who has ever given to God,

that God should repay them?”

For from him and through him and for him are all things.

To him be the glory forever! Amen.

Who has plumbed the mind of the living Lord,

Whose thoughts outsoar the starlit cord?

Who has drawn near as counselor wise,

To counsel Him who formed the skies?

No finite voice has shaped His will,

No mortal counsel scales that hill.

Yet Christ has come, the radiant Word,

In whom the Father’s mind is heard—

The wisdom veiled through ages past

Now shining clear, unveiled at last.

Who has first given to God some claim,

That heaven should answer with gift or name?

No hand has enriched the Boundless One,

No offering bought what grace has done.

Yet Christ, the Son, in love descended,

And freely gave what never ended:

His life laid down, His blood outpoured,

The priceless gift no wealth could afford.

He paid the debt we could not meet,

And rose to make the triumph complete.

All things from Him, the Father’s source,

Through Him, the Son, in sovereign force,

For Him, the goal of time and space,

The center of mercy, the heart of grace.

The galaxies wheel at His decree,

The oceans rise and fall by His sea;

Yet greater still: the souls He claims,

The hearts He frees from death’s dark chains.

In Christ the circle finds its close—

Creation, cross, and glory’s rose.

From Him the dawn, through Him the way,

For Him the endless, unbroken day.

All glory, wisdom, power, and praise

Belong to God through endless days.

No mind can fathom, no gift repay

The depths revealed in Christ the Way.

To Father, Son, and Spirit rise

The anthem that will never die.

Thou Crownest the Year with Thy Goodness, O Lord: An Ode to the Constant Blessings and Joyous Harvest of Divine Providence by Debbie Harris

01 Saturday Aug 2026

Posted by Debbie Harris in Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational, Praise, Royally Redeemed

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A Note from the Poet

Dear Reader,

These lines are set forth in humble meditation upon that crowning word of the Psalmist: “Thou crownest the year with thy goodness” (Psalm 65:11). All the year long the mercies of the Lord fail not; they are new every morning, and great is His faithfulness (Lamentations 3:22–23). Whether we lie down in sleep or rise to labour, His lovingkindness compasses us about, even as the air that we breathe, so that in Him we live, and move, and have our being (Acts 17:28).

Yet the same God who is constant in His providence is also rich in special seasons of grace. As the sun at noonday burns more fiercely than at dawn, as the rivers are swollen in the time of latter rain, so the Lord, in the appointed hour, magnifies His favour before the sons of men. Chief among these overflowing seasons is the harvest, when the earth yields her increase and the reaper fills his bosom with the sheaves of heaven’s liberality. Then is the year crowned, not merely with temporal abundance, but with a visible token of that spiritual harvest for which the Lord of the vineyard still calls labourers into His field (Matthew 9:37–38).

Let the heart therefore be stirred to inward gratitude, that it may meditate day and night upon this goodness (Psalm 1:2). Let the lips break forth in praise, for it is a good thing to give thanks unto the Lord (Psalm 92:1). And let the hand not be idle, but bring a freewill offering—a thank-offering of substance and of self—unto the Lord of the harvest, remembering that every good gift and every perfect gift is from above (James 1:17).

May these verses, poor as they are, serve only to direct the eye upward to Him who alone is worthy of all honour, and may the reader’s own soul be crowned with the joy of harvest, both now and in the day when the final sheaves are gathered into the eternal garner.

With reverence and hope,

The Poet

All seasons through, each hour by night and day,

The Lord pours forth His blessings on our way;

When sleep enfolds, or waking eyes unclose,

His mercy waits, and never doth repose.

The sun may sink and bequeath a darkened sky,

Yet God withdraws not love’s unclouded eye;

His beams of favour, constant, pure, and bright,

Shine on His children through the longest night.

As some deep river, full and ever free,

His lovingkindness rolls eternally—

Inexhaustible as His own nature’s store,

It flows, and fails not, evermore and more.

Or as the ambient air that wraps the sphere,

Sustaining life, and always hovering near,

So God’s benevolence surrounds the whole;

In it we live, and move, and have our soul.

Yet as the summer sun more warmly glows,

And rivers rise when gracious rains dispose,

And air grows pure with bracing, balmy power,

So mercy too hath its appointed hour—

Its golden seasons of abundant grace,

When God before the sons of men displays

His favour heightened, overflowing, free,

And magnifies His kindness openly.

Among the blessings of the nether springs,

The harvest brings its rare and joyous things;

Autumn’s ripe glory, when the fields unfold

Providence’s gifts in liberality untold.

This is the mellow time of full content,

When hope is crowned in rich accomplishment.

Great is the joy that fills the reaper’s breast;

Happy the arms that gather heaven’s behest,

And bear away the bounty freely given—

The crowning mercy that adorns the year from heaven.

The Psalmist sings: the harvest crowns the year;

These crowning mercies claim our praise sincere.

Let inward gratitude the heart inflame,

Warm every spirit, meditate His name;

Recall, remember, ponder all His good,

Till wonder rises as it rightly should.

Then with the lips His bounty let us laud,

And magnify the Name from whom all flows abroad;

With gifts we yield, His cause we will uphold—

A thank-offering pure, more precious than gold,

The practical seal of hearts that truly know

The Lord of harvest, source of all below.

Thus may our lives, in gratitude complete,

Reflect the mercy that makes all things sweet,

And crown with praise the Giver of the year,

Whose goodness shines, perpetual and clear.

Bless the Lord, O My Soul: Forget Not All His Benefits — Psalm 103:2 by Debbie Harris

09 Thursday Jul 2026

Posted by Debbie Harris in Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational, Praise, Royally Redeemed, salvation, Thanksgiving, Triumphant

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Poet’s Note

Dear Reader,

This poem was born from the stirring words of Charles Spurgeon and the timeless call of Psalm 103:2 — “Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits.”

In a world that so quickly forgets, I wanted to remind both you and myself that the God of Abraham, Moses, and David is not a distant figure confined to ancient pages. He is powerfully present in your story — in the rivers you have crossed, the fires you have walked through, the quiet provisions that arrived at just the right moment, and the still waters that have refreshed your weary soul.

May these lines stir your heart to look back with gratitude, to look up with worship, and to look forward with confident hope. The same faithful hand that guided the saints of old is writing beauty into your life today.

Take a moment. Remember. Give thanks. And then join the song.

Forget not all His benefits.

With joy and reverence,

The Poet

O my soul, arise and bless the Lord,

Forget not all His gifts, both great and small;

The ancient tales of mercy we have heard—

Yet ours are written on these hearts as well.

We trace His hand on Abraham’s road,

On Moses by the sea, on David’s throne;

But turn thine eyes upon thy own abode—

The self-same God walks with thee, not alone.