A Song of the Redeemed: Everlasting Gratitude to Jesus Christ for the Finished, Unending Gift of Salvation

This poem is a sustained, joyful portrait of the redeemed in the third person, celebrating the ceaseless, irreversible gift of salvation purchased once-for-all by Jesus Christ.

From the first breath of morning to the last sigh of night, the blood-bought host lives in astonished thankfulness. Every ordinary moment (waking, walking, laughing, eating, sleeping) is saturated with the finished work of Calvary: the curse lifted, death defeated, wrath exhausted, sin forgiven. Nature itself testifies—the sparrow, wheat, rain, and sky all echo the victory of the Second Adam and the broken Bread.

The redeemed laugh like soldiers who heard their Captain shout “It is finished!”, feast like guests whose infinite debt is stamped “Tetelestai—Paid in full” by the Lamb’s own blood, and rest like heirs who can never be disowned. Children run, old men leap, widows sing—every demographic of the saved pulses with resurrection life because Jesus Christ lives, reigns, and keeps giving the gift that never diminishes and can never be revoked.

The poem closes with an eternal refrain: the morning stars and the ransomed host together sing one undying note of gratitude to the risen Lord Jesus—Thank You without end—for the finished, unending salvation that flows ceaselessly from His throne.

They wake before the dawn has traced its gold,
the blood-bought host, and breathe the air made sweet
by Jesus Christ who loved and gave Himself.
Their houses—once cold tombs where death held sway—
now stand with every window flung to light
that streams unearned from Calvary’s finished work.

They walk the streets their feet once dragged in chains;
each step now falls on ground the Savior cursed no more.
The sparrow sings because the Second Adam lives,
the wheat bows low because the Bread was broken first,
the rain descends because the clouds of wrath
were emptied on the Lamb who bore their sin.

See how they laugh—no guarded, timid sound,
but loud and free, like soldiers who have heard
their Captain cry, “It is finished!” from the tree.
They greet with wonder those whom Jesus sought
and bought with blood, comparing scars that match
the prints still open in His hands and side.

At table they need no one bid them thank;
the bread itself proclaims the broken Body,
the cup still glows with blood that speaks a better word.
They eat, and every bite is sealed “Forgiven,”
they drink, and every swallow sings “Alive,”
because their Jesus Christ is risen, reigning, giving.

The children race, the old men leap for joy
as calves released when winter’s chains are shattered;
the widows lift the songs they thought forever lost
because the Bridegroom lives who dried their tears.
Above them bends a sky no longer brass
but poured-out mercy from the wounds of Christ.

All day they praise—no anxious, dutiful strain
for fear the gift might slip from trembling hands—
but steady, astonished, like a host set free
who saw the ledger soaked in royal blood
and read beneath their infinite debt
one crimson word: “Tetelestai—Paid in full.”

When night returns they do not bolt the doors
against tomorrow’s possible reversal.
They sleep as heirs the Son has made His own,
as kings already crowned by Jesus’ victory,
as loved ones held in love that cannot end,
and every heartbeat is a quiet amen
to ceaseless salvation flowing from the throne.

And somewhere deep, the morning stars still sing
the song they learned the day the Lamb prevailed:
the ransomed answer, breath by breath, forever—
“Thank You, Lord Jesus. Thank You without end.”