Doxology In Expanded Measure by Debbie Harris

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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.

A Poetic Rendering Of Jude 1:25 by Debbie Harris

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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.

Ascent of the Silver Prayer to the Triune Throne of Glory by Debbie Harris

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A lone seeker kneels in earthly silence, sending a fragile prayer upward like a silver thread. It pierces the heavens, passes blazing galaxies, and enters the radiant throne room—a sea of glass bathed in living light. There the Triune God reigns: the Father enthroned in sapphire and storm-light, the Son with merciful, galaxy-wounds, and the Spirit as a dove of white-hot wind. Surrounded by elders, crowned in surrender, and four living creatures thundering “Holy,” every prayer is treasured—gathered as incense in golden vials, always welcome, never forgotten. The prayer, now a shaft of light, is caught, transformed, and returned as an unstoppable river of grace. It floods the seeker’s hidden room, shattering gloom with splendor and crowning the soul that God fully sees and redeems.

The seeker kneels in shadowed hush,
yet the prayer ascends alone—
a silver filament spun from earth,
threading the vault of indigo stone.

It breaches the firmament’s seam,
where galaxies burn like censers swung,
and enters the blaze of the throne room—
a sea of glass fused with living sun.

There, the Triune Flame abides:
the Father on sapphire, veiled in storm-light,
His countenance older than the first word,
yet kind as the hush before dawn.

The Son at His right, scarred palms open,
the Lamb once slain, now radiant King;
His wounds are galaxies, still bleeding mercy,
each drop a world redeemed by singing.

The Spirit, a dove of white-hot wind,
broods over the waters of endless praise;
seven torches blaze before the throne,
seven eyes that search the secret ways.

Elders in linen, crowns cast down,
form a ring of surrendered gold;
four living creatures—lion, ox, man, eagle—
roar “Holy” in thunder no silence can hold.

Each prayer is precious, always welcome—
a vial of incense the angels keep,
its fragrance rising, never forgotten,
before the throne where no plea shall sleep.

The prayer, now a shaft of pure light,
pierces the heart of the Triune glow;
it is caught, transfigured, returned—
a river of grace no barrier can hold.

It floods the seeker’s hidden room,
though miles and veils lie in between;
a tide of splendor breaks the doom,
and glory crowns the soul He redeems.

Crimson-Crowned and Called: The Privilege of Prayer with the Sovereign Lord by Debbie Harris

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Redeemed by Christ’s blood and crowned with mercy, believers hold the royal privilege of constant, intimate prayer—whispering boldly at any moment to the King of Kings and Lord of Lords. Their breath becomes a bridge, their hearts an open door, to the Sovereign who calls them His own.

Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need.
—Hebrews 4:16 (KJV)

For ye have not received the spirit of bondage again to fear; but ye have received the Spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, Abba, Father.
—Romans 8:15 (KJV)

What a privilege we bear,
crowned in crimson mercy,
to whisper in prayer at any hour
to the King of Kings,
the Lord of Lords—
our breath a bridge,
our hearts the door.

Islam Lies, Kills, and Destroys – Unveiling the Satanic Deception of Allah by Debbie Harris

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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!

Without Returning In Repentance Our Blessed Triune God Cannot Bless America by Debbie Harris

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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.

From Ballot to Bondage: When the People Choose Their Chains by Debbie Harris

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The poem is a stark warning: when people elect corrupt leaders, they seal their own fate. It depicts democracy as a funeral—ballots like coffin lids, promises as poisoned honey, and leaders as foxes, wolves, or thieves who loot the public while twisting justice. The masses, blinded by desperation and apathy, cheer their own ruin. The final call is urgent: wake up before complicity forges unbreakable chains, for choosing corruption is choosing self-destruction.

When nations elect corrupt leaders,
the ballot box becomes a coffin lid,
slamming shut on the pulse of the people.
Promises drip like honey from forked tongues,
sweet enough to blind the starving crowd,
while pockets swell with pilfered gold.

They parade in suits stitched from lies,
thrones built on the bones of trust,
siphoning rivers of public wealth
into private vaults that echo with greed.
Laws twist like serpents in their hands,
justice a whore sold to the highest bidder.

The masses cheer, hypnotized by smoke,
mirrors reflecting their own desperation.
Fools crown the fox to guard the henhouse,
wolves in wool, devouring the flock.
Democracy’s flame flickers in the wind
of apathy, extinguished by complicity.

Wake, ye sleepers, before the chains tighten—
for in choosing thieves, we rob ourselves,
and the republic bleeds from self-inflicted wounds.

The Christ-Given Gift Of Capitalism by Debbie Harris

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Summary of The Christ-Given Gift of Capitalism

The poem traces the biblical roots of free enterprise as a divine ordinance, from Creation to Christ’s Kingdom:

  1. Creation & Covenant – God commands Adam to work and subdue the earth; Israel’s Law sanctifies labor, honest trade, and rest.
  2. Christ’s Example & Teaching – Jesus, a carpenter’s son, multiplies loaves, teaches the Parable of the Talents, and honors just exchange while cleansing corrupt commerce.
  3. Redemption & Stewardship – The Cross pays sin’s debt; believers are called to freely steward gifts in the marketplace, reflecting God’s image through choice, creativity, and generosity.
  4. Early Church & Spread – Apostles like Paul work with their hands; the Gospel advances through voluntary networks, not state coercion.
  5. Capitalism as Sacred Order – Voluntary exchange, innovation, and risk mirror Scripture’s principles; wealth becomes a tool to bless, not hoard.
  6. Final Victory – In Christ’s eternal Kingdom, righteousness yields boundless harvest; every anti-God system—symbolized by the beast and his mark—is overthrown by the Lamb.

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.

Where the Machete Falls and the Gunfire Echoes, the Lamb Stands: A Lament for Nigeria’s Martyrs From Demonically Led Islamic Radicals by Debbie Harris

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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!

Eternal Victory In Christ by Debbie Harris

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Summary: A haiku celebrating the eternal victory believers have in Jesus Christ, depicted through the imagery of the Cross, death’s defeat, the dawn of resurrection, and Christ’s reigning triumph that frees humanity.

Cross of Calvary
Death bows, dawn breaks in triumph
Christ reigns, we rise free