A day from Christ, with glory crowned, A charge to wield His victor’s might, To storm the dark, His will unbound, And raise His banner, bold and bright.
Sonnet of Faith’s Triumph Faith is the flame that storms the heart’s high throne, A glorious surge of hopes too vast to tame, Its golden pulse through every age has shone, The proof of joys no shadow dares to claim. No veil can dim its bold, exultant fire, It carves a path where mortal sight would fade, A scepter raised o’er doubt’s defeated spire, A song of conquest time cannot unbraid. Through tempests fierce, faith lifts its victor’s cry, A beacon crowned with heaven’s boundless gleam, Its roots unshakeable where fears all die, A tide of glory sweeping every dream. Triumphant ever, faith in Christ ascends, The radiant dawn that never bows nor bends.
Jesus, victor of my soul, Starts my race with joy untold, Cross upheld, His triumph reigns, Writes my freedom, crowns my gains. Eyes on Him, through life I rise, Faith’s great Author, crowned in skies.
Looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith; who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of the throne of God.
Hebrews 12: 2 (KJV)
Look steadfast to the One who carved our creed, The Author of our faith, its perfect guide, Who penned salvation’s tale in every deed, And finished it where mortal hopes abide. For joy unseen, He bore the cross’s pain, Despising shame, a crown of thorns He wore, Through anguish deep, He broke the sinner’s chain, And rose to sit where glory reigns evermore. His eyes, our beacon through the storm’s dark strife, His hands, the chisel shaping souls anew, From dust to grace, He authors endless life, A work divine no shadow can undo. So fix your gaze on Him, the race to run, Till faith’s great Finisher declares it won.
A soul ascends, though praise is spare, God’s whisper lifts through doubt and care, No mortal word need light their way, Divine strength crowns their every day.
The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.
Lamentations 3:22-23 (KJV)
The dawn ignites the sky with golden fire, His mercies blaze, a victor’s clarion call, Each morning crowns us kings and queens withal, Compassion reigns, our foe’s defeat entire. No chain can bind where grace lifts ever higher, The night is crushed beneath His mighty thrall, An anthem swells—His love shall conquer all— We rise anew, unshackled from the mire.
Let tempests roar, they break on steadfast shore, His faithfulness a well that won’t run dry, Each day proclaims the triumph we adore. Through every clash, His mercy’s strength we bear, For in His light, we soar forevermore, Victorious heirs of joy beyond compare.
Upon the tongue of one who dares to speak, A tale of wounds, by shadowed past engraved, The heart unveils what silence long has staved, Not frail, but bold, though scars may render weak. The world, too swift, presumes a mind so meek, A victim’s cloak forever to be waved, Yet strength resides where truth is bravely paved, To heal, to warn, not merely pity seek. But oh, the edge where courage turns to chain, When pain becomes the banner ever flown, A soul entombed in grief’s unyielding reign. Still, let us judge not haste by voice alone— For some, to name their storm is to regain, A life reborn from ashes overthrown.
Amid the shadows where our sorrows bloom, The hand divine does weave a silent thread, Through tears and trials, though we dread the gloom, A purpose grows where mortal hopes have bled.
The sting of grief, a chisel sharp and cold, Carves strength within the soul’s unyielding stone, Each wound a tale of mercy yet untold, Each scar a seed in sacred soil sown.
When tempests rage and break the heart apart, His quiet grace sustains through every cry, For pain, though fierce, refines the fragile art, A furnace where our truest selves comply.
So trust the One who shapes both joy and strain, For God, in love, turns loss to endless gain.
Gustav Dore L’Ascension 1883 Bob Jones University Museum and Art Gallery
Upon the canvas, once a sacred fire, A brush did dance to lift the spirit high, Through beauty’s grace, the soul would then aspire, To realms where mortal cares and shadows die. No jarring clash, no discord’s bitter sting, But harmony in hues of light arrayed, A silent hymn the heart could softly sing, In marble carved, or golden tones displayed. Yet now the muse seeks oft to rend, to break, To shock the mind from slumber’s dull repose, But lost, perchance, the stillness art could wake, When once it bloomed like petals of a rose. Let art ascend again, its purpose true, To mend the soul with heaven’s boundless view.
Amid the tempest’s roar and shadows deep, A shepherd stands, his sling a humble arc, Goliath falls, a titan swept from sleep, By faith’s small stone that splits the thund’ring dark. Esther, aglow, a star in Persia’s night, Defies the snare with beauty’s fearless grace, Her voice—a blade—turns doom to dawned delight, The scepter gleams, and vict’ry crowns her face. Job’s ashes fade beneath a sky reborn, His trust, a root through barren earth held fast, Till blessings burst like rivers after scorn, A golden hymn to drown the dirge at last. Holy resilience reigns with divine might, Triumph eternal crowns the endless light.