Hallelujah of the Cleansed: How Christ’s Precious Blood Proclaims Supreme Victory, Inner Freedom, and the Father’s Everlasting Welcome by Debbie Harris

06 Friday Mar 2026

Posted by Debbie Harris in Christ Centered Devotionals, Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational

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Hebrews 9:13-14 (KJV)
For if the blood of bulls and of goats, and the ashes of an heifer sprinkling the unclean, sanctifieth to the purifying of the flesh: How much more shall the blood of Christ, who through the eternal Spirit offered himself without spot to God, purge your conscience from dead works to serve the living God?

Hebrews 10:19-22 (KJV)
Having therefore, brethren, boldness to enter into the holiest by the blood of Jesus, By a new and living way, which he hath consecrated for us, through the veil, that is to say, his flesh; And having an high priest over the house of God; Let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, having our hearts sprinkled from an evil conscience, and our bodies washed with pure water.

Romans 8:37 (KJV)
Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us.

Psalm 40:2 (KJV)
He brought me up also out of an horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings.

Behold the soul that once knew miry’s hold,
A fleeting shadow in the ancient night—
Yet scarcely touched by darkness, lo! behold:
The Victor’s light erupts in boundless might.

No chain endures; the mire dissolves in flame,
A vapor gone before the rising sun.
Christ’s blood, triumphant, speaks the Father’s name—
And every stain, each whisper, is undone.

More than conqueror, he stands in royal gleam,
Feet firm on crystal, crown of glory bright;
Conscience a mirror reflecting heaven’s beam,
No echo left of guilt or endless night.

The High Priest reigns with joy upon the throne,
His wounds now fountains pouring endless grace;
The Father calls with laughter of His own—
“Beloved, enter, claim thy rightful place!”

No striving mars this everlasting day;
No fear can dim the splendor of His face.
The heart, once shadowed, now in light holds sway—
A dance of peace in heaven’s warm embrace.

O ransomed one, arise in victory’s song!
The cross has shattered every darkened chain;
Eternal morning breaks, the night is gone—
In Christ’s dear light, thou reignest, free again.

Rejoice, ye heavens! The triumph overflows;
From every height the hallelujahs ring.
More victorious than tongue or thought can know—
The soul ascends, forever bathed in spring.

Narcissus at the Mirror Pool by Debbie Harris

06 Friday Mar 2026

Posted by Debbie Harris in Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational, Jesus Christ, King of Kings

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In Thespian woods where Cephissus flows,
A river-god whose currents softly gleam,
There bloomed a child of more than mortal grace—
Narcissus, born to Liriope the nymph.
His mother, trembling, sought the seer’s sight:
“Will he live long?” Tiresias, sightless, smiled
And spoke the riddle wrapped in shadow’s veil:
“Long years, provided he shall never know himself.”

The boy grew tall, a slender flame of youth,
Sixteen summers on his cheek like rose-light,
Hair black as midnight rivers, skin like dawn
Polished on ivory. Every eye that met him
Burned. Young men sighed, maidens wove his name
In secret songs. Yet pride, cold as winter stone,
Sealed his heart. He turned from every plea,
From every hand outstretched, with scornful laugh:
“Why grasp at me when I am not for you?”

Among the spurned was Echo, mountain nymph,
Once bright of tongue, who chattered through the hills
To shield her lord from Juno’s jealous gaze.
Punished, she lost her voice—could only take
The final words of others, fling them back
Like pebbles skipped across a silent lake.
She saw Narcissus once, hunting alone,
And love struck through her like an arrow’s fire.
She followed, hidden, aching to confess,
But when he called to companions lost—“Is anyone here?”—
Only her borrowed voice replied: “Here… here…”

He frowned. “Come closer.” Echo’s heart leaped wild.
“Closer… closer…” She stepped into the light.
Arms wide, she ran toward embrace. He recoiled:
“Away! I’d sooner die than lie with you.”
Away… with you… The words cut deeper than knives.
She fled, and fading, fading, body wasted
Until she was no flesh, only repeating sound—
A voice that lingers still in empty vales.

But Nemesis, goddess of righteous return,
Heard one rejected lover’s whispered curse:
“Let him who spurns all love himself love vainly,
And never gain the thing his heart desires.”
The prayer was granted.

One noon, tired from the chase, Narcissus wandered
To a sequestered glade no shepherd knew,
Where silver water lay in perfect stillness—
No ripple marred it, no leaf broke its glass.
He bent to drink. And there—impossible beauty—
A face looked up: eyes dark as his, lips curved
In perfect symmetry, curls falling just so.
He stared. The image stared. He reached. It reached.
A smile—he smiled. A sigh—he sighed in turn.

O fatal thirst that was not thirst for water!
He loved, and knew not what he loved, yet burned.
“Why do you flee when I pursue? Why mock
My reaching hand?” The face gave back no answer
But mirrored anguish, mirrored longing, mirrored him.
He tore his hair. The image tore its hair.
He beat his marble breast until it bloomed
With purple bruises. Still the other suffered
The same self-wounding blows.

Hours bled to days.
He neither ate nor slept, but lay beside
The pool, consuming himself with sight alone.
“How many times I’ve kissed those lying lips!
How many times embraced the empty air!
You are myself—yet separate. Cruel jest!
If only I could leave my body here
And join the one I love…” A tear fell down,
Rippling the face he worshipped. It dissolved.
He cried aloud: “If I must lose you, let me die!”

Death heard. The flame of life withdrew by slow degrees.
His cheeks grew pale, his limbs transparent as mist.
The nymphs who once had loved him came at last
To mourn beside the pool. They found no body—
Only a golden flower bent above the water,
White petals framing a deep yellow heart,
Nodding forever toward its own reflection.

So ends the tale Tiresias foretold:
The boy who never knew himself lived long—
Yet died the moment recognition dawned.

And still the flower leans, year after spring,
Toward its mirrored twin in every stream,
Teaching the quiet lesson of the pool:
Too much of self can drown the soul entire.

The Torn Curtain of the Holy of Holies: Christ’s Death and Our Unhindered Approach to God by Debbie Harris

05 Thursday Mar 2026

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

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When Jesus breathed His final, anguished cry,
The darkened sky grew black as judgment fell;
The earth convulsed, the rocks themselves did sigh,
And in the temple tore the ancient veil.

No mortal arm could rend that woven sea—
Sixty cubits high, a tapestry of heaven’s hue,
Thick as a palm, embroidered mystery,
Blue, purple, scarlet—colors God once drew.

From summit down the fracture ran divine,
Not man’s endeavor climbing from below;
God’s finger split the barrier’s sacred line,
And flung the gates of glory open wide and low.

Through countless years the curtain stood apart,
Guarding the mercy-seat where Presence burned;
One priest alone, with trembling, contrite heart,
Might pass with blood—lest holiness be spurned.

Yet now the Lamb, in agony arrayed,
Has offered once for all His riven side;
His flesh the curtain, in the garden frayed,
His blood the crimson road where sinners ride.

The veil is gone; no shadow lingers there.
No priestly rite, no altar smoke ascends.
We stand before the throne in answered prayer,
Beloved children, welcomed as dear friends.

O child of grace, why do you tarry still
Beyond the threshold, where the shadows play?
The price was paid on Calvary’s dread hill—
His wounds unclose the door for you today.

Enter, beloved, with boldness unafraid;
The Father waits with arms of endless love.
The veil is torn, the distance has been laid
To rest forever in the heart above.

Draw near, draw near—the ancient call resounds
Through time and trial, to every seeking soul:
The cross has bridged the chasm, bent the will
Of separation, making whole our right
To dwell with Him, the Holy One, in light.

The Oil That Flows Only Under the Crushing Weight: A Meditation on the Ancient Press and the Soul’s Yield by Debbie Harris

05 Thursday Mar 2026

Posted by Debbie Harris in Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational, Jesus Christ, King of Kings

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In groves where silver leaves whisper low,
olives cling, untouched by storm or woe—
round and whole, they promise little more
than quiet shade, a life without a score.

No hand has bruised them, no stone has weighed;
they hang in ease, unpressed, unafraid.
Yet beauty hides in what the eye can’t see:
the treasure locked where comfort used to be.

Then comes the gatherer with steady tread,
the basket, the mill, the ancient crushing bed.
First the beating—branches snap and bend—
then the wheel, the weight that has no end.

Flesh gives way, the skin splits wide,
bitter pulp and seed are torn aside.
What once was firm now yields its core,
a slow, reluctant golden pour.

Not from the branch in sunlit grace,
not from the fruit in gentle place—
the oil flows only when the press is tight,
when darkness falls and pressure bites.

So too the soul beneath the Maker’s hand:
the crushing comes, though none had planned.
The nights of ache, the days of strain,
the questions sharp like winter rain—

these are not ruin, not the end of flight,
but heaven’s patient, holy might
drawing forth what ease could never yield:
a fragrance pure, a light unsealed.

In Gethsemane the press was named,
where One was broken, yet unashamed—
sweat like blood, the stone rolled near,
and oil of grace began to appear.

So if the weight descends today,
and every fiber cries dismay—
remember this, though tears may fall:
the oil was never meant for all.

It waits for those who bear the stone,
who let the breaking make them known.
From crushed places, sacred, deep,
the anointing rises—strong, complete.

Let the press do its faithful art;
what spills is light to heal the heart.
The oil doesn’t come from easy days—
It comes from where the crushed begin to pray.

The Spirit Thunders: Do Not Bow From Obscure Winepress to the Front Lines of Holy Confrontation and Divine Deliverance by Debbie Harris

04 Wednesday Mar 2026

Posted by Debbie Harris in Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational, Royally Redeemed, Spiritual Warfare

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A prophetic poem calling modern believers to uncompromising faithfulness amid widespread compromise. Drawing from Gideon’s hidden calling in the winepress to tear down Baal’s altar and the three Hebrews’ refusal to bow to Nebuchadnezzar’s golden image, it urges a remnant “Gideon host” to reject subtle pressures—pragmatism, popularity, false unity—and stand unbowed. Though isolated and threatened by a roaring furnace of opposition, the faithful are promised the presence of the “Fourth Man” (Christ) in the flames, divine deliverance, and the charge to confront idols, restore holy worship, and reclaim God’s name.

In twilight vales where Midian shadows creep,
A man of threshing-floor and secret keep
Beats wheat in gloom, where vintage presses lie,
Lest raiders seize the fruit beneath the sky.
No trumpet calls him yet, no host arrays;
Heaven marks him silent in his lowly days.
Then voice of flame: “Go, tear the altar down
Thy father built to Baal upon the town.
Uproot the grove where compromise has grown,
And let the sacred fire be kindled known.”

So rises now a hidden, Gideon host—
Not crowned with pomp, nor mustered for the boast,
But called from winepress, cave, and quiet room,
To face the principalities of doom.
They bear no sword at first, but oil divine
That drips from consecrated head and spine.
The old order trembles when they speak;
They name the tolerated sin as weak,
The negotiated peace as coward’s chain,
And bid the idols fall in thunder’s reign.

Yet pressure comes—not sword, but subtle plea:
“Bend but a little; wiser men agree.
The furnace glows, the image gleams with gold—
Bow once, and live; be prudent, not so bold.”
They whisper, “Rebellion!” to the pure;
“Immaturity!” to hearts that will endure.
“Divisive!” cry the builders of the shrine
Whose altars blend the holy with the swine.

But lo, the Spirit thunders through the soul:
DO. NOT. BOW. Let every knee stay whole.
Not to the fear that chills the midnight air,
Nor politics that coil in serpent’s snare,
Nor platforms raised on popularity’s sand,
Nor religious rods that strike with iron hand.
Not Baal’s high place, nor Nebuchadnezzar’s flame,
Nor any yoke that bears another’s name.

As once three Hebrews stood in Babylon’s plain,
Where music swelled and golden image reigned,
They heard the king: “Fall down, or feel the fire!”
Yet answered calm: “Our God is One, entire.
He is able to deliver from thy hand,
But though He slay us, still we take our stand.
We will not serve thy gods, nor bow the head
To molten lie, though furnace blaze be spread.”

The furnace roared, seven times its fury fed;
The binders fell, consumed where they had led.
But in the midst—O vision past all sight!—
A fourth walked free, the Son of Man in light.
No scorch upon their hair, no smell of smoke;
The chains of flame themselves in silence broke.

So stand, O remnant, marked by Heaven’s seal:
Though isolated, though the mockers jeer,
Though systems shake and ancient altars reel,
Though furnace threatens every path severe—
DO. NOT. BOW.
The fire you carry is not yours to dim;
It burns from God, and no formed weapon grim
Shall prosper while you hold the steadfast line.
Tear down, rebuild; let holy altars shine.

Light now the match in preaching, prayer, and praise;
Let worship blaze through all your mortal days.
The trumpet sounds, the Gideon host awakes—
Forward, unbowed, for Zion’s glory’s sake.
The fourth Man walks beside thee in the flame;
Refuse the knee—reclaim the sacred name.

Stand. Confront. Restore.
And do not bow.

Though Nations Rage by Debbie Harris

04 Wednesday Mar 2026

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

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Why do the nations vainly rage,
And peoples plot in dark array?
Kings of the earth in fury wage
Their war against the Lord’s own sway,
Against His Christ, the Anointed Son—
“Let us cast off His cords!” they cry.

Yet from His throne in heaven’s height
The Sovereign laughs at their decree;
In wrath He speaks with piercing light,
“I’ve set My King on Zion free—
My holy hill shall bear His name,
And all the earth shall kiss His claim.”

Though kingdoms totter, nations roar,
And earth itself in terror melt;
Though mountains shake from shore to shore,
And seas in foaming tumult dwelt—
The Lord of hosts is in her midst,
His city stands where none resist.

A river streams to make her glad,
The dwelling of the Most High God;
At break of dawn His help is had—
One word, and chaos feels the rod.
Be still, and know that He is God;
His throne endures where none may trod.

He breaks the bow, He shatters spear,
The chariot burns in victory’s flame;
Exalted high, all nations fear—
The Lord Almighty reigns the same.
Though rage may swell and tempests rise,
God sits enthroned beyond the skies.

O blessed they who trust His might,
Who kiss the Son ere wrath consume;
His kingdom dawns in endless light,
Where every rebel finds his doom.
Though nations rage, though wars abound—
God reigns supreme; His throne is sound.

God Our Shield: To the Weary Heart by Debbie Harris

04 Wednesday Mar 2026

Posted by Debbie Harris in Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational, Jesus Christ, King of Kings

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When weariness doth cloak the spirit round,
And burdens, silent, press upon the breast,
When unseen sorrows chain the feet to ground,
And prayers seem lost in heaven’s vast unrest—
Look not to fleeting hopes that rise and fall,
Nor trust the heart when faith itself grows dim;
For God Himself is shield to one and all
Who in His mercy hide and rest in Him.

Every word of God proves true and sure,
Not one hath failed through ages dark or bright;
His promises endure, forever pure,
A refuge steadfast in the blackest night.
He is the shield—no arrow finds its mark
When soul takes shelter ‘neath His mighty wing;
Though tempests rage and shadows gather stark,
His truth protects; His faithfulness doth cling.

Behold the cross, where greatest promise stood—
The Lamb once slain, the victory complete;
Redemption sealed in agony and blood,
Fulfilled in love no darkness could defeat.
If God so kept His vow through death’s own door,
Shall lesser griefs undo His covenant grace?
Nay—every trial meets the shield He bore,
And in Christ’s finished work we find our place.

O tired heart, when doubt would whisper low
That thou art forgotten in the fray,
Recall: the shield of God shall never go;
He stands between thee and the foe alway.
No burden breaks what grace hath made secure,
No path too dim for His unchanging ray;
The cross declares, the Word itself is sure—
God is our shield; take refuge while ye may.

So rest, belovèd, in this armor bright,
Though seasons weary and the night seems long;
His every promise glows with living light,
And turns thy mourning into endless song.
For He who rose and reigns above the strife
Is shield eternal—thy defense, thy song, thy life.

O King Of Glory, We Adore Thee by Debbie Harris

04 Wednesday Mar 2026

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

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A joyful 7-stanza hymn of praise with a repeating refrain, celebrating:

God’s salvation through Christ’s cross and resurrection
His faithful provision and daily care
Divine protection under His wings
The precious, guiding light of Scripture
Bold access to God in prayer
Our royal identity as anointed sons and daughters of the King, empowered with strength, wisdom, and discernment
Overflowing grace, mercy, power, and life in Christ—seen by God as He sees His Beloved Son, with our names forever written in the Book of Life

The refrain exalts the King of glory and rejoices that “our names are writ in life’s great spring,” ending each stanza with triumphant “Hallelujah!” praise.

Stanza 1
From depths of sin and death’s dark shadow,
Thy mercy called us to the light;
Thy Son upon the cross of sorrow
Bore all our guilt in endless might.
Redeemed by blood, we stand forgiven,
In resurrection power we rise!

Refrain
O King of glory, we adore Thee!
Salvation’s joy our hearts now sing!
In Christ Thy Son, Thou dost restore me—
Our names are writ in life’s great spring!
Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
Forever praise to Thee we bring!

Stanza 2
Thy hand provides our daily manna,
In fields of grace Thy bounty flows;
No want shall ever overcome us,
For Thou the Bread of Life bestow’st.
In every season, Thou art faithful,
Sustaining all who trust Thy care!

Stanza 3
Beneath Thy wings we find our refuge,
No evil force can breach Thy wall;
Thy angels guard our every pathway,
Thy mighty name shall never fall.
Though storms may rage and foes assail us,
Thy shield of love prevails o’er all!

Stanza 4
Thy Word, O Lord, a lamp eternal,
Illumines hearts with truth divine;
In pages breathed by Thy own Spirit,
We hear Thy voice, Thy will we find.
More precious than the gold of nations,
Thy Scriptures guide us home to Thee!

Stanza 5
In prayer we come before Thy presence,
With boldness through the Savior’s name;
Thy throne of grace invites our crying,
Thy ear attentive to our claim.
Communion sweet with Thee, our Father,
Transforms our souls in heaven’s flame!

Stanza 6
As royalty on earth anointed,
Sons and daughters of the King we stand;
Thy Spirit grants us strength for battle,
Wisdom and discernment by Thy hand.
Empowered heirs of Thy great kingdom,
We reign in life through Christ our Lord!

Stanza 7
Thy grace abounds, Thy mercy follows,
Thy power revives and makes us whole;
In Christ Thou seest not our failings,
But Thy Beloved, pure in soul.
Our names inscribed in Life’s bright volume,
Eternal joy awaits our call!

The Inverted Tongue by Debbie Harris

01 Sunday Mar 2026

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

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In days when words twist like serpents in the dust,
They call the darkness light, the bitter sweet with trust.
What God named sin, they crown with virtue’s name,
And hell’s grim warning fades, a relic of old shame.

They mock the cross as hate, embrace the lie as love,
Redefine the chains as wings, the prison as above.
Evil dons the robe of justice, struts in prideful glee,
While good is branded cruel, intolerant, and free no more to be.

Yet Scripture thunders still through ages long and dire:
“Woe to those who call evil good, and good evil—fire!”
Isaiah’s cry resounds, unmuted, clear, and true,
In hearts that fear the Lord, His warnings pierce anew.

They scrub “sin” from the lips, lest conscience stir and wake,
Erase “hell” from the tongue, as if the soul’s no stake.
But Christ, the Word made flesh, spoke plain and unafraid—
Of fire unquenched, of worms that never fade.

He came not to condemn, but save the lost and blind,
To bear our every curse, the judgment we designed.
On Calvary’s tree He hung, where evil seemed to win,
Yet rose in victory, conquering death and sin.

So let the world rewrite, let language bend and break,
Our anchor holds in Christ, no lie can overtake.
He calls sin sin, and hell the end of those who flee,
Yet offers grace to all who turn and bow the knee.

Return, O wanderer, before the final night,
Confess the Savior’s name, step into saving light.
For in His truth alone the twisted tongue is healed,
And every knee shall bow where mercy is revealed.

In Jesus’ holy name, the Word that stands forever—
Good remains good, evil judged, and sin forgiven only
When the heart repents and truly believes in Him,
Turns from sin, trusts the cross—then pardon is given.

(Rhymed Version)The Barometer of the Awakened Heart(Why the Sting You Feel May Be the Spirit’s Trumpet, Calling You to Stand Rather Than Shrink Before What Heaven Itself Is Already Confronting by Debbie Harris

01 Sunday Mar 2026

Posted by Debbie Harris in Christian Poetry

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The poem challenges the common Christian teaching that feeling offended always signals personal pride, immaturity, or rebellion that must be quickly repented of and silenced. Instead, it argues that offense can sometimes function as a divine signal—a “trumpet” from the Holy Spirit—alerting the believer to something wrong in the spiritual environment, particularly when authority has become abusive, manipulative, or domineering under the guise of “godly submission” and “correction.”

Drawing on biblical examples (Jesus as the stumbling stone to corrupt religion, prophets whose words provoked offense to expose falsehood), the poem urges discernment rather than automatic self-blame. When “correction” demands blind compliance, punishes questions, weaponizes shame, or refuses dialogue, the resulting sting may not be a flaw in the hearer but heaven’s own confrontation with what is masquerading as righteousness.

The poem encourages believers to pause, test the fruit (restoration vs. control), weigh the spirit behind the words, and protect their God-given conscience. True godly correction is humble, open, and freeing; counterfeit correction is controlling and silencing. In such cases, the “offended” heart becomes a barometer—an awakened, watchful instrument registering misalignment—and the offense itself can be a prophetic call to stand courageously rather than shrink in false submission.

Ultimately, the poem affirms that not every offense must be forgiven into silence or buried as sin; some are holy alarms that must be allowed to ring, inviting the believer to rise, discern, and refuse to bow before what heaven itself is already confronting.

They taught us young that offense spells defeat,
A crack within the soul where pride’s deceit
Reveals itself in every wounded sigh—
“Repent,” they say, “and bow, and hush, comply.”

Yet not all barbs are born of rebel will;
Some pierce like wind that finds the window’s sill,
Not self-inflicted, but from skies above,
A trumpet blown by hands of holy love.

When “submit” is whispered as a chain,
When questions earn the brand of dark disdain,
When “you’re unteachable” becomes the rod
To silence every seeking child of God—

Then feel the sting, but do not curse your frame;
It may be heaven calling out your name.
Not pride that rises, but a watchful fire,
A signal flashing through the soul’s desire.

The Christ who walked was scandal to the proud,
A stone they struck until their voices loud
Proclaimed Him wrong, while truth stood firm and bright—
Offense was not His failing, but their night.

The prophets spoke and kingdoms shook with dread;
Their words were swords that cut through comfort’s thread.
They stirred the sleepers, broke the false accord—
Offense became the echo of the Lord.

So when the thorn sinks deep and bids you pause,
Do not rush headlong to your heart’s own flaws.
Inquire instead with trembling, honest breath:
“Is this the Lamb who leads me past my death,

Or does it press me toward a shadowed throne
Where fear, not grace, claims lordship for its own?”
Test every word by fruit that Spirit bears—
Not shame that binds, but love that frees and cares.

For true correction comes with open hand,
Restores the fallen, helps the weary stand.
It welcomes light, invites the searching mind,
And never chains the conscience God designed.

But when the voice demands you close your eyes,
When clarification meets with swift disguise,
When “rebellion” labels every honest plea—
Then heaven stirs the barometer in thee.

Rise, then, and stand where trembling hearts have knelt;
The sting you bear may be the truth you felt.
Not flaw to bury, not a sin to flee—
But trumpet sounding: “This is not from Me.”

Selah.
Let the alarm ring clear and unafraid.
Some offenses are the stand that must be made.