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

Empty Tomb Dawn by Debbie Harris

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A haiku titled Empty Tomb Dawn depicts Jesus as a carpenter crucified on a rough cross, with dawn revealing an empty tomb—evoking sacrifice and resurrection in three vivid lines.

Carpenter’s rough hands
Nailed to the splintered cross—
Dawn breaks, tomb lies bare

The Heinous Demonic Satanic Sin of Anti-Semitism by Debbie Harris

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The poem condemns anti-Semitism as a demonic, satanic sin rooted in ancient hatred. It traces its history from Pharaoh and Haman through blood libels and the Holocaust, portraying it as a persistent, envy-driven evil that disguises itself in politics and denial. The work warns that this hatred defies God, brings divine judgment, and risks damnation for those who harbor it.

In shadowed vaults where hatred festers deep,
A venom coils, born of the serpent’s lie,
It whispers curses, bids the soul to weep,
And paints the Jew as foe beneath the sky.

From Pharaoh’s Nile to Haman’s gallows high,
The ancient flame of envy sparks anew,
In blood libels that stain the midnight cry,
And ovens’ ash where innocence once grew.

It dons the mask of politics and creed,
A satanic psalm in every bigot’s tongue,
Denies the Holocaust, sows dragon’s seed,
And crucifies the truth on crosses hung.

This sin, demonic, cloaked in human skin,
Defies the God who chose the wandering kin;
It scorches earth, yet heaven marks its end—
For every Jew despised, an angel weeps,
And judgment waits where mercy once extends.

Beware the tongue that spits this infernal gall,
Lest hell’s own gates yawn wide to claim us all.

Treasures of Redemption: An Ode to the Boundless Benefits Found in Jesus Christ Our Sovereign Lord by Debbie Harris

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Poem Type: Elegiac ode in iambic pentameter and tetrameter couplets with a hymn-like structure.

Summary:
This devotional ode celebrates the inexhaustible spiritual riches secured for believers through Jesus Christ. Structured in seven couplet stanzas, it traces salvation’s arc from justification (forgiveness, imputed righteousness) to sanctification (guidance, empowerment by the Spirit, endurance in trials) and glorification (eternal life, heavenly inheritance). Biblical motifs—shepherding, adoption, resurrection, and the indwelling Spirit—weave a tapestry of grace, culminating in doxology. The poem’s formal elegance, rhythmic cadence, and theological precision evoke the grandeur of divine favor while inviting personal worship.

Bless the LORD, O my soul, and forget not all His benefits.


—Psalm 103:2

In the radiance of Jesus Christ, our Sovereign Lord,
A treasury of grace unfolds, eternally outpoured.

From sin’s dark chains, He grants us sweet release,
A pardon sealed in blood, procuring perfect peace.
No more the weight of guilt upon the soul,
But righteousness imputed, making sinners whole.

In Him, the veil is rent, and heaven’s throne draws near,
Adoption’s tender voice whispers, “Beloved child, draw here.”
No orphan’s cry in shadows of despair,
But heirs with Christ, in glory’s light to share.

He is our Shepherd, guiding through the storm,
With rod and staff, preserving us from harm.
In verdant pastures, by still waters led,
Our souls restored, with living manna fed.

The Comforter He sends, the Spirit’s holy flame,
Empowering the weak, igniting faith’s bright claim.
Gifts bestowed in measure, for the body’s good,
Unity in love, as only Christ’s own could.

Eternal life, the promise sure and bright,
Defeating death’s grim sting in resurrection’s might.
A crown of glory waits beyond the veil,
Where joy unending shall forever prevail.

In trial’s furnace, patience He refines,
Hope that anchors deep, through tempest’s fierce designs.
Wisdom from above, in every need supplied,
Strength for the weary, with Christ as constant guide.

Oh, boundless benefits in Jesus’ sacred name,
A symphony of mercy, evermore the same.
To Him be praise, our Lord and King divine,
In whom all heaven’s riches richly intertwine.

Reclaiming Halloween For Our Lord And Savior Jesus Christ by Debbie Harris

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The poem reclaims Halloween from pagan and fearful origins, dedicating the night to Jesus Christ. It transforms traditional elements—jack-o’-lanterns, costumes, candy, and bonfires—into symbols of Christian faith, evangelism, and victory over darkness. Through light, prayer, scripture, and joyful witness, the Church declares Christ’s lordship, turning a once-shadowed eve into a celebration of resurrection and redemption.

The night once cloaked in shadows deep,
Where specters roamed and witches creeped,
We lift our lamps—His truth, His light—
And chase the dark with holy might.

No longer bound to fear’s old chain,
Nor pagan rites that mock the slain;
We claim this eve for Christ alone,
The King who sits upon the throne.

Pumpkins glow with carved-out praise,
Not grimacing skulls, but joyful rays—
A cross, a fish, a crown of thorn,
Proclaiming He who rose that morn.

Costumes trade the ghoul for grace:
A shepherd’s staff, a saintly face,
Disciples bold in robes of white,
Reflecting Heaven’s glorious light.

Candy shared with words of life,
“Jesus loves you—end the strife.”
Trick-or-treat becomes a call
To feast upon the Lord of all.

Bonfires burn, not spells to cast,
But prayers ascending, sins outcast.
We sing of resurrection’s power,
Defeating death this hallowed hour.

For every ghost that haunts the soul,
Christ’s blood has made the broken whole.
No demon dares to cross His name—
Halloween bows to the Lamb once slain.

So rise, O Church, reclaim the night!
With hymns and hope, with truth and might.
This eve belongs to Jesus now—
All Hallows’ Eve, we take our vow.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
—John 1:5

Mercies Woven Fresh at First Light: A Sensory Psalm of Faith’s Vision by Debbie Harris

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Rooted in Lamentations 3:22-23 (KJV), this poem portrays God’s mercies as a daily dawn-renewal experienced through all five senses. In third-person universality, it invites anyone to hear the wind’s whisper, see the golden horizon, smell rain-soaked earth, taste grace-sweetened tea, and feel the sun’s warming touch—each sense revealing invisible compassion made tangible. Faith transforms ordinary morning moments into a “sensory psalm,” a resurrection of hope woven fresh at first light.

It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness.

Lamentations 3:22-23 (KJV)

In the hush before the world stirs,
one hears it first—a whisper of wind threading through leaves,
silk robes brushing ancient stone,
creation’s heart restarting with a soft thrum,
a rooster’s cry cracking night like warm bread.

Then sight unfurls: the horizon bleeds gold,
mercies rising like loaves from heaven’s oven,
pink and amber ribbons over dew-kissed fields,
shadows fleeing as light claims the throne—
by faith, the invisible becomes visible,
promises painted in sunrise scripture.

Smell awakens next, earth’s incense ascending:
crisp petrichor from last night’s rain,
wild honeysuckle’s sweet breath,
coffee grounds blooming in a kitchen’s warm exhale—
compassion, aromatic and alive,
drifting through open windows like manna’s memory.

Taste follows, a sacrament on the tongue:
the first sip of tea, honeyed and hot,
bitter edge softened by grace’s slow melt,
salt of yesterday’s tears evaporated,
leaving only forgiveness,
new as Eden’s untouched fruit.

Finally, touch—the gentle siege of mercy:
cool grass kissing bare feet,
sun’s first rays warming skin like a father’s hand,
a breeze caressing cheeks, erasing wrinkles of worry—
by faith, unseen arms enfolding,
tender as lamb’s wool, strong as dawn’s resolve.

Can anyone sense it? By faith, see it—
God’s mercies, woven fresh in every sense,
a daily resurrection,
eternal in the fleeting now.