Charity: A Flame of the Soul

Not in the clink of coins alone,

Nor in the hands that give a stone

Charity breathes where hearts ignite,

A flame that turns the dark to light.

It speaks no boast, it seeks no praise,

It walks in quiet, hidden ways.

It lifts the fallen, feeds the weak,

And finds the words the silent speak.

It is the thread in beggar’s cloak,

The balm on wounds that pride once broke.

It is the tear a stranger dries,

The food that multiplies and flies.

No law can bind it, none restrain

The grace that flows from others’ pain.

For Charity is love in deed,

A soul that answers every need.

It asks not why, nor who, nor when,

It heals the hearts of broken men.

The gold it gives is not of earth

But kindness, courage, hope, and worth.

Give and let your giving glow

In secret streams the world may never know.

For what you give in love, lives on

A light long after you are gone.

Returning

I walked too far beneath a sky

That knew my name but watched me lie.

The stars, once bright with whispered songs,

Fell silent as I wandered wrong.

The path was stone, the light grew thin

Each turn a gate I entered in,

But never out. The wind would warn,

Yet I mistook its cry for scorn.

I wore the dust, I drank the dark,

I chased a flame that left no spark.

My name grew hollow in my chest

A weightless word, a guest unblessed.

But morning does not come with noise

It breaks in hush, in hush, not voice.

One step, then two, the earth grew kind,

And shade gave way to breath and mind.

No trumpet called, no curtain tore,

No hand reached out to mark the door

Yet there it stood: a house aglow,

Its walls still warm with long ago.

I knocked, or thought I might have dreamed,

The threshold hummed, the silence beamed.

And when it opened though none spoke

The burden fled, the silence broke.

Not scolded, not explained, just held

As if the time away had dwelled

Not as a crime but merely space,

Between the light and its own face.

Now every step I took away

Becomes the note in this new day.

And though I strayed, I now belong

To hearth, to hush, to ancient song.

When Shadows Fall

When shadows fall and silence creeps,

And loved ones weep in bitter heaps,

When laughter fades and breath is still,

And hearts are crushed against their will

Oh, Death! You thief with icy hands,

You break apart life’s fragile strands.

You steal the smile, the voice, the light,

And leave us grieving through the night.

We dress in black, we cry, we pray,

We ask why joy must slip away.

Each tear we shed, a song unsung,

For dreams now lost, and years too young.

The room feels cold, the world seems bare,

A ghost of what once danced with care.

No comfort holds, no words make right,

The sudden plunge from day to night.

But wait

In sorrow’s depth, a whisper grows,

A truth the aching spirit knows:

That death is not the end, but door,

A crossing from the less to more.

A veil is lifted, not a wall,

A rise beyond the mortal fall.

For what is sown in pain and dust

Shall bloom in light, in love, in trust.

The soul unchained from earthly frame

Returns to where it once it came

To skies unscarred, to peace untold,

To wonders no eye can behold.

So let the tears fall if they must,

But hold no fear within your trust.

For death, though dark, is not defeat

It’s where the soul and heaven meet.

And when my time draws gently near,

I’ll smile, not tremble, shed no fear.

For though this body turns to clay,

My spirit shall be on its way

To life that’s deeper, love more wide,

Beyond the reach of time and tide.

Oh Death! You once wore shameful shroud,

But now I praise you, clear and loud.

For in your grasp, I’ve come to see:

You are the gate to being free.

Come, Let Us Worship

O come, let hearts in chorus rise,

To lift a song that shakes the skies

A joyful noise, both loud and true,

To praise the God who carries through.

We enter in with grateful song,

With psalms that to His name belong.

The Rock of Ages, firm and wide,

Our Refuge where we long abide.

The Lord is great no throne above,

No power greater, none more love.

The King above all gods and pride,

Whose voice the mighty stars abide.

He holds the deep and silent lands,

The ocean depths are in His hands.

The hills, in strength, rise at His word,

And echo back the name they’ve heard.

The sea He formed with perfect grace,

The dry land shaped, each line in place.

Creation sings with holy flame,

Each leaf and stone bears out His name.

So let us worship, bow, and kneel,

Before the One whose touch we feel.

The Lord, our Maker, kind and just,

Who leads the flock with patient trust.

We are His sheep He calls, we know,

His voice is peace, His way is slow.

If today His voice you hear,

Let faith arise and cast out fear.

O come, let praise be not delayed

The path of joy is humbly laid.

In stillness, let our spirits rise,

To worship Him who never dies.

Wonders of the Universe

Beneath a dome of endless night,

The stars ignite with ancient light,

Each spark a tale, a whispered lore,

Of worlds beyond our own explore.

The galaxies in spiral grace

Drift softly through the velvet space,

A ballet vast, serene, profound

Where silence sings without a sound.

Dark matter weaves its unseen thread

Where even light is gently led,

And time, that river slow and wide,

Bends round the curves where black holes hide.

On comets’ tails and solar winds,

The story of the cosmos spins;

With every burst and every flare,

Creation breathes through empty air.

What mysteries the void contains

From quantum dance to Saturn’s rings!

Yet in this vast, eternal sea,

A thought takes shape: how small are we?

And yet, we gaze with daring eyes,

We map the stars, we question why

A speck of dust with minds so bold,

To chase the dark and grasp the cold.

Let us wonder, evermore,

Beyond the sky, from shore to shore;

For in each glance, each dream unfurled,

We touch the edges of the world.

The Alchemy of Affliction

I have felt the furnace of suffering:

its relentless heat pressed against my bones,

a fire that purges and also threatens to consume.

In its glare I stand, crucible of my own becoming,

my edges melting, my impurities seeping,

while some part of me worries I will be lost in the flames.

Yet, even in that scorching chamber, there is purpose:

the fire that cracks me is the same that clarifies me.

Affliction, when met with courage, becomes a ruthless teacher,

shedding scabs of complacency, chiseling away arrogance,

stripping the brittle veneer I once mistook for strength.

If I lean into it, I feel the pressure reshape me:

the coarse dross of my pride sloughs off,

the deep fissures of doubt are filled with something harder,

a tempered faith, a steady pulse of resolve.

I become gold, not in shine alone, but in substance:

more honest, more luminous, more real.

But if I recoil, if I clutch at comfort and resent the fire

then the same afflictions shred me:

they ravel my spirit, unravel my trust,

turn my heart brittle and my voice hollow.

In that cowardice, the furnace becomes a threat,

not a crucible, but a torment.

There is a paradox here: suffering is twin-faced.

It is both the hammer and the sculptor,

both the storm that lashes and the tide that carves canyons.

It can tear me to rawness, exposing every weak point,

or refine me into something resilient, something rare.

When I yield to bitterness, affliction becomes destruction:

I lash out, I harden, I become a broken thing

that rattles in the dark, hollowed by fear.

But when I submit, when I open my palms to the pain

I feel a quiet transformation, subtle but profound:

my grief becomes a crucible,

my tears become molten wisdom.

In that surrender, I learn that endurance is not just patience,

but alchemy. I learn that to be refined means to be reshaped,

not broken beyond repair. My heart, once raw and porous,

becomes dense with mercy, tempered with compassion,

ready to reflect light even from the deepest scars.

And so I walk through affliction, not as a victim,

but as one who carries a secret:

that fire, though fearful, is not meaningless.

This crucible is not a prison,

but a workshop.

If I stay, I may emerge whole:

shaped by flame, but unconsumed.

When the Fire Speaks Your Name

Afflictions come dressed in many garments

sometimes in coarse burlap,

sometimes in silk woven with quiet dread.

They arrive uninvited,

sitting at the foot of your bed

like an old storyteller

waiting for you to finally ask,

What have you come to make of me?

For suffering is never passive.

It is a sculptor with trembling patience,

a blacksmith with a furnace that never sleeps.

It holds your soul in its palms,

studying its contours,

deciding whether to refine you into brilliance

or shred you into fragments

too weary to rise again.

And you

you must choose your posture

before it lays its hand upon you.

Sometimes affliction feels like a long corridor

with no lamps,

no windows,

only the echoes of your own breath

reminding you that you are still alive,

even when you wish you weren’t.

It pulls at the loose threads of your courage,

testing whether you will unravel

or tighten your weave

and emerge stronger than you entered.

There are days it whispers,

softly, deceitfully:

Lay down your hope.

Let despair cradle you.

And if you listen long enough,

you will feel your soul folding inward,

growing small,

becoming a shadow of the person

you were meant to be.

But if, by rare and stubborn grace

you lift your chin

and look affliction in the eye,

you discover it is also a rare tutor,

unyielding yet strangely gentle

to the one who stands firm.

Its fires burn, yes,

but they burn away illusions,

not identity.

They scorch the pride,

but they spare the essence.

They refine the edges

where fear once hid,

and polish the corners

where possibilities slept.

Affliction is the paradox of becoming:

it can hollow you

or make you holy.

It can grind your will into dust

or turn your grief into gold.

It all depends on whether your heart

meets it with clenched fists

or open palms.

For some, it is the night wind

that extinguishes the fragile flame

of self-belief.

For others, it is the same wind

that teaches the flame to lean,

to stretch,

to dance with resilience

rather than collapse in the dark.

And so it is with every soul:

we are either shattered

or shaped.

We are either thorns

or thrones.

We either crumble

or crystallize.

Affliction stands silently in the doorway

holding both outcomes in its hands,

waiting for you to choose

Will you dissolve under its weight?

Or will you rise,

forged and fierce,

bearing the gleam

of one who has walked through fire

and learned to speak its language?

And someday,

when you look back

at the wounds that once threatened

to unmake you,

you will see

they were not merely scars,

but signatures of transformation.

Proof that you did not merely endure,

but emerged refined,

expanded,

and undeniably alive. 

A Serenade to Queen Esther

To my sister, my cherished guide,  

Today, we celebrate with joy and pride.  

You nurture, provide, and softly attend,  

With love unwavering, my truest friend.  

Through savory dishes made with care,  

And tender touches beyond compare,  

You honor each task with maternal grace,  

In my life, you’ve secured a sacred place.  

Young in years yet wise in heart,  

A motherly soul, set apart.  

Your voice, a melody, lifts us all high,  

A songbird with a heavenly tie.  

The pillar for Frank, unwavering and bright,  

With three sons who bask in your light.  

A planner of peace, a soul so rare  

May blessings find you everywhere.  

Happy Birthday, dear Esther; this day we sing,  

For a life so cherished, a soul with wings.

God Knows Me

He fathoms every tear that falls,  
The silent sorrow, the heart’s soft calls.  
In shadowed corners where I flee,  
His love persists, unyielding, free.  

He discerns the burdens I conceal,  
The weight I bear, the wounds that heal.  
Each whispered plea, each quiet sigh,  
Reaches the One who sees the why.  

He knows my joy, my fleeting bliss,  
The quiet moments I long to miss.  
He understands my deepest needs,  
And answers every prayer that pleads.  

Through tempests fierce, through darkest skies,  
He holds me close, He never lies.  
His love, a force beyond compare,  
A constant presence, always there.  

When shadows loom and doubts arise,  
He lifts me up, He hears my cries.  
In every breath, in every strain,  
His gentle whispers ease my pain.  

For He is God, and He is grace,  
A steady hand, my sacred place.  
He knows me wholly, mind and soul,  
And loves me, making me whole.

In the Shadow of Uncertainty

Sleep eluded me last night

its tender hands withdrew

as if afraid to touch the tremor in my soul.

The ceiling became a vast confessional,

echoing the silent ache of unspoken dread.

Time, indifferent and cruel,

marched across my mind in ticking footsteps,

each beat a reminder

that stability itself is a fragile guest.

My thoughts, rebellious and unrelenting

assembled their parade of fears.

The specter of loss loomed large,

its voice a cold recitation

of all I might become without this anchor of labor.

Anxiety sat beside me,

a phantom companion tracing its icy fingers

along the frail edges of my composure.

My chest rose and fell like a prayer unspoken,

and yet no peace descended.

Then, from beneath the ruin of unrest,

a subtler voice began to rise

not loud, nor insistent,

but steady, like light beneath closed eyes.

It murmured not of deliverance,

but of assurance, ancient, unwavering:

“All shall be well.”

And in that fragile whisper,

faith stirred within the ashes of fear.

The storm remained,

yet its violence softened

before the calm authority of hope.

Though the morrow is veiled in uncertainty,

I will stand still in its shadow,

clinging not to certainty, but to grace

for even in despair’s hollow chambers,

the Divine composes silence into song,

and the trembling heart learns again

that courage, too, can whisper.

Come, Let Us Worship

O come, let hearts in chorus rise,

To lift a song that shakes the skies

A joyful noise, both loud and true,

To praise the God who carries through.

We enter in with grateful song,

With psalms that to His name belong.

The Rock of Ages, firm and wide,

Our Refuge where we long abide.

The Lord is great; no throne above,

No power greater, none more love.

The King above all gods and pride,

Whose voice the mighty stars abide.

He holds the deep and silent lands,

The ocean depths are in His hands.

The hills, in strength, rise at His word,

And echo back the name they’ve heard.

The sea He formed with perfect grace,

The dry land shaped, each line in place.

Creation sings with holy flame,

Each leaf and stone bears out His name.

Come, let us worship, bow, and kneel,

Before the One whose touch we feel.

The Lord, our Maker, kind and just,

Who leads the flock with patient trust.

We are His sheep. He calls, we know,

His voice is peace, His way is slow.

If today His voice you hear,

Let faith arise and cast out fear.

O come, let praise be not delayed

The path of joy is humbly laid.

In stillness, let our spirits rise,

To worship Him who never dies.

The Last Signature

I held the paper like a dying promise,

a ghost of everything we once called forever.

The ink waited, patient,

while my heart broke open,

its pieces whispering your name

like a prayer that heaven had long stopped answering.

I remember the way your laughter

used to penetrate my ears

light, familiar,

like dawn after a long night.

Now the silence between us

feels like a cathedral of echoes,

each one built from things we never said,

and the love I still can’t stop feeling.

You said I didn’t love you enough.

But how do I measure love?

By the sleepless nights I spent

trying to mend what I didn’t understand was broken?

By the apologies I whispered into the wind

hoping they would find your heart?

I gave everything I knew how to give,

but perhaps love, in its cruelest irony,

is sometimes lost not from absence,

but from difference

two souls reaching for each other

with hands shaped in opposite directions.

When the papers came,

my hands trembled like the last leaf of autumn

clinging to a dying branch.

The pen felt heavier than grief itself.

Every letter I signed

was a memory I buried

our first walk under the rain,

the night we talked until the stars slept,

the mornings your smile made even my fears feel holy.

I could not send them back.

I held them for days,

as if the paper might breathe,

as if time might take pity

and rewrite the ending.

But time is an unfeeling witness

it watches, it waits,

it never intervenes.

I asked myself a thousand times:

what could I have done differently?

Where did my words fail?

What did my silence cost?

There are no answers,

only the echo of what used to be us,

lingering like perfume on an empty shirt.

And yet, even now,

beneath the wreckage of everything familiar,

I still love you.

Not the way I used to

not with hope,

but with reverence.

The kind of love that grieves and prays

in the same breath.

The kind of love that understands

that sometimes keeping someone

means letting them go.

Today,

with the same trembling hands that once held you,

I signed again; this time in spirit,

not on paper.

I released you into your new life,

and myself into the quiet ache of remembering.

The world feels different now

emptier, slower,

as if even the wind hesitates to pass my door.

But love, real love, does not vanish;

it lingers,

like breath on glass,

like music after the song has ended.

And though my heart is bleeding in silence,

I still bless your name

in every prayer that escapes my shaking lips.

Today, I finally decided to let go.

Not because I want to,

but because I love you too deeply.

Because sometimes,

the truest kind of love

is not the one that holds on

but the one that breaks,

and still whispers,

Go and be happy, even if it’s without me.

A Sacred Pause

Today I breathe a sacred pause,

Not just for cake or loud applause

But for the hush within my soul,

Where broken things were made whole.

I trace the years not by the day,

But by the roads I’ve walked in faith.

The nights I wept, the dawns I rose,

The silent grace that held me close.

Chapters torn and pages worn,

Moments when my heart was torn.

Yet every scar, a line of light

Proof that God still held me tight.

He carried me when strength had fled,

Spoke peace into the fears I fed.

When I let go, He still held on,

And gently whispered: “Child, be strong.”

To every soul who crossed my way

A light, a storm, a truth, a stay

You shaped me with your joy or pain,

And taught me loss can still be gain.

To younger me, both fierce and small,

Who dared to rise after each fall

Thank you for the strength you gave

To walk through fire and still be brave.

And now I greet who I’ve become

Not perfect, but becoming one

Who walks in grace, who stands in truth,

Still learning from the roots of youth.

So on this day, I lift my eyes,

Beyond the gifts and sweet goodbyes

To thank the Giver, ever near,

Who writes my story year by year.

Each breath a gift, each step a vow,

Each trial shaping who I am now.

This birthday is not just a line in time

It’s a testament, a sacred sign.

A quiet altar, built with pain,

With mercy falling like the rain.

I stand, not whole, but held and known

By God, whose love has made me His own.

All glory to God.

Today Is My Birthday

But more than celebration,

it feels like consecration

a sacred pause in the noise

to remember

how far I’ve come.

How far I’ve been carried.

I don’t just count the years.

I count the miles

my soul has walked barefoot,

sometimes through fire,

sometimes through silence

that screamed louder than words.

I remember the chapters

that nearly undid me

and the grace

that rewrote the ending.

I see the days I was sure

I wouldn’t make it.

Yet here I am.

Not because I was strong

but because God was.

I think about the faithfulness

that followed me into

every shadow.

The quiet hand that steadied mine

when I dropped the pen,

ready to let the story end.

But He kept writing.

He always does.

I remember the people.

The ones who stayed,

the ones who left,

the ones who loved me into healing

and the ones who bruised me into growing.

Each one

a thread in the refining.

I honor them.

Not all were kind,

but all were necessary.

And I turn inward

to the younger version of myself.

The boy who trembled

but walked anyway.

Who didn’t know what was ahead,

but kept going.

I want to tell him

You were never alone.

And you were braver than you knew.

Now, I look ahead

to the person I’m becoming

still raw, still real,

still stretching toward light.

Unfinished,

but chosen.

Grounded.

Becoming.

Today

is not just about age.

It is about witness.

It is about survival.

It is about standing at the edge

of everything that tried to break me,

and realizing

It didn’t.

I’m still here.

Breathing.

Healing.

Becoming.

And more than anything,

GRATEFUL.

To God Almighty who held me

when I was undone.

Who shielded me

from what I thought I wanted,

and gave me more

than I knew to ask for.

To the Giver of every breath,

every battle,

every breakthrough

this day belongs to You.

This birthday

is not just a mark on the calendar.

It is an altar

built from ashes,

laced with light.

And I

I am its offering.

All glory to God.

A Birthday Whisper

I cannot bring you flowers,

Nor light a candle near,

But in my heart I whisper,

“Happy Birthday, Grandma dear.”

Your love still walks beside me,

Your voice I sometimes hear,

Though heaven holds you closely,

On earth you still feel near.

Shadows and Sunbeams

A canvas wide, the sky so deep,

Where clouds like whispers gently creep.

The sun, a jewel, shining bright,

Spills golden rays, igniting light.

Beneath this vault, where heaven bends,

Each beam of hope and warmth descends,

Through drifting clouds that softly glide,

In this vast world, there’s room to hide.

But light breaks through with tender grace,

Revealing dreams we long to chase.

In every shadow, every gleam,

Awaits the birth of some new dream.

The palm trees bow, the winds they sing,

Of peace, of love, of everything.

Beneath this sky so pure and high,

We breathe, we hope, we dare to fly.

Let clouds embrace both sun and shade,

For in this dance, new paths are made.

And as the light shines on the land,

We find the strength to rise, to stand.

Not Ready to Let Go

You say it would be different,

If only I had known

If only I had held you right,

Or made your heart my home.

But hearts are never simple things,

They stumble, stretch, and bend,

And though I failed in many ways,

I never tried to pretend.

I showed up in the silence,

In the shadow and the storm,

I may not have loved you perfectly,

But I loved you deep and warm.

You wanted words I couldn’t find,

While I craved peace, not war,

And still I reached with trembling hands,

To try and give you more.

You say that you grew weary

Of begging for your due.

But love, I too was tired,

Of never being enough for you.

Not every fault was mine alone,

And not every tear was yours.

We both brought flames to sacred ground,

And burned behind closed doors.

Yet through it all, I held a hope,

That something real could grow

A quieter kind of sacred love,

A light we both could know.

So here I stand, not proud, but true,

With lessons I now see,

And say with all the strength I have:

Don’t give up on you and me.

Let’s not end with shattered words,

Or walk away too fast.

Some bonds are worth a second breath,

Some hearts are built to last.

The Gift of Music

O Music, breath of the soul unseen,

A whisper draped in golden sheen.

You came before the birth of word,

And in your silence, God was heard.

You are the pulse of every race,

The echo time cannot erase.

No tongue divides your sacred art

You speak in chords that reach the heart.

A cradle’s hum, a battle’s cry,

A lull beneath the stormy sky.

You are the weeping of the bowed,

The rising hope within the crowd.

How holy is the gift to sing,

To shape the air with trembling wing,

To lift a tune and let it fly,

And feel it catch eternity’s eye.

I thank You, Music living flame,

That burns in every voice and name.

You turn our grief to woven grace,

And kiss each tear on sorrow’s face.

In hands, in breath, in heart you dwell,

With every note, a tale to tell.

In choir, in cello, in whispered flute,

In laughter loud, in silence mute.

To sing is not just sound and breath

It’s life outshouting even death.

To write a phrase, to play a part,

Is heaven pulsing in the heart.

O gift divine, O sacred art,

You bridge the soul, you mend the heart.

Let all who’ve tasted your embrace,

Be messengers of light and grace.

Let me ever play and sing,

And help the joy of music ring.

Through me, through others, far and wide,

Let beauty be the truest guide.

For in your arms, we all belong

One world, one spirit, one great song.

Whispers of Sleep

Sleep, the hush in a hurried mind,

A velvet thread where dreams unwind.

You tiptoe in on silver wings,

Soft as lullabies silence sings.

You smooth the furrowed brow of care,

And lift the weight we didn’t know was there.

In folds of dusk, you gently sway,

The soul from noise to night’s ballet.

You’re the secret breath the stars exhale,

The poet’s ink, the traveler’s sail.

You cradle hearts in quiet grace,

And paint lost hopes on midnight’s face.

In your arms, the old grow young,

Regrets unspoken become unsung.

And lovers meet where clocks can’t tick,

In gardens grown from hours thick.

Yet you're a mystery cloaked in mist,

A fleeting dream the sun has kissed.

No promise made, no promise kept,

Still we return to where you’ve slept.

O gentle sleep, sweet thief of light,

Restore our bones, renew our sight.

For in your realm, both fierce and deep,

The soul remembers how to weep

Then wakes again, with strength to keep.

The Boy is the Father of the Man

In the cradle of life, a boy takes his place,  

A seed of strength in time's vast embrace.  

Eyes filled with wonder, dreams reaching high,  

An unshaped force beneath the sky.  

He stumbles, he rises, through trials unknown,  

Each lesson a brick where wisdom is sown.  

The laughter of youth, the courage to dare,  

The boy builds the man with loving care.  

Like the lion, he learns to lead with might,  

Guiding his pride through the darkest night.  

Yet gentle he stands, a pillar of grace,  

Guarding his home, his sacred space.  

In the home, he wears many a crown,  

Provider, protector, never backing down.  

Through storms and sunlight, he forges a way,  

Teaching his kin to hope and to pray.  

The boy grows to a man, steadfast and true,  

A beacon of strength in all that he’ll do.  

Yet the boy within never fades or wanes,  

For in his innocence, wisdom remains.  

Oh, father of the man, O child divine,  

Through you, God's image does brightly shine.  

Leader in society, a voice for the weak,  

The man reflects what the boy did seek.  

So honor the boy, for within lies the plan

A journey to become the father of the man.

The Cup of Shadows

Beneath the olive trees, a trembling plea 

“Let this cup pass…” yet blood, not tears, fell free.  

The ground drank deep His sorrow’s bitter stain,  

As stars recoiled from unrelenting pain.  

A kiss betrayed the torchlight’s jagged glare,  

Cold chains embraced the Hands that fashioned air.  

The Sanhedrin’s scorn, like serpents, hissed lies,  

While mercy pooled in His undaunted eyes.  

They dressed Him in robes of mock-royal jest,  

A crown of thorns to bruise His holy brow.  

“Hail, King of Jews!” they laughed, and struck His chest 

The God who breathed their souls bore their malice now.  

No friend stood near when Pilate washed his hands;  

The mob’s roar swelled “Crucify!” demands.  

The lash’s teeth tore flesh to scarlet streams,  

Each stripe a dirge for souls He’d die to redeem.  

He climbed the hill, the crossbeam gouging deep,  

Each splintered step a vow He chose to keep.  

The nails screamed home His wrists, His feet to wood  

That groaned beneath the weight of sin’s dark flood.  

“Save Yourself!” they jeered, as heaven held its breath,  

While thieves reviled Him, bargaining with death.  

Vinegar raised, His parched lips met the sting,  

Yet still He whispered love to those who swung the sting.  

No sun dared watch the sky wept black and wild,  

As earth convulsed for her Creator, reviled.  

“It is finished…” the cry that split the night

A shattered heart, the cost of mercy’s fight.  

They pierced His side, drew blood and water’s toll,  

Then cast dark lots to claim His seamless robe.  

No stone-carved dirge could mourn this depth of loss 

The Lamb, once slain, bore every wound, every cross.

When the World Was Still Small

Children

they arrive like dawn breaking

after a long night of doubt,

each breath they take a hymn

we didn’t know our hearts could sing.

They speak the language of beginnings,

their laughter spilling over the edges of time,

reminding us what it means to be unafraid

of joy.

They chase light as if it were touchable,

as if hope itself could be caught

in the palm of a hand

and carried home for keeps.

Their eyes wide as mercy

see what we have forgotten:

the holiness of mud,

the poetry in puddles,

the quiet bravery of a butterfly

that keeps flying despite its paper-thin wings.

They cry without apology,

love without caution,

forgive without being taught

each moment for them is the first,

and they live it fully,

as though eternity were a sandbox

and they, the architects of wonder.

Sometimes, I watch them

and envy their unbroken trust in mornings,

their certainty that someone will come

when they call.

And I think perhaps the world’s truest prayer

is the sound of a child sleeping,

the rise and fall of a small chest

believing, without knowing how,

that it is safe.

Children

they do not belong to us,

but through them,

we glimpse the better parts of ourselves

the softer edges,

the dreams we once wore

before the world grew too heavy to hold.

And maybe, just maybe,

they are not our future at all,

but our redemption

sent to remind us

of the days

when the world was still small,

and love was enough

to fill it.

WISH

A wish upon a star so bright,

A dream that's born in the quiet night.

May fortune smile and luck prevail,

And all your heart's desires set sail.

May wishes whispered in the air,

Find their way to you, beyond compare.

May joy and love forever shine,

And all your wishes be divine.

Dawn of Endless Grace

Dawn unfurls her rosy veil across the hill,

And with her gentle breath, despair is still.

Where shadows clung to broken hearts below,

A risen Savior bids the darkness go.

Tears once soaked the soil of Calvary’s slope,

Now glisten as dew tokens of boundless hope.

The stone once sealed in silent, mocking scorn

Lies cast aside, as grief is now reborn.

Behold the gift: repentance whispered sweet,

Forgiveness flowing warm at wounded feet.

Grace, a crimson river, floods each weary soul,

Healing every fracture, making shattered whole.

Infinite atonement light without an end,

A covenant of love that death cannot suspend.

He walks through morning’s glow with gentle hand,

Guiding us onward to that promised land.

Beneath His banner of mercy, fears unwind,

Protection carved in scars we cannot find.

From hopeless night to resurrection’s song,

We rise with Him redeemed, secure, and strong.

Eternal progression blooms in every heart,

A journey graced by love that will not part.

In Christ’s triumph, sorrow meets its release,

And in His victory, all creation sings of peace.

Triumphant Entry

In the gentle glow of a rising day,  

Amidst whispers of ancient prophecy’s sway,  

Came He, the King, in humble grace,  

Entering Jerusalem’s sacred space.  

Palm branches waved in joyful cheer,  

As hearts awakened and faith drew near;  

“Hosanna!” cried the gathered throng,  

For in His presence, hope grew strong.  

On a modest colt, He rode with might,  

A symbol of peace in the morning light,  

Fulfilling words once softly told,  

Of a Savior coming, brave and bold.  

The streets were lined in vibrant display,  

Where tears of joy and praise held sway;  

The people’s voices rose as one,  

A triumph song for the Holy Son.  

In every step, divine love was cast,  

A promise of salvation meant to last;  

The weight of sin began to lift,  

As time and sorrow found their shift.  

Jerusalem’s walls echoed the refrain,  

Of miracle and mercy that would sustain;  

The King of kings had come to restore,  

A broken world, forevermore.  

So let this day be etched in our hearts,  

A reminder that every journey starts  

With humble hope and faith’s embrace 

The triumphant entry, a gift of grace.

In the Shadows of Gethsemane

In the dark, desolate garden of night,  

Where trembling souls gathered in sorrow's plight,  

There He knelt with a burden vast and grim,  

Consumed by anguish from the approaching doom within.

Tears flowed as silent testament to pain,  

Each droplet an echo of humanity's strain.  

In the lonely gloom of olive trees' despair,  

He wrestled with the weight of a cross too heavy to bear.

Bitter sweat like blood marked His brow,  

A poignant sacrifice, He could not disavow.  

In that cursed hour, despair and dread intertwined,  

As He pleaded for strength to free His tormented mind.

The bitter taste of agony filled the air,  

While voices of mockery rose in a cruel affair.  

Insults and jeers, like arrows, pierced the night  

“King of the Jews,” they spat without respite.

He suffered the sting of derision and scorn,  

A solitude in His anguish, deeply mourned.  

Every lash, every jeer, every scornful call  

Wove a torment as His spirit began to fall.

He bore the weight of all sin and disdain,  

In lonely Gethsemane, He felt the world’s pain.  

The agony of betrayal, the burden of shame,  

In every heart-wrenching moment, none would be the same.

As the crown of thorns pressed His gentle head,  

The echoes of insults and bitter words were spread.  

Pain unrelenting, the agony of mortal plight  

A silent cry in the dark that marked His final fight.

In the shadows of death, He embraced His fate,  

Suffering in silence, no reprieve, no escape.  

A solemn sacrifice on the cross displayed,  

A testimony of love in torment unswayed.

Thus stands the memory of that mournful day,  

Of sorrow, suffering, and wounds that will not fade away.  

In silent reverence we recall His excruciating pain

A love unyielding, etched in eternal refrain.

The Miracle of the Empty Tomb

Before the dawn had kissed the sky,  

A stone was rolled, a tomb laid bare,  

Where death had sworn to claim its throne,  

Found nothing but the morning’s prayer.  

Behold the cross, its splintered wood,  

Still echoes with the weight of love,  

Where heaven’s breath met mortal blood,  

And mercy stormed the gates above.  

His brow, once crowned with thorns and night,  

Now wears the diadem of sun,  

Each wound a star, each scar a light,  

To guide the lost and ransomed ones.  

Who bore the curse, the scourge, the nails,  

The spear that pierced His sacred side?  

He carried freight of countless tales  

Of souls adrift in sin’s dark tide.  

The earth once trembled, veils were torn,  

Now cradles silence, deep and wide,  

A covenant from death is born  

A Lamb once slain, now glorified.  

O empty tomb, your hollowed throat  

Declares the debt He paid in full:  

Where grave and glory intersected,  

Hope’s anthem rises, beautiful.  

For every cry that goes unheard,  

For every heart that breaks and bends,  

He drank the cup of wrath incurred,  

That mercy might transcend our ends.  

Then come, you seekers of the dawn,  

With trembling hands and eyes unveiled,  

Behold the Man of Sorrows, gone  

To conquer where all others failed.  

The stone that sealed the Beloved’s fate  

Now marks the door death could not keep,  

For Love has rolled it back in weight,  

And we, who wept, now rise from sleep.  

So lift your voice with heaven’s throng,  

Let earth resound with holy flame,  

The empty tomb’s eternal song 

Christ has died, and Christ became.

The Essence of a Woman

She rises like dawn, fierce and aglow,  

A beacon of strength through life's ebb and flow.  

With beauty transcending the surface so fair,  

Her spirit weaves courage into the air.  

Her hands are soft, yet they carry the weight,  

Of dreams and hopes she lovingly creates.  

Her power resounds in the choices she makes,  

An architect of futures, the bonds she shapes.  

Faith is her anchor, hope is her song,  

A steady reminder to keep pressing on.  

Through storms she will stand, unwavering, tall,  

Her nurturing love a balm for all.  

Her influence whispers, yet moves like the tide,  

A quiet force shaping hearts far and wide.  

She leads with compassion, yet stands her own ground,  

A woman of wisdom, where strength is profound.  

In her, a universe blossoms and grows,  

Through trials and triumphs, her legacy flows.  

For she is the heart of the world, the divine,  

The eternal nurturer, timeless, sublime.

Unspoken Yearning

I wait for words as soft as dawn,

A gentle warmth when night is gone.

Yet silence fills the empty space,

Where love once bloomed with sweet embrace.

Do you remember whispered dreams?

Those tender notes, like flowing streams?

Now shadows drape the songs you sang,

Leaving my heart a hollow pang.

Each day I ache for some small sign,

A look, a touch, to say you're mine.

But all I feel is distant cold,

A silent tale, too sad to hold.

I wonder if you’ve lost the spark,

The light that once dispelled the dark.

I yearn to know the love’s not dead,

To hear sweet words once softly said.

Yet here I stand, in empty rooms,

A heart that waits, a love that blooms.

For just one word, a gentle line,

To feel once more that you are mine.

He Will Guide the Future as He Has the Past

With hands of love, so tender and vast,

He guides the future as He has the past.

A Father divine, with mercy unfurled,

Shielding His children from the storms of the world.

Through valleys shadowed, dark and deep,

His watchful eyes never cease to keep.

Protecting His own from every snare,

An eternal guardian, always there.

He blesses abundantly, meeting each need,

Planting hope’s seeds where His children plead.

When paths seem dim and trials oppress,

His light shines through with loving caress.

From dangers unseen, He pulls us near,

Dispelling every doubt, quelling each fear.

A supernal power, majestic and kind,

In His embrace, solace we find.

Through winds that howl and tempests that rage,

His promises steady, His word our stage.

The future unknown may seem vast and grim,

Yet we rest assured, trusting in Him.

For His love is eternal, steadfast, and true,

A beacon of hope in all that we do.

With hearts full of faith, we boldly cast,

Our trust in Him, as He guides the future as He has the past.

A Song of Gratitude and Praise

O Lord, my God, how great Thou art,

From morning’s dawn to night’s last spark.

The world declares Thy matchless might,

In stars that glimmer, in skies alight.

For life’s first breath and beating heart,

For love that binds, though we're apart.

For hands to serve, for feet to roam,

For earth beneath, and heaven, my home.

The rivers sing; the mountains cry,

Their voices lift to pierce the sky.

The flowers bloom, the oceans roar,

All testify of Thee and more.

In joy and sorrow, peace and strife,

Thou art the giver of all life.

For daily bread, for trials too,

Each moment draws me nearer You.

For friendships dear, for family’s care,

For answered prayers, and those still there.

For hope that shines when shadows fall,

Thy grace sustains and blesses all.

O let my heart, in humble tone,

Lift up its thanks before Thy throne.

Forever grateful, Lord, I'll raise

A ceaseless song of love and praise.

Amen.