Beneath the Star That Outshone Every Crown and Led the World to Bethlehem by Debbie Harris

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When winter’s night lay deepest, cold, and long,
A star came stooping from the fields of heaven;
Its beam fell soft, yet pierced the dark like song,
And made the hoarfrost glow as light was given.

The oxen stood in silence, breathing steam,
Like ancient watchers round a hidden flame;
Their eyes reflected what no tongue may dream,
The Word made flesh, who soon would bear our name.

There in a manger rough with splintered wood,
Lay Love incarnate, small and poorly clad;
Yet kings knelt low where simple shepherds stood,
And offered treasure to the Child they had.

Gold for His kingship, though He wore no crown,
Frankincense ascending like a prayer,
Myrrh for the grave that waited to drag down
The Lord of Life—who triumphed even there.

The night was cruel, the wind was bitter-sharp,
Yet mercy opened wide its iron door;
An angel choir struck heaven’s silent harp,
And glory sounded where was none before.

Therefore we sing through centuries of snow,
Of One who came a Babe, and comes again;
The empires crumble, still the carols grow—
“Peace upon earth, good will toward men.” Amen.

The Sower And The Word Of God by Debbie Harris

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The eternal Sower (Christ) walks beneath a radiant sky, scattering the living Word of God like blazing seed across the hearts of humanity.

  • On the hardened path of pride and indifference, the Word is snatched away before it can take root.
  • On shallow, stony hearts, it springs up with quick joy but withers under trial.
  • Among thorns of worry, greed, and worldly desire, the Word is slowly choked and bears no fruit.
  • Yet in hearts broken by sorrow, softened by grace, and watered by repentance (the “good soil”), the same Word sinks deep, explodes into life, and produces an overwhelming harvest: thirty, sixty, a hundredfold.

The poem ends with a majestic, hope-drenched call: the Sower never stops walking, His hand is never empty, and His Word can never die. Therefore, fling wide the gates of your heart, tear out every thorn, cast away every stone; the Kingdom is breaking like sunrise, the fields are white, and the final harvest will be glorious beyond all imagining.

He who has ears—hear! The Sower is coming.

So lift your eyes, O weary child of dust!
The Sower still walks beneath the opening sky;
His hand is never empty, His heart never still,
and the Word He sows can never, never die.

Fling wide the gates, break up the fallow ground,
let every stone be cast, let every thorn be burned;
the Kingdom comes like sunrise on the hills,
and the harvest of the Lord has no return.

He who has ears, let him hear the trumpet call:
the fields are white, the reapers are too few;
but the Word is mighty, the Sower is the King,
and the final harvest shall be glorious through and through.

Be Still, and Know That I Am God: I Will Be Exalted Among the Nations by Debbie Harris

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Summary of the Poem

“Be Still, and Know That I Am God: I Will Be Exalted Among the Nations”

The poem is a meditative expansion of Psalm 46:10. It calls the restless heart to cease striving and enter the profound stillness that alone enables a person to truly know God as the great I AM, the self-existent One who stands before and beyond all creation.

Against the backdrop of roaring nations, collapsing kingdoms, and the fleeting noise of human history, the poem contrasts the temporary with the eternal. Earthly powers rise and fall, storms rage and pass, but the voice that once measured the seas and set the boundaries of time remains unchanged and sovereign.

The central movement declares God’s ultimate triumph: every empire will become ash, every proud name will fade, and in the end every knee will bow and every tongue confess the same undeniable reality, “He is God.” Yet this exaltation is not achieved through louder noise, but through the quiet, irresistible weight of divine truth that outlasts all opposition.

The closing invitation is one of deep rest: because the throne of the Holy One can never be shaken and the Lamb will be exalted forever, the soul is free to be still, to cease its anxious striving, and to dwell in the unshakable peace of God’s final victory.

In essence, the poem moves from command (“Be still”) to revelation (“and know that I am God”) to consummation (“I will be exalted…forever”), offering both comfort in the present storm and unshakable hope in the coming glory.

Be still, though the nations roar like the sea,
though kingdoms collide and thrones cease to be.
The clamor of crowns, the shouting of men—
all of it fades when eternity speaks again.

Be still, weary heart, in the furnace of days;
the fire may rage, yet the Refiner stays.
The storm will be hushed, the earthquake will cease,
for the Voice that once measured the deep speaks peace.

Be still, and know—
not with argument, proof,
but with the quiet weight of unshakeable truth:
I AM.
Before mountains were born, before time began,
before the first heartbeat stirred in man,
I AM.

I will be exalted above every name,
I will be exalted when pride turns to shame;
from the ashes of empires, from altars torn down,
every knee will bow low and every tongue own:

He is God.
He is God.

So rest in the silence no chaos can break,
the throne of the Holy will never be shaken.
The ages will roll like waves to the shore,
and the Lamb will be exalted forevermore.

Be still.
And know.
He will be exalted.
Forever.

Take Heed, Whom You Hear: A Warning and a Call to Be Nobler Than the Bereans by Debbie Harris

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Summary of the Poem

“Take Heed, Whom You Hear: A Warning and a Call to Be Nobler Than the Bereans”

The poem is a stark warning against false teachers who serve Satan with refined skill. These “ministers” appear polished, eloquent, and attractive, presenting deadly error disguised as truth: poison poured slowly into a beautiful golden cup that tastes, at first, like living water.

It urges extreme caution (“Take heed, take heed”) about whose voice we allow into our hearts, because many speak of Christ and quote Scripture while neither knowing Him nor fearing God. Their message flatters and comforts, but it never convicts or transforms.

In contrast, the poem lifts up the Bereans of Acts 17 as the enduring model: ordinary believers who refused to accept even apostolic preaching at face value. Night after night they searched the Scriptures to verify every claim, turning over every glittering cup to see what was really inside.

The closing call is both a prayer and a resolve:
May we be even more noble than they were; children of the second look; jealous guardians of truth who spill out every honeyed lies and drink only from the pure, plain water of God’s Word, until the day we see Christ face to face.

In essence, the poem is a passionate plea for relentless biblical discernment in an age of sophisticated deception.

The devil keeps his ministers,
polished, soft-spoken, and wise;
they come with velvet syllables,
a smile that never hurts the eyes.
They pour the ancient poison slow
into a cup of beaten gold;
one sip tastes just like living water,
the next leaves the soul stone-cold.

Take heed, take heed, O traveler,
whose heart is hungry heart you feed;
not every voice that speaks of heaven
is climbing there on bended knee.
Some preach a Christ they never met,
and quote the Book they never feared;
their gospel shines like burnished brass
that leaves the ear caressed, not seared.

But there were souls in Berea once
who would not swallow gleaming lies;
they took the word back to the Word
and held it trembling to the skies.
Night after night they searched the page,
noble, stubborn, unafraid,
till every glittering cup was turned
and every lying promise weighed.

So let us be Bereans still,
children of the second look,
refusing honeyed draughts of death
for the plain water of the Book.
Though Satan send his choicest cup
rimmed round with light and rimmed with song,
we’ll spill it out upon the ground
and drink where living waters run.

Lord, make us wary, make us bold,
make us jealous for the truth;
give us hearts that tremble at Thy Word
and hands that will not clasp the smooth.
For every age has its golden cups;
only the Scripture never lies;
so we will search, and search again
until we see Thee with open eyes.

Gloria in Excelsis Deo: A Triumphal Hymn of Peace on Earth and Good Will to Men by Debbie Harris

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Glory to God in the highest rings,
The shining cohorts cry;
Their thousand wings eclipse the stars,
Their anthem storms the sky.

Glory to God! Let seraphs blaze,
Let morning stars accord;
The courts of light with thunder shake
To laud the sovereign Lord.

Glory to God! His throne is set
Above the crystal sea;
All heaven bows, all worlds beneath
Proclaim His majesty.

And on earth peace—His heralds sing—
The Prince of Peace is born;
The sword is sheathed, the curse undone,
This victorious morn.

Good will toward men! The favour falls
Like dew on Zion’s hill;
The guilty hear the voice of love,
The wounded heart is still.

Glory to God! The song ascends
From manger-cradled sod,
And swells through time, and bursts the grave,
And thrones the risen God.

Glory to God in the highest—still
The ransomed hosts repeat;
Peace reigns on earth, good will abides,
The triumph is complete.

Amen, amen! Let ages roll,
Let empires rise and fall;
This strain alone shall never die—
All glory be to God of all!

From Heaven’s Throne to Bethlehem’s Manger: A Christmas Hymn for All Ages by Debbie Harris

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Verse 1
The eternal Light has come to men,
Born in the midnight deep;
The Word made flesh in Bethlehem
Fulfills what prophets keep.
A stable holds the King of kings,
The heavens bow before Him;
All glory be to Christ who brings
Redemption’s open door hymn.

Refrain
Glory, glory in the highest,
Peace on earth, good will to men!
Sing, O sing the ageless story:
Christ is born in Bethlehem!

Verse 2
The shepherds heard the angel throng
Proclaim the wondrous birth;
They hastened where the Child was laid
And spread the news on earth.
No palace cradle, straw His bed,
Yet there the Lord reposes;
The Lamb of God, the Living Bread,
In lowly manger closes.

Refrain
Glory, glory in the highest,
Peace on earth, good will to men!
Sing, O sing the ageless story:
Christ is born in Bethlehem!

Verse 3
From eastern lands the wise men came,
Led by the star’s bright ray;
With gold and myrrh and frankincense
They worshiped and obeyed.
The Gentile world now finds its King,
The nations see salvation;
Let every tongue His praises sing,
Let every heart’s ovation.

Refrain
Glory, glory in the highest,
Peace on earth, good will to men!
Sing, O sing the ageless story:
Christ is born in Bethlehem!

Verse 4
The heavens rang with angel song,
The skies were filled with light;
Yet Mary pondered everything
Within her heart that night.
O silent Mother, full of grace,
Who kept the sacred treasure,
Thy Son shall save the human race
Beyond all time and measure.

Refrain
Glory, glory in the highest,
Peace on earth, good will to men!
Sing, O sing the ageless story:
Christ is born in Bethlehem!

Verse 5
The ancient curse is broken now,
The serpent’s head is crushed;
In David’s town, the promised Child
Has hushed the world once hushed.
No more shall darkness hold its sway,
The Dayspring shines forever;
The Light of Life has dawned today,
And night shall fall, no never.

Refrain
Glory, glory in the highest,
Peace on earth, good will to men!
Sing, O sing the ageless story:
Christ is born in Bethlehem!

Verse 6
Come, sinner, leave thy guilt behind,
Come, weary, find thy rest;
The Savior born this holy morn
Invites thee to His breast.
The door of mercy open stands,
The feast of love is ready;
Lift high thy voice, lift high thy hands,
Thy Savior comes in steady.

Refrain
Glory, glory in the highest,
Peace on earth, good will to men!
Sing, O sing the ageless story:
Christ is born in Bethlehem!

Verse 7
When years have passed and ages roll,
When sun and stars grow dim,
Still shall the Church with one accord
Sing this eternal hymn.
Till Christ shall come in glory bright
To end all earthly story,
We’ll sing through endless day and night:
All glory be His glory!

Refrain (sung twice to close)
Glory, glory in the highest,
Peace on earth, good will to men!
Sing, O sing the ageless story:
Christ is born in Bethlehem!

Glory, glory in the highest,
Peace on earth, good will to men!
Sing, O sing the ageless story:
Christ is born in Bethlehem!

Glory, glory in the highest—
Christ is born in Bethlehem!

“I Will Remember Their Sin No More”A Hymn on the Triumph of Divine Love over Divine Omniscience by Debbie Harris

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When God beholds the sinner’s scroll,
 He finds no stain remains;
The debt is paid, the breach made whole,
 Forgiven are his chains.

Though every fault lies bare to sight
 Beneath th’ all-seeing eye,
Yet love, more strong than boundless light,
 Refuses memory’s cry.

Omniscience could rehearse the fall,
 Recount each wandering trace;
But mercy overrules it all
 And grants a spotless place.

The Judge who knows all things aright
 Declares the record clean;
For Christ has borne the darkened night
 And washed away the sin.

No charge shall rise on judgment day,
 No guilt shall e’er return;
The Lord who blotted sins away
 Hath sworn He will not turn.

O depth of covenant grace divine,
That love should silence lore!
The past is lost in love’s design—
God remembers sin no more.

In Tribute:When Your Parents Were Made Of Light by Debbie Harris

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(When Your Parents Were Made of Light – in Rhyme)

You came to us already bright as story,
two living legends made of light and glory.
My mother, Speech’s queen and words’ high priest,
could hush a tempest with the grace she released.
My father walked through centuries without fear,
a pastor-orator whom heaven leaned to hear.

Onstage he roared as Henry the Eighth in might,
beard all aflame, a thunderbolt of light;
yet home he came to tuck us safe in bed
and calm the little tempests in our head.
He conjured storms as Prospero with staff,
then broke the wand to make our small world laugh.

My mother danced as Maria, quick and keen,
wit like a rapier, mischief in her sheen;
she fooled the lords and turned the play to glee,
then fooled the dark that it must bow to she.
No count could match her, no dull steward could,
and joy itself obeyed her as it should.

Yet curtain down, the grandest roles began:
Professor-Mother, Professor-Pastor-Man.
She taught the world how breath and tongue align,
he preached of kings yet made the Gospel shine.
In pulpit thunder, Sunday after Sunday,
then knelt in quiet dust our shoes to tie each Monday.

At table, Renaissance and potatoes flew,
homework became a scene for four, not two;
our grammar crimes earned glorious rebuke
in perfect couplets from a Shakespeare book.
We laughed till tears came—my twin brother and I—
two children rich beneath a double sky.

They showed us language is a kind of spell,
and history just love that time learned well;
a kitchen table can be Stratford’s stage
if hearts are large enough to turn the page.
A bedtime tale can be a sermon’s grace
when spoken by a Prospero-turned-face.

We grew believing brilliance can be kind,
that dazzling minds leave tenderness behind;
a scholar may quote Montaigne at the stove
and still know exactly how the child is loved.
They never dropped the parts they played as parents—
each entrance timed, each exit full of radiance.

So here’s to Henry gentle on his throne,
to Prospero whose only wish was home,
to Maria whose mischief mended all,
to two bright souls who answered every call.
They cast us—boy and girl, their mirrored twins—
as heroes long before our lives begin.

We were the luckiest children time has known,
raised where the footlights and the hearthlight shone;
our parents, legends made of light and rhyme,
still take their bows in us, through us, for all time.

In Tribute: When Your Parents Were Made Of Light by Debbie Harris

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(When Your Parents Were Made of Light Free Verse)

You arrived in our lives already legendary,
made of light,
my mother, Professor of Speech,
turning every silence into a sonnet,
her voice a cathedral where words knelt and rose again.
My father, Professor of European History
and the most brilliant pastor who ever climbed a pulpit,
walking through centuries as casually as hallways,
carrying Charlemagne in one pocket
and mercy in the other.

Onstage my father wore the crown of Henry VIII,
beard like fire, voice like rolling cannon,
a king who could command the tides of nations
and still come home to tuck us in.
He was Prospero too,
staff raised against the storm he’d summoned,
eyes full of old magic and older mercy,
breaking his wand only when the play was done
and the real world needed a gentler spell.

My mother stepped out as Maria in Twelfth Night,
quick as silver, bright as mischief,
tongue sharper than any rapier
yet soft enough to cradle every broken heart in Illyria.
She fooled counts, outwitted stewards,
and somehow, between the lines,
fooled the entire audience
into believing joy could be this clever.

But the greatest roles they ever played
were never listed in the program.

Mother could scold us in blank verse
and make it sound like blessing.
Father preached Sunday sermons
that quoted Luther, Lincoln, and Lear
without ever losing the thread of grace.
We sat in the front pew, my twin brother and I,
awed that the man who had just thundered like Henry
still knelt to tie our shoes.

At dinner they debated the Renaissance
while passing mashed potatoes,
turned homework battles into scenes from Twelfth Night,
corrected our grammar in flawless Elizabethan insults
that somehow left us laughing so hard
the whole house shook like a ship in a comedy.

Offstage, Henry forgave debts no court could levy,
Prospero laid down his books to build us blanket forts,
and Maria (our Maria)
turned bedtime into the best prank ever pulled on darkness:
two small children convinced the night itself
was only another servant waiting for her next command.

They taught us that language is a superpower
and history is just love with better record-keeping,
that a stage can be a kitchen table
and a pulpit can be a bedtime story
if the heart behind it is large enough.

We grew up believing intellect was kindness,
that brilliance could be gentle,
that a person could quote Montaigne
and still know exactly how we liked our eggs.

They never broke character as our parents,
not once.
Every entrance was on time,
every exit left us wanting more,
and the curtain never truly fell
because their light kept taking bows
in everything my sister and I have ever done.

We were raised by a king who ruled with tenderness,
a magician who only wanted peace,
a countess’s clever maid who ruled the world with wit and wonder,
and two joyous, dazzling professors
made of light
who treated every ordinary day
like the greatest story ever told
and cast their boy and girl twins as the heroes
they already knew we would become.

We were the luckiest children in history,
watching Henry, Prospero, and Maria
perform the longest-running show on earth:
how to be gloriously, dazzlingly human
for two ordinary twins
who needed parents
and got living legends made of light instead.

From Gabriel’s Light to the Infant’s Face: A Sequence of Christmas Sonnets and Songs Drawn from Holy Scripture by Debbie Harris

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1. Shakespearean Sonnet: The Annunciation (Luke 1:26–38)

In Nazareth the angel broke the noon,
A blaze of light that stilled her water jar;
The virgin lifted eyes of startled moon
And heard the name that shattered Eden’s bar.
No sword, no trumpet—only “Hail, full-graced,”
Yet heaven’s war was won in that one word;
The Word Himself, now hidden in her womb,
Lay curled like flame inside an earthen lamp.
“How shall this be?”—the timid question rose;
The Spirit’s shadow folded like a wing,
And love too fierce for flesh to diagnose
Bent low and made her body heaven’s camp.
“Behold the handmaid of the Lord,” she said—
And God became a Child beneath her heart.

2. Petrarchan Sonnet: The Visitation (Luke 1:39–56)

She hastened to the hills with secret fire,
A hidden coal beneath her simple dress;
The Baptist leapt—small prophet in desire—
To greet the ark that bore the Living Yes.
Two women, old and young, in wonder met;
The summer air grew gold with canticle,
Magnificat rose like a banner set
Against the dragon’s age-long chronicle.
He scatters proud in thoughts they thought secure,
He casts the mighty down from thrones of pride;
The hungry eat the bread that shall endure,
The rich go empty into endless tide.
Thus mercy visits mercy, grace meets grace—
Earth becomes again a holy place.

3. Spenserian Sonnet: The Journey to Bethlehem (Luke 2:1–5)

From Galilee the decree sent them forth,
A Caesar’s word that moved a Jewish maid
Heavy with God across the dusty north
To David’s town where prophecy was laid.
The donkey plodded slow beneath the load,
Her silence deeper than the pain she bore;
Beside her Joseph kept the starless road,
His carpenter’s hands guarding heaven’s door.
No room, no room—the final inn denied;
They took the cave where cattle steamed and stood.
There in the dark, while all the world slept blind,
The Word was made flesh in a manger of wood.

4. Villanelle: The Birth in the Manger (Luke 2:6–7)

While she was there, her days were now fulfilled,
She bore the Holy Child in silent pain;
And cradled God in straw the beasts had filled.

No royal chamber, no soft silk to shield,
Yet heaven’s glory shone through common grain—
While she was there, her days were now fulfilled.

The hands that shaped the stars lay weak and stilled,
A newborn mouth that soon would break death’s chain,
And cradled God in straw the beasts had filled.

O humble trough where endless love was spilled,
Where ox and ass breathed warmth on Him who reigns—
While she was there, her days were now fulfilled.

The timeless entered time, and time stood thrilled;
Eternity took flesh in Bethlehem’s lane,
And cradled God in straw the beasts had filled.

Come, fallen hearts, and wonder at the guild:
The King sleeps where the cattle’s breath remains.
While she was there, her days were now fulfilled,
And cradled God in straw the beasts had filled.

5. Terza Rima Sonnet: Gloria in Excelsis (Luke 2:13–14)

Sudden an angel split the midnight veil,
And glory flamed where humble shepherds stood;
Their hearts near failed beneath the blazing hail.

“Fear not!” he cried, “I bring you tidings good:
In David’s town the Savior lies this night!”
Then heaven’s host in countless multitude

Poured forth their song of pure celestial light—
“Glory to God!” the sky itself was rent; “On earth be peace, to men of His delight!” The song still echoes where the veil was bent.

6. Shakespearean Sonnet: The Magi’s Star (Matthew 2:1–11)

There rose a star no Chaldean chart had seen,
A fire that moved and halted, bright and strange;
Three kings forsook their thrones of gold serene
To follow where its silent leading ranged.
Through desert nights and Herod’s lying hall
They tracked the flame that mocked the laws of space,
Till low above a stable it stood tall
And poured its beams upon an Infant’s face.
Gold, frankincense, and myrrh—three gifts they laid
Before the Child who needed nothing then;
Yet all the wealth of earth and heaven paid
Its homage to the poorest of poor men.
They turned for home; the star had done its part—
A Little Child now knocked at every heart.