Tag Archives: jesus-christ

Empty Hands Raised in Victory’s Tide: Longing to Do More for My Precious Savior by Debbie Harris

01 Sunday Mar 2026

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

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I wish I could do more, my Lord, my King,
For You who gave everything—
Your hands pierced, Your side torn wide,
To raise me up in victory’s tide.

Yet here I stand with empty hands,
A heart that burns, yet scarce began
To match the grace that set me free,
The boundless love You poured on me.

Still, in the quiet, small and true,
I offer what my soul can do:
A whispered praise at break of day,
A step of faith along Your way.

A cup of water given kind,
A listening ear, a soul aligned—
These humble threads, though frail they seem,
You weave into a greater dream.

So take my “more,” though small it be,
And multiply it, Lord, through me.
Until that day I see Your face,
And all my striving finds its place.

In Your mercy, let it be enough—
My all for You, my precious love.

Steward the Mina, Multiply the Gift by Debbie Harris

01 Sunday Mar 2026

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

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Occupy till I come.

— Luke 19:13 (KJV)

When shadows lengthen and the world doth quake,
With rumour’d signs that bid the heart to fear,
Some watch with fevered gaze, lest they should wake
Unready at the trumpet none may hear.
Yet He who hung upon the accursèd tree
And cried, ” ‘Tis finish’d!” in His dying breath,
Hath wrought complete what none could do but He—
Our pardon, peace, our victory o’er death.

No more we toil to earn what grace hath giv’n,
Nor cower ‘neath the weight of coming doom;
In Him we stand accepted, sons of heav’n,
Secure within the veil, beyond the tomb.
Thus bids the Master, ere He took His flight:
“Occupy till I come”—with labour bright.

Steward the mina, multiply the gift,
Not fearing loss, but flowing from His life;
Build, love, disciple—let thy spirit lift
The fallen, point them to the risen Christ.
No anxious vigil mars the soul set free;
The cross hath seal’d our place eternally.

Then let the tempests roar, the nations rage,
The days grow dark with portent of the end—
Our hope is blessèd, not a fearful stage,
But glory’s dawn where every tear shall mend.
Till then, abide in labour sweet and sure:
The King returns—yet we are His, secure.

In quiet trust, occupy the given field,
With joy unbound, for grace hath all reveal’d.

Sons and Daughters of the King: Our Identity in Christ by Debbie Harris

22 Sunday Feb 2026

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

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Sons and Daughters of the King: Our Identity in Christ:

This classical-style devotional poem is a tender, awe-filled reminder to believers of the breathtaking privileges and new identity bestowed upon us through salvation in Jesus Christ our Lord. It calls the soul to awaken from any sense of lowliness or forgetfulness and to marvel at what grace has accomplished.

The poem unfolds as a gentle yet majestic declaration:

  • We are no longer strangers or wanderers in darkness but adopted children of the Father, crying “Abba” by His Spirit.
  • We are joint-heirs with Christ, sharing His divine inheritance—not by our merit, but by His blood and resurrection.
  • We are a new creation, clothed in Christ’s righteousness, with the old life of sin forever gone.
  • We bear exalted biblical names: chosen, royal priesthood, holy nation, peculiar treasure, beloved saints, friends of Christ, ambassadors, members of His body, more than conquerors—all sealed and secured by His wounds and love.

The heart of the poem is the profound privilege of sonship and daughtership in the household of the King of kings: invited to His table, crowned with mercy, welcomed forever as royalty on earth. Yet this honor is never cause for pride—it is ground for humble wonder, gratitude, and worship.

The closing exhortation is simple and stirring: rejoice in this truth, live from this glorious birthright given by grace alone through faith in Christ, and go forth reflecting the splendor of being His dearly loved sons and daughters.

In essence, the poem is a lyrical love letter to believers: “You are already royalty, already family, already heirs—because the King has made you so. Rest in it. Rejoice in it. Proclaim it with humble joy.

John 1:12 (KJV)
But as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his name:

Romans 8:14-17 (KJV)
For as many as are led by the Spirit of God, they are the sons of God. For ye have not received the spirit of bondage again to fear; but ye have received the Spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, Abba, Father. The Spirit itself beareth witness with our spirit, that we are the children of God: And if children, then heirs; heirs of God, and joint-heirs with Christ; if so be that we suffer with him, that we may be also glorified together.

Galatians 4:6-7 (KJV)
And because ye are sons, God hath sent forth the Spirit of his Son into your hearts, crying, Abba, Father. Wherefore thou art no more a servant, but a son; and if a son, then an heir of God through Christ.

1 Peter 2:9 (KJV)
But ye are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, an holy nation, a peculiar people; that ye should shew forth the praises of him who hath called you out of darkness into his marvellous light.

O soul, awake from slumber’s lowly dream,
Behold what grace hath wrought in thee through Him—
The King of kings, who left His throne supreme,
To claim thee lost, and bid thee call Him kin.

No more a stranger, wandering in the night,
But child adopted by the Father’s love;
His Spirit whispers, “Abba,” in thy sight,
And seals thee heir to mansions far above.

Joint-heir with Christ, the Firstborn from the dead,
Thou sharest His inheritance divine—
Not earned by works, but by the blood He shed,
An endless portion, royal, pure, and thine.

A chosen one, elect before the dawn,
A new creation, old things passed away;
The former rags of sin forever gone,
In robes of righteousness thou stand’st today.

Royal priesthood, offering praise on high,
Holy nation, set apart for heaven’s call;
A peculiar treasure ‘neath His watchful eye,
His own possession—loved beyond recall.

Beloved saint, and friend of Christ the Lord,
Ambassador of peace in realms of strife;
Member of His body, by His wounds restored,
More than conqueror through Him who gives thee life.

What privilege sublime, what honor vast,
To bear the name of son, of daughter dear!
The King of glory bids thee to His feast,
And crowns thy head with mercy year by year.

Then lift thy voice in wonder, not in pride:
“By grace alone, through faith in Christ our Lord,
I am His child, His heir, His spotless bride—
Forever welcomed at my Father’s board.”

Rejoice, O believer, in this truth profound:
The King hath made thee royalty on earth,
Not for thy merit, but His love unbound—
Go forth and live the glory of thy birth!

Royal by His Wounds, Holy by His Call: A Priesthood Proclaiming the Glories of the Lamb’s Eternal Light by Debbie Harris

22 Sunday Feb 2026

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

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Royal by His Wounds, Holy by His Call: A Priesthood Proclaiming the Glories of the Lamb’s Eternal Light:

The poem is a lyrical, Christ-centered meditation on 1 Peter 2:9 (KJV), celebrating the transformed identity of believers as a chosen generation, royal priesthood, holy nation, and peculiar people.

It begins in the darkness of sin, where humanity was once enslaved, and describes God’s sovereign, gracious call through Christ’s incarnate love and sacrificial death on the cross. The torn veil and broken body of Jesus grant believers direct access to God, drawing them near to His heart.

The central stanzas proclaim the present reality of this new identity: believers are not self-crowned but robed in Christ’s righteousness, made royal by His wounds, holy by His call, and treasured as His own possession—engraved on His wounded side. This exalted standing is entirely by grace, not merit.

The poem contrasts the old life of striving and defeat with the finished work of the cross (“It is finished”), which makes believers heirs who now live in humble trust and quiet confidence in Christ’s royal life.

The closing call is one of reverent awe: lift your eyes, not in pride but in worship of Christ alone. His marvelous light exalts believers to royal height on earth—not to reign independently, but to reflect His glory. The purpose of this identity is single and clear: to proclaim evermore the excellencies and praises of Him—the Lamb—who called us out of darkness into His eternal, marvelous light.

Through trials and triumphs, believers become living ambassadors, bearing His praises like a sacred flame, all for the glory of Jesus Christ, the true King and Light.

In essence, the poem is a worshipful hymn that exalts Christ’s cross and call as the sole source of our royal priesthood, urging believers to live in humble, awe-filled proclamation of His glories rather than self-exaltation.

But ye are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, an holy nation, a peculiar people; that ye should shew forth the praises of him who hath called you out of darkness into his marvellous light. (1 Peter 2:9 KJV)

In shadowed vales where sin’s deep midnight reigned,
A sovereign call shattered the gloom’s despair—
Not ours the spark, but His, who rent the air
With love incarnate, bleeding, unrestrained.

No merit ours, no veil we tore apart;
The temple curtain split by nail-scarred grace,
His body broken opened heaven’s face—
We, once afar, now near His beating heart.

Behold, a royal priesthood stands arrayed,
Not crowned by self, but by the thorn-crowned King;
In robes of righteousness His blood doth bring,
Each soul a vessel where His light is stayed.

A holy nation forged in crimson flood,
A people His, possessed by boundless love;
Chosen not for worth, but mercy from above,
Engraved forever on His wounded side.

From chains of night, where death and darkness strove,
He summoned us—His voice, the living Word—
Into the splendor of His light outpoured,
Where glory shines in Him whom we adore.

No striving now to seize what grace has given;
The cross declares: “It is finished,” complete.
We rise as heirs where once we lay in defeat—
In humble trust, His royal life we live.

So lift the gaze, let reverent splendor gleam:
Not pride in self, but awe at Christ alone—
His excellence our song, His light, our royal height,
Proclaiming evermore: “The Light is His!”

Through every storm, in triumph or in pain,
We bear His praises like a sacred flame—
Chosen in Christ, royal by His great name,
Ambassadors of His eternal reign.

The Wondrous Exchange of the Cross: Self Slain, Christ Exalted, All for His Eternal Praise by Debbie Harris

21 Saturday Feb 2026

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

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The poem celebrates the believer’s union with Christ in His death: the true Christian reckons themselves crucified with Him, so the old self dies and all personal ambitions end. From then on, life has one purpose—to live solely for the glory of Christ. Through this “wondrous exchange,” self is slain, Christ is exalted, and every thought, deed, and breath proclaims His eternal praise.

In shadowed hour when Christ gave up His breath,
The true-hearted soul counts its own life slain—
Dead with the Lord who conquered sin and death,
No longer bound to earth’s self-seeking chain.

We judge ourselves as crucified that day,
When nails and spear His holy body tore;
The old man buried in the tomb’s cold clay,
Alive no more to chase what was before.

Henceforth the heart, once captive to its will,
Feels heaven’s constraint: no other aim shall rise.
Not gold, nor fame, nor fleshly passions fill
The purpose now—to glorify the skies.

For Him who died and rose, our lives we yield,
A living sacrifice, redeemed by grace;
In every breath, in every battlefield,
We live for Christ’s eternal, matchless face.

O wondrous exchange! From death to life we spring,
No longer ours, but wholly His to claim;
Let every thought, each deed, each offering
Proclaim the glory of the Savior’s name.

Blessed Is the Man or Woman Who Walketh Not in the Counsel of the Ungodly by Debbie Harris

20 Friday Feb 2026

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Psalm 1 (KJV)

1 Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful.
2 But his delight is in the law of the LORD; and in his law doth he meditate day and night.
3 And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.
4 The ungodly are not so: but are like the chaff which the wind driveth away.
5 Therefore the ungodly shall not stand in the judgment, nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous.
6 For the LORD knoweth the way of the righteous: but the way of the ungodly shall perish.

O happy soul, whose feet decline
The counsel of the impious throng,
Who shuns the sinners’ path malign,
Nor joins the scoffers’ mocking song—
Not walking where the wicked lead,
Nor standing firm in vice’s way,
Nor seated where contempt is bred,
In scornful ease to spend the day.

But in the sacred law divine
His chief delight is ever found;
There day and night his thoughts entwine,
In meditation deep and profound.
Like some fair tree by rivers set,
Whose roots drink deep the ceaseless stream,
In season ripe its fruit is met,
Its verdant leaf no withering dream.

Whate’er he doth shall prosper well,
No drought shall parch, no storm prevail;
His boughs in fruitful beauty swell,
His greenness shall forever hail.
Not so the wicked—light as chaff
They whirl before the wind’s fierce breath;
No root, no weight, no stable staff,
They scatter to the realms of death.

The ungodly shall not stand the test
When judgment’s awful hour is come;
Nor sinners join the righteous blest
In God’s eternal, holy home.
For God beholds the righteous path,
And guards it with His watchful eye;
But they who tread the way of wrath
Shall perish, lost eternally.

The Faithful Covering: From Pitch-Sealed Arks to the Blood-Sealed Soul by Debbie Harris

20 Friday Feb 2026

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

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We are not left to hold ourselves together by willpower, discipline, or personal stability. Through Christ’s finished work on the cross, God actively sustains us—inside and out—amid life’s storms, overwhelming seasons, emotional waves, or faith-stretching trials. We are not barely afloat; we are covered, cherished, and held in His unfailing grace.

In ancient days when judgment fell like rain,
A righteous man received the Lord’s command:
“Build thee an ark of gopher, strong and plain,
And pitch it round with bitumen’s dark hand.”
Inside and out the thick black seal was laid,
No drop could breach what God Himself designed;
Through forty nights the deluge roared and swayed,
Yet safety held where grace and pitch combined.

Then came a mother, heart in anguish torn,
Who wove a fragile boat of reed and slime,
And daubed it well with pitch from dusk till morn,
To guard her child from Pharaoh’s cruel crime.
Upon the Nile the little ark was set,
A basket borne through waters wild and deep;
The covering kept the infant safe from threat,
Till Pharaoh’s daughter drew him from his sleep.

Two vessels small, yet echoing one theme:
Not wood’s own strength, nor builder’s skill prevailed,
But God’s provided coat, a faithful dream,
That turned destruction back and life entailed.
The ark through flood, the basket through the stream—
Both sealed by pitch, both shadowed forth the Son,
Whose blood, once shed, redeems us from the dream
Of self-held strength; in Him our all is won.

No longer do we clutch at trembling frame,
Nor fear the rising tide will sweep us under;
In Christ all things cohere, He bears our name,
His finished work our souls in mercy sunder
From wrath’s dark flood. Though waves may crash and roar,
And seasons press with weight we scarce can bear,
The covering holds—eternal, evermore—
For He who pitched the ark is present there.

So breathe, dear soul, when storms assail your peace;
You are not left to drift or fall apart.
The same sure hand that brought deliverance
Now holds you fast within His steadfast heart.
In Christ you stand, not barely kept afloat,
But covered, cherished, whole—forever His.
The pitch of old, the cross of love, the note
Of grace resounding: You are held in bliss.

Closing Prayer

Faithful God,
You who sealed the ark against the flood
and coated the basket on the Nile with Your protecting hand,
thank You for the greater covering we now have in Christ.

His blood, poured out once for all, has sealed us inside and out—
not by our strength, but by Your unfailing grace.
When the waters rise and our hearts tremble,
hold us together in Him.
Let us rest, not in our own frail vessels,
but in the finished work of Your Son.

Breathe Your peace over us today.
Remind us: we are not barely afloat;
we are covered, cherished, and held forever in Your steadfast love.

In the name of Jesus, our true Ark and Covering,
Amen.

Swallowed and TransfiguredThe Contemplative Act Whereby Ezekiel Partook of the Scroll of Woeand Discovered the Hidden Sweetness of Union with the Divine Will by Debbie Harris

15 Sunday Feb 2026

Posted by in Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Holy Bible, Inspirational

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Ezekiel 2:9–10
Then I looked, and behold, a hand was extended to me; and behold, a scroll of a book was in it. When He spread it out before me, it was written on the front and back, and written on it were lamentations, mourning, and woe.

Ezekiel 3:1–3
And He said to me, “Son of man, eat what you find; eat this scroll, and go, speak to the house of Israel.” So I opened my mouth, and He fed me this scroll. He said to me, “Son of man, feed your stomach and fill your body with this scroll which I am giving you.” Then I ate it, and it was sweet as honey in my mouth.

Ezekiel 3:14
So the Spirit lifted me up and took me away; and I went embittered in the rage of my spirit, and the hand of the Lord was strong on me.

No gentle volume offered to the hand,
No silken page to turn with measured care:
A scroll unfurled in flame, on either hand
Lamentation, mourning, woe laid bare.

“Son of man,” the voice resounds through bone,
“Eat what lies before thee—fill thy frame.
Devour the writing, leave no line unshown,
Make judgment’s ink the substance of thy name.”

I parted lips as one who meets his fate,
And took the roll entire upon my tongue;
The taste of honey flooded palate, throat,
While gall of sorrow pressed where breath is sung.

Yet sweeter grew the sweetness as I chewed—
Not honey stolen from the summer comb,
But honey born of perfect will subdued,
Of love that wounds to heal the heart’s deep home.

O mystery of eating strange and deep!
The Word descends not to the outward ear,
But deeper, past the tongue’s dividing keep,
Into the belly’s cavern dark and sheer.

There in the crypt of self the scroll dissolves,
Its bitter script transmuted into light;
What once was woe the inner furnace solves,
And turns to sweetness burning through the night.

No longer separate, the man and message blend—
The prophet is the lament he must bear;
His sinews bear the weight that God would send,
His breath the very sigh of heaven’s prayer.

Thus swallowed whole, the soul is lifted high,
Transfigured in the act of full consent;
The hidden sweetness blooms where tears once lie,
And union with the Will is sacrament.

Let others skim the surface of the page,
Debate its edges, quote its phrases bright:
The true disciple enters that fierce stage
Where eating is the only way to sight.

For God requires not admirers mild,
Nor connoisseurs of sacred text and lore—
He seeks the one whose inmost self is styled
By every syllable the scroll once bore.

So eat, O pilgrim, let the honey stay,
Though sorrow churn the stomach in its course;
The Word, once taken in, will never stray—
It is the life, the way, the very source.

Free Verse; Neglect Not So Great a Salvation: The Urgent Invitation Before Time Closes and Judgment Opens by Debbie Harris

15 Sunday Feb 2026

Posted by in Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ, Heaven, Holy Bible, Inspirational

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Neglect Not So Great a Salvation: The Urgent Invitation Before Time Closes and Judgment Opens
(Free verse summary)

This free verse poem is a quiet, introspective meditation on the fragility of life and the gentle but insistent call of God to salvation. It portrays human existence as a fleeting mist or breath on glass—brief, easily erased—while a still, small voice speaks in the silences between heartbeats, asking why we delay.

The poem recalls the rich young ruler who stood before Jesus, felt the direct pull of truth, yet walked away sorrowful, choosing familiar wealth over unknown freedom. It reflects how we mirror this in subtler ways: postponing response with excuses of “tomorrow,” drowning conviction in noise, letting the heart grow calloused through repeated delay until the once-vivid tug fades—not because God withdraws, but because we stop listening.

Yet mercy remains present and patient. The invitation is immediate—“Behold. Today.”—not conditional on worthiness or convenience. God calls not to restrict but to liberate, offering abundant, eternal life instead of temporary comforts.

The closing urgency is stark: this breath is all we have; tomorrow is an illusion no one reaches. Eternity has no second chances, only this open door of grace that will one day close—not from divine cruelty, but from the simple end of time. The poem pleads gently yet firmly: when the tug returns, do not brush it aside. Turn. Answer. Step through—while the hand still reaches.

Somewhere a voice is speaking,
not loud, not lightning-split sky,
but the hush between heartbeats,
the pause after a name you almost remember.

Life arrives in mist,
lingers like breath on glass,
then wipes clean.
You blink and the room has changed;
the child is grown,
the friend is gone,
the promise you made to yourself
slips further down the calendar.

Many feel it—
that pull when the house is still,
when laughter fades and the ceiling stares back,
when something older than you
leans close and asks,
What are you waiting for?

The rich young man felt it too.
He stood inches from the one who is the way,
saw love looking straight through his polished surface,
heard Sell everything. Follow me.
And sorrow wrapped him like a cloak.
He walked away slowly,
each step measuring treasure against truth,
choosing the weight he already knew
over the freedom he could not yet carry.

We do the same in smaller ways:
scroll past conviction,
turn up the noise,
tell the Spirit Tomorrow, when life settles,
when the kids are older,
when the bank account breathes easier,
when I’m not so tired.

Tomorrow is a thief with soft hands.
It steals the present while promising more time.
And the heart, trained to wait,
grows skillful at waiting—
until waiting becomes habit,
habit becomes hardness,
and the once-clear voice
sounds fainter, not because it stopped,
but because the ear stopped turning toward it.

Yet here, now,
mercy has not moved.
The invitation hangs in the air
like light through half-open blinds:
Behold.
Today.
Not when convenient.
Not when you feel worthy.
Now.

He does not shout to shame you.
He speaks to save you.
Not to chain, but to unchain.
Not to take life, but to give it—
thicker, truer, forever.

Eternity has no clock.
No second chance waiting in the wings.
Only this breath,
this moment,
this door still ajar.

If the tug returns tonight,
do not brush it aside like lint.
Do not say Later.
Later is a country no one has ever visited.

Turn.
Answer.
Step through.

The vapor rises, thins, disappears.
But the hand that reaches for you
does not vanish.
It waits—
until it cannot.

Free Verse: Ancient Evil Unveiled in Modern Files: All Eyes on Jesus—Victory Already Won, Hope Unshakable by Debbie Harris

15 Sunday Feb 2026

Posted by in Christ-centered poetry, Christian Poetry, Exalting Jesus Christ

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The world tilts sharp when shadows break open,
files spill like blood from old, sealed wounds—
names, whispers, horrors etched in ink and image,
childhoods stolen, innocence sacrificed on altars
of power, pleasure, and something darker still.
Cannibal whispers in the margins, ancient rites
dressed in modern suits. The stomach drops,
a pit yawns wide, familiar to some who walked
this road years ago, alone in the quiet knowing.

You feel it now—the spin, the sick vertigo
of realizing evil is not rumor, not metaphor,
but flesh and breath and deliberate cruelty.
It is not new. Cain’s hand trembled first;
Molech’s fires burned long before cameras clicked.
Since the garden’s fall, the serpent coils
through every age, wearing crowns, robes, smiles.

Yet here, in the reeling, a fork appears:
despair’s black river, or the narrow path
upward to the One who saw it all before—
who descended into the abyss itself,
carried the weight of every violation,
every tear forced silent, every body broken.

He did not turn away. He entered.
And on the third day, light cracked stone.

So run, dear heart, not from the truth
but through it—toward the steady flame
that no redaction can erase, no name can dim.
Let the heaviness press you lower,
until you find the Rock beneath the quake.

You are not alone in this awakening.
Prayers rise like incense for you,
for the shaken, the grieving, the newly sighted.
Evil roars, but it is wounded, mortal.
Jesus holds the gavel, the throne, the dawn.

Choose light. Speak gospel into the dark.
Live honor where shadows once ruled.
Let faith outlast the fear, hope outshine the pit.
The battle was won on a hill far off;
the echoes now are victory’s aftershocks.

All eyes on Jesus.
The darkness trembles.
The Light remains.

🤍✝️