O Ancient of Eternal Days: A Sevenfold Hymn of Thanksgiving Unto Ages of Ages by Debbie Harris

25 Tuesday Nov 2025

Posted by Debbie Harris in Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Inspirational, Thanksgiving

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Christian Poetry, Inspirational, Praise, Thanksgiving

O Ancient of Eternal Days: A Sevenfold Hymn of Thanksgiving Unto Ages of Ages
A concise summary in seven breaths (one for each perfect stanza):

Before all time, the eternal God spoke light, seas, and harvest into being; every grain and every season has ever been His gift.
In the bleak beginnings of nations (pilgrims on barren shores, exiles in winter), God spread tables in the wilderness and taught His people the first songs of thanks.
Through every famine, war, and darkness since, His hidden manna and watchful love have never failed a single sparrow or child of the covenant.
Tonight, under this harvest moon, fields overflow and ten thousand tables shine; the earth itself laughs in color because all belongs to Him.
Yet the deepest thanksgiving is not for bread and wine, but for wounded hearts made whole, for sinners called beloved, for redemption that turns every sorrow into song.
Empires fall, thrones crumble, but the feast lengthens eastward and westward until the last stranger and the last unborn child find their place at the everlasting table.
Finally, all praise ascends to Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—one God in boundless might—while earth and heaven join in one unending Amen, and thanksgiving itself becomes eternity’s native tongue.

Refrain after every stanza:
“Praise, praise the Giver of all good… All peoples, lift undying praise!”

A hymn that begins before creation and never ends, carrying every generation’s gratitude forward on the same unbroken melody, world without end.

1
O Ancient of Eternal Days,
Before the worlds were framed,
Thy voice called forth the light and seas
And every creature named.
Thy open hand, through endless years,
Hath strewn the heavens with grain;
The seasons turn, the harvest nears—
Thy mercy falls like rain.

Praise, praise the Giver of all good,
Whose love shall never cease;
From age to age Thy mercies flood
The borders of our peace.
Forever, through the length of days,
Let grateful anthems rise—
All peoples, lift undying praise
To God who feeds and supplies!

2
On barren shores our fathers knelt
When winter gripped the land;
Yet Thou preparedst unseen bread
By Thine almighty hand.
A table rose amid the wild,
The cup of mercy ran;
And songs of thanks, by exiles styled,
First sounded among men.

3
When enemies who lie and kill
And come to steal, destroy,
Rose like the darkness, fierce and shrill,
To rob Thy people’s joy—
Thy hidden manna fed us still,
Thy wings o’ershadowed nigh;
Through every threat of death and ill
Thy covenant kept us by.

4
The golden sheaves now bend and break,
The vintage overflows;
Earth laughs in color for Thy sake
And every field o’erflows.
Ten thousand tables gleam tonight
Beneath the harvest moon—
All gifts are Thine, all hearts unite
To sing one thankful tune.

5
Yet not for bread and cup alone
Our trembling praises ring;
For wounded hearts made wholly known,
For every hidden thing
Turned glory by redeeming grace,
For sinners called Thy own—
We bless the love upon Thy face
That claimed us for Thy throne.

6
Let empires crumble into dust,
Let thrones in silence fall;
Thy kingdom comes, forever just,
And shall outlast them all.
The child unborn shall taste this feast,
The stranger find his place;
Thy table lengthens, east to west,
Till time gives way to grace.

7
To Father, Son, and Spirit blest,
One God in boundless might,
Be glory while the worlds shall rest
And through eternal light.
Amen, amen, let earth reply,
And heaven the song prolong—
Thanksgiving nevermore shall die
But rise, world without end, as song.

A Sonnet of Gratitude for the Glorious Victory of Salvation Won for the Redeemed by Debbie Harris

25 Tuesday Nov 2025

Posted by Debbie Harris in Bible Centered Poetry, Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Thanksgiving

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Christian Poetry, Inspirational, Thanksgiving

Summary of the Sonnet
“A Sonnet of Gratitude for the Glorious Victory of Salvation Won for the Redeemed”

This sonnet joyfully celebrates the redeemed believers’ profound thankfulness for the gift of salvation. It portrays them as those who were once enslaved to sin and death but have been gloriously transformed by Christ’s decisive victory. Through His death and resurrection, the curse is shattered, the enemy is defeated, the grave is robbed of its power, and former captives are raised to life, crowned with light, and clothed in righteousness. Every breath of the redeemed now becomes a song of triumph, and their hearts are thrones for the risen Lamb. The poem closes with a resounding call for heaven and earth to echo endless praise, declaring that the saved are not merely rescued—they are forever conquering kings and priests in Christ. The entire sonnet pulses with gratitude for a salvation that is complete, irreversible, and overwhelmingly victorious.

Shall the redeemed compare their souls to spring
That bursts with life beneath the Victor’s sun?
Once slaves to sin, now children of the King,
They stand in robes of triumph He has won.

The curse is crushed; the grave has lost its sting,
The foe lies broken, silenced evermore;
Death heard the shout of resurrection ring
And yielded up its captives to the Door.

See how they rise, once dead, now crowned with light,
Arrayed in glory purchased by His blood;
Their every breath a hymn of boundless might,
Their hearts a throne where reigns the Lamb of God.

Let heaven and earth with endless anthems ring:
Forever saved, forever conquering!

May Our Lives Be a Song of Praise and Thanksgiving to Thee, O Lord of Majestic, Hope-Filled Victory by Debbie Harris

24 Monday Nov 2025

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

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Christian Poetry, Inspirational, Praise, Prayer, worship

The poem is a single, sustained prayer that our entire lives might become a living act of worship: rising like sweet incense (Psalm 141:2) to the majestic God who has triumphed over sin, sorrow, and death through the cross and resurrection of Jesus.

It celebrates the transformative power of the gospel:

Darkness is outrun by mercy.
Brokenness and scars are turned into songs of glory.
Ordinary days, tears, work, and weakness are all redeemed and filled with resurrection light.
Every moment (from Monday labor to the return of spring) pulses with hallelujah because the war is already won.

The poem offers back to God the small, honest gifts of real human lives (the worker’s hands, the child’s trust, the widow’s mite, the prodigal’s return) and asks that He receive them as fragrant worship. It ends with a triumphant amen: because we serve the Slain and Risen Lamb, even our little lives are swept up into one endless, hope-filled song of praise and thanksgiving.

In short:
Because of who Christ is and what He has done, every breath we take can be worship, every day can be victory, and every heart can keep singing forever.

May our lives rise like incense, sweet and slow,
a steady hymn through night’s unyielding deep,
each breath a note, each heartbeat set aglow
by mercy that outruns the dark and keeps
its promise in the breaking of the bread,
its victory in the place where sorrow bled.

Oh Lord, majestic, clothed in living light,
Thy name a banner over every fear;
the grave is hollow now, the stone is bright
with morning no shadow can draw near.
We carry resurrection in our veins,
and every scar sings glory through its pains.

Let laughter spill like wine at harvest feast,
let weeping turn to dancing in Thy sight;
our fragile days, once borrowed from the beast
of death, now blaze with heaven’s borrowed might.
Because of who we serve—the Slain, the Risen—
our little lives become a wide horizon.

So take these trembling offerings, small and true:
the work-worn hand, the child’s unbroken trust,
the widow’s mite, the prodigal’s “I’m through
with running”—all laid bare before the Just
and Gentle One who calls the broken blest
and sets a table in the wilderness.

May every ordinary moment ring
with hallelujahs only grace can start;
may Monday’s labor and December’s spring
both thrum beneath Thy mercy like a heart
that knows its ransom paid, its war already won—
and sings, forever sings, because of Thee, the Son.

Amen. And amen again.
Our lives: one endless song of praise and thanksgiving.

A Thanksgiving Hymn to Christ the King by Debbie Harris

24 Monday Nov 2025

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

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Christian Poetry, Inspirational, Praise, Thanksgiving, worship

Summary of “A Thanksgiving Hymn to Christ the King”

The poem is a single, sustained act of worship that moves from earthly Thanksgiving beauty to the eternal throne of Jesus Christ.

It begins with the familiar golden splendor of an American Thanksgiving (amber fields, scarlet maples, pumpkin, cider, laughter, and a laden table), yet swiftly lifts every detail into praise of Christ the King of Kings and Lord of Lords, the true source of all bounty.

Remembering how Jesus once multiplied loaves on Galilee’s shore, the poem thanks Him not only for food and harvest, but far more for His broken body and shed blood that multiply grace and forgive sins.

Earthly candles and hearthfires fade before the fiercer, saving light of the cross. All temporary joys (turkey, pies, breath itself) are offered back to the Lamb who was slain, that He might transform them into eternal crowns.

The poem closes with a vision that stretches beyond every future Thanksgiving on earth: one day the final harvest will gleam, time will end, and the redeemed will lay endless hallelujahs at the feet of Jesus Christ, the King supreme.

In short, it is a joyous, majestic declaration that every Thanksgiving feast is but a foretaste of the everlasting banquet, and every “thank you” on earth is rehearsal for the unending worship in heaven.

On this golden Thanksgiving day,
when amber light spills over fields laid bare,
we lift our eyes beyond the harvest’s fair array
to Him who crowns the year with mercy rare.

Jesus, Thou King of Kings, bright Morning Star,
whose scepter rules the storm and calms the sea,
before Thy throne we cast our crowns afar,
for every grain and grape are gifts from Thee.

The scarlet maple, burning in its praise,
the pumpkin’s quiet gold, the cider’s steam,
the laughter rising through the autumn haze—
all echo back the glory of Thy name.

Thou who once broke the bread on Galilee’s shore,
and fed the thousands with a child’s small store,
still multiplies our meager thanks once more
till hearts, like loaves, are broken and restored.

We thank Thee for the table richly spread,
for hands that planted, hands that reaped and baked;
yet more, O Lord of Lords, for wounds that bled,
for love that died and rose, and sins erased.

The pilgrim’s candle flickers in the night,
the hearthfire leaps to greet the wandering guest;
but brighter burns Thy cross’s saving light—
in that fierce flame we find our deepest rest.

So take our trembling praise, our feeble song,
our turkey carved, our pies, our fleeting breath;
receive it all, Thou Lamb who bore our wrong,
and weave it into crowns beyond our death.

Forever, Jesus Christ, the King supreme,
we laud Thy name through every coming year;
till earth’s last harvest yields its final gleam
and crown Thy throne with endless hallelujahs clear.

Amen.

When Pulpits Are Full of Wolves in Sheep’s Clothing by Debbie Harris

24 Monday Nov 2025

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

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Biblical Truth, Christian Poetry, christianity, Inspirational, theology

The poem is a stark warning against false teachers and hypocritical leaders who hide predatory motives behind religious appearances.

It paints the image of wolves dressed as gentle pastors who use Scripture, soft words, and promises of blessing to manipulate, guilt-trip, and financially exploit vulnerable believers. Beneath polished sermons and smiling faces lie greed, control, and spiritual abuse.

The true Shepherd (Christ) is contrasted with these impostors: He was the Lamb who was slain and still bears scars; the wolves only pretend to carry His marks while they devour the flock.

The urgent call is to the Church: wake up, test every spirit, and return to the authentic voice of the Good Shepherd. When pulpits are occupied by deceivers, genuine safety and guidance are found not in impressive buildings or charismatic leaders, but in personal intimacy with Jesus—alone with the Scriptures and the Holy Spirit, on your knees, listening for the One who knows and calls His sheep by name.

In short: Discern the wolves, reject the counterfeit, and cling only to the true Shepherd who keeps you close and speaks louder than the predators.

The sanctuary glows with stained-glass lies,
soft light on velvet pews,
while at the lectern stands the wolf
in starched collar, gentle voice,
quoting Scripture like a lullaby
to hush the trembling sheep.

He speaks of love with honeyed fangs,
promises heaven for a tithe,
teaches grace while counting coins
beneath the table with clawed feet.
His smile is Sunday-morning bright,
his eyes are midnight counting sheep
not for shepherding,
but for slaughter.

Beware the shepherd who smells of blood
yet wears the fleece of the flock he flees.
His gospel is a gilded trap,
his prayer a noose of pretty words.
He preys upon the widow’s mite,
devours the orphan’s cry,
and calls it ministry.

The true Lamb once was slain;
these wolves merely dress the part.
They howl in minor keys of guilt
and call the trembling “lost,”
then lead the flock to private pastures
where the grass is green with greed.

O Church, awake!
Your watchmen sleep with open mouths
and dreaming teeth.
Test every spirit, weigh each word
against the ancient plumb line
carved by nails into a tree.

When pulpits are full of wolves in sheep’s clothing,
the only safe place left
is on your knees,
not in their sanctuaries,
but in the wild,
where the Good Shepherd still calls
by name,
and knows His own
by scars.

Boasters, Blasphemers, and the Breaking of the Dragon’s Reign by Debbie Harris

24 Monday Nov 2025

Posted by Debbie Harris in Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, King of Kings, Persecution, Royally Redeemed, Spiritual Warfare

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Christian Poetry, Inspirational, Royally Redeemed, The Persecuted Church

Title: Boasters, Blasphemers, and the Breaking of the Dragon’s Reign

This prophetic poem is a poetic meditation on 2 Timothy 3:1–5 (KJV), Paul’s warning to Timothy about the moral and spiritual collapse that will mark “the last days.” It expands the apostle’s list of sins, weaves in Revelation’s imagery of the ancient serpent (the dragon = Satan, Rev 12:9; 20:2), and closes with the triumphant hope that these very “perilous times” signal the imminent overthrow of evil and the return of the King.

Core Scripture (KJV)

2 Timothy 3:1–5
1 This know also, that in the last days perilous times shall come.
2 For men shall be lovers of their own selves, covetous, boasters, proud, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy,
3 Without natural affection, trucebreakers, false accusers, incontinent, fierce, despisers of those that are good,
4 Traitors, heady, highminded, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God;
5 Having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof: from such turn away.

Supporting End-Times References Echoed in the Poem

Revelation 12:9 – “that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan” (the dragon imagery)
Revelation 20:2 – “he laid hold on the dragon, that old serpent… and bound him”
Matthew 24:12 – “because iniquity shall abound, the love of many shall wax cold”
Luke 21:28 – “when these things begin to come to pass, then look up… your redemption draweth nigh”
Revelation 19:11–16 – The King returns “through the smoke and the flames” to judge and reign

The poem therefore moves from warning (2 Timothy 3) to hope (Revelation’s ultimate victory), declaring that the very darkness Paul foresaw is the death-throe of the dragon and the herald of Christ’s return.

In the last days, perilous times shall come
when the heart forgets its ancient drum.
Men will crown themselves with mirrors and gold,
lovers of self, and lovers of cold.

They boast in the streets where the shadows play,
proud as towers that lean and sway;
blasphemers of heaven, mockers of grace,
children who curse the father’s face.

Unthankful tongues and unholy hands,
no mercy in eyes, no truce in lands;
love grows thin as winter’s breath,
natural bonds lie bruised in death.

False accusers hiss like serpents awake,
fierce as wolves when the weak hearts break;
they slander the good and betray the trust,
rash and swollen with the poison of lust.

Pleasure they worship, a glittering throne,
higher than God, more dear than His own;
they wear the mask of the pious and pure
yet deny the power that makes men endure.

From such, turn away, the apostle cried,
when the age grows sick and the salt has died.
Yet even in ruin, a whisper remains:
the King still comes through the smoke and the flames.

Hold fast, little flock, though the night is long;
the dragon is raging—his kingdom is done.

When Demonic Anti-Semitism Rises, All of Heaven Weeps in Unsilenced Grief by Debbie Harris

24 Monday Nov 2025

Posted by Debbie Harris in Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Inspirational, Persecution, Spiritual Warfare

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Christian, Christian Poetry, Inspirational, Poetry, The Persecuted Church

“When Demonic Anti-Semitism Rises, All of Heaven Weeps in Unsilenced Grief”

The poem is a prophetic lament from the perspective of Heaven itself. As demonic anti-Semitism surges again on earth, the entire celestial realm is plunged into profound, audible grief. Seraphim hide their faces, the ceaseless “Holy, holy, holy” becomes a sob, and the throne-room floor is flooded with crystal tears that shatter like broken menorahs. Michael’s sword drips not with the blood of enemies but with divine sorrow, for even archangels cannot cauterize this ancient lie. The Torah scrolls themselves weep ink, the Ancient of Days covers His face in anguish, and the sea of glass before the throne turns red, reflecting stars that now resemble burning yellow badges.

Heaven’s weeping is not weakness but outraged recognition: the same satanic hatred that once nailed the Jewish Messiah to a cross has returned to torment the people from whom He came. The poem ends with a solemn vow—the tears of Heaven will not cease until the earth itself learns shame and repents of this resurrected evil. It is both elegy and indictment, a cry that the spiritual realm is neither silent nor indifferent when God’s covenant people are targeted by demonic hatred.

When demonic anti-Semitism rises,
all of Heaven weeps.

The seraphim fold their six wings like broken umbrellas
over eyes that have watched Abraham count stars
and still cannot unsee the smoke.

Crystal tears fall from the throne-room floor,
each drop a shattered menorah,
ringing against jasper and carnelian
like alarm bells no one is allowed to silence.

Angels who once sang “Holy, holy, holy”
now choke on the third repetition,
their voices raw from shouting down the pit
where old slanders put on new flesh.

Michael’s sword drips not with blood
but with the salt of divine grief,
each tear hissing where it strikes the blade
because even archangels cannot burn away
the lie that says God’s firstborn are forsaken.

In the silence between sobs
you can hear the scrolls weeping ink,
Torah parchment curling like skin in fire
every time another Jewish child
is taught to fear the sound of his own name.

Above the firmament,
the Ancient of Days covers His face
with hands that once wrote on stone
and now cannot write fast enough
to outrun the graffiti of swastikas
scrawled across the walls of the world.

And still the tears fall,
heavy as guilt,
heavy as history,
until the sea of glass before the throne
turns red with sorrow
and every reflected star
looks like a yellow badge burning.

Heaven weeps,
not in weakness
but in recognition:
the same hatred that drove nails
now sharpens its tongue against the people
from whom salvation first came.

When demonic anti-Semitism rises,
all of Heaven weeps,
and the tears do not stop
until the earth itself
learns to be ashamed.

Yea, and All That Will Live Godly in Christ Jesus Shall Suffer Persecution by Debbie Harris

24 Monday Nov 2025

Posted by Debbie Harris in Christian Poetry

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Biblical Truth, Christian Poetry, faith, Inspirational

“Yea, and All That Will Live Godly in Christ Jesus Shall Suffer Persecution” is a seven-stanza hymn-portrait of the underground, biblical church in places where following Christ is illegal and dangerous.

It begins with quiet, dawn gatherings of ordinary believers who share simple bread and water, meeting in secret because their faith has marked them for arrest. They draw strength from the same Scriptures that sustained Peter, Paul, and Daniel in prison and fire.

The poem traces their losses (homes, jobs, freedom, even life) and their strange gains: deeper joy, unbreakable unity, and a gospel that spreads faster the harder it is crushed. Like wheat that multiplies when ground, like seed that sprouts when buried, the persecuted church becomes more truly itself under pressure.

We see prisoners preaching to their guards, widows giving their last coins with laughter, teenagers smuggling pages of the Bible, and entire families refusing to bow to the state’s idols. Their love for enemies, their refusal to hate, and their calm certainty of resurrection confound their persecutors.

The closing stanzas lift the eyes forward: every empire that hates Christ will one day collapse like Babel. The same Jesus who had no place to lay His head will return with nail-scarred hands to gather His hidden, hunted flock. Until then, the church endures by Scripture alone, saved by Christ alone, kept by grace alone, clinging to the promise that faithfulness unto death receives the crown of life.

The poem is both lament and defiant celebration: persecution is normal, promised, and ultimately powerless against the church that belongs to the risen Lamb.

Beneath the radar of the watching state,
they meet at dawn before the soldiers wake,
a handful sharing bread upon a plate,
a cup of water for the Master’s sake.
No steeple marks the place, no bell is rung—
only the Word, alive on every tongue.

They read where Peter wrote from prison chains,
where Paul counted it joy to bear the scar;
they hear the Lord who stills the wind and reigns
though doors are locked and iron bars stand far.
Like Daniel in the den, like saints of old,
they trust the God who turns the fire cold.

Foxes have holes, the birds have nests, He said—
but not the Son of Man, and not His own;
so now they wander, refuge-less, instead
of bowing to the image on the throne.
They lose their homes, their jobs, their right to speak,
yet find the kingdom buried in the meek.

They are the remnant promised long ago,
the little flock the Father calls by name;
the bruised reed unbroken, the faint glow
that will not quench until the Day of flame.
The more the dragon rages, coils, and strikes,
the more the church becomes what Jesus likes.

See how they love the ones who drag them off,
how prisoners preach to guards inside the cell,
how widows give their last two coins and laugh
because the gospel cannot be withheld.
Their blood is seed; their silence shouts abroad—
the gates of hell shall never hold this squad.

O church of Scripture only, Christ alone,
by grace through faith, to God be glory still;
you walk the narrow road the world disowns,
yet every step fulfills the Father’s will.
The scroll is open, and the Lamb stands sure—
His wounded hands have made the triumph pure.

And when the kingdoms of this age collapse
like towers of Babel crumbling into sand,
the King will ride with lightning in His steps
and call His hidden ones with nail-scarred hand.
Then every secret prayer, each whispered verse,
will roar like thunder through the universe.

Until that morning, faithful, suffering bride,
keep holding fast the Word of life you read;
the world may scorn, imprison, and deride—
but Jesus lives, and He is coming with speed.
Your names are graven where no sword can reach,
sealed by the Spirit, kept beyond all breach.
Amen. Come, Lord Jesus. Even so—come.

Every Prayer A Sacred Poem To The Divine Ear by Debbie Harris

23 Sunday Nov 2025

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

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Christian Poetry, Inspirational, Prayer

Every prayer is a sacred poem to God,
Though penned in haste on trembling air,
In fragments torn from flesh and blood,
Yet flawless in the sight of prayer.

The miser’s coin that clinks too late,
The harlot’s tear upon the floor,
The thief’s last breath beneath the weight
Of nail and spear and open door.

The scholar’s doubt that kneels at length,
The leper’s groan outside the gate,
The proud man’s silence, stripped of strength,
All enter heaven’s mercy-seat.

No line is lost, no sigh too small;
The stammered word, the wordless dread,
The broken meter of our fall
Becomes the psalm that angels read.

For He who spoke the worlds in rhyme
Delights in every ragged scroll;
He gathers every trembling line
And binds them in His heart made whole.

Therefore let fall the heart’s crude art,
Unpolished, bleeding, unafraid:
Whether the answer granted be “Yes” or a tender “No,”
Every prayer ascends as a sacred poem to the Throne of God,
For all is done in love, and the best is only given
To the child of God—no matter if the answer is yes or no.

A Hymn To The Beauty To Our Lord And Savior Jesus Christ, King Of Kings And Lord Of Lords by Debbie Harris

22 Saturday Nov 2025

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

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Biblical Truth, Christian Poetry, Inpirational, Inspirational, theology

The poem is a reverent contemplation of the surpassing, inexhaustible beauty of Jesus Christ. It declares that no human words, art, or lifespan can ever fully capture His loveliness: His face outshines the dawn, His eyes hold depths greater than the sea, and even the fairest flowers and the sun itself grow dim before Him.

His pierced hands and sacred wounds, once marks of suffering, now radiate eternal glory and serve as the very gates of heaven. Angels and elders in heaven veil their faces and cast down their crowns in ceaseless worship of the Lamb who was slain.

Yet on earth, time is too short and mortal hearts too limited to comprehend or express even a fraction of this beauty. A thousand ages would still leave the soul stammering in awe.

The closing strophe turns to hope: although no one sees Him in fullness now, to all who are born again God has promised the day when faith will become sight. Then, face to face with the unveiled Christ, they will at last drink in the complete splendor of His beauty and love Him perfectly forever.

In mortal sphere where fleeting shadows fall,
There walks a Form that holds the heart in thrall;
No tongue of man, though eloquent it be,
Hath power to speak the tenth part of His beauty.

His countenance is fairer than the morn
When first it gilds the dew-besilvered thorn;
His eyes are deeper than the midnight sea,
Yet soft as light that breaks on Galilee.

The rose of Sharon pales before His cheek,
The lily of the valley seems less meek;
The sun itself, in all its golden pride,
Doth veil its face when He is glorified.

His hands, once pierced, now bear the radiant scars
That shine more bright than all the evening stars;
His wounds, once red with sorrow’s bitter wine,
Are now the gates whereby the soul divine
Doth enter bliss and drink eternal day,
Where grief is lost and tears are wiped away.

The seraphim before His throne fall low,
Veiling their wings in reverent glow;
The four-and-twenty elders cast their crowns
And chant new anthems to the Lamb that drowns
All lesser music in its boundless tide
Of love that flowed when on the Cross He died.

Yet mortal years are all too brief a span
To trace the glory of the Son of Man;
A thousand ages, bright as seraphs’ wings,
Would find the heart still poor and stammering.

O Beauty ancient, yet for ever new,
O endless Light that mortal eye ne’er knew
In fullness here; yet to the born-again
Thy promise stands, immutable, clear, and plain:
They shall behold Thy face in unveiled might,
And, ravished, drink the plenitude of light,
Where faith shall yield to sight, and sight adore
The Lamb upon the throne for evermore.