On days when the sun kisses your face,
And triumphs cadence warms your base.
When every deed seems sovereign, sublime,
And the world before you, bends to your rhyme.
Repose, reflect, let pride abate,
For your mortal feats cannot negate,
The unreachable depths of divine embrace;
Even at your zenith, you need His grace.
No Everest scaled, no laurel gained,
Can render grace diminished or waned.
Your finest, though bright it may burn,
Is but a flicker where grace sojourns.
For His grace eternal, transcends all height,
A luminous balm in darkest night.
It girds the soul, unseen and profound,
The ceaseless force upon which your bound.
Relinquish the myth of self-contained might,
For even the stars borrow heaven’s light.
So bow to His truth, let arrogance cease,
For none surpass the need for peace.
In life’s crescendo, His hand I trace,
Towards my father forever I give chase.
In search of my God, I’ll always keep pace,
To let my life be a heavenly showcase.
To never forget what on the cross took place,
No heights I reach will ever replace,
My unending need for his boundless grace.

You stupid piece of nothing
The voice repeats inside,
A shadow clinging closely
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide
Every mirror turns to daggers,
Every step feels out of place.
Why try when failure’s certain?
Why hope when you’re a waste?
But deeper than the venom,
Beyond the storm’s refrain,
There’s a voice that calls me softly,
Through the chaos and the pain.
You are fearfully and wonderfully made
My hands wove your heart with care.
In your darkest self-loathing chambers,
My Child, I am already there.
Before your thoughts could hurt you,
Before the shame took root,
I knew you and I loved you
You are more than what you do.
I argue with the whisper,
I drown it in my doubt.
But it waits, it doesn’t waver
Its mercy won’t burn out.
You’re not the sum of failures,
Nor the weight of what you lack.
You are My beloved creation,
On you I will not turn back.
The insults keep on coming,
But now they meet a shield
A truth that’s deep and holy,
A love that will not yield.
I am more than the echoing hatred,
More than the lies I believe.
I am known, and I am cherished,
In this truth, I’ll learn to breath.

Beneath the willow’s weeping shade,
Ophelia drifted, unafraid.
A crown of flowers graced her hair,
Yet sorrow’s weight had led her there.

The water beckoned soft and low,
Its currents pulling her to woe.
Like sin’s allure, it whispered sweet,
Yet trapped her soul beneath its feet.

Her garments heavy, drew her down,
The flow embraced her like a crown.
So too does sin, with quiet art,
Ensnare the soul, betray the heart.

The fleeting beauty she displayed,
Was like the life in sin arrayed.
A fleeting joy, a fleeting peace,
Yet death’s dark shadow will not cease.

But Christ, the Lord, has called us near,
To cast away the drowning fear.
His blood, the stream of life divine,
Redeems the heart, restores the spine.

No willow bows where grace is found,
For mercy lifts what sin has drowned.
Ophelia’s tale, though sad, may be,
A warning turned to victory.

For every heart that drifts astray,
A Savior waits to light the way.
So leave the stream, the depths, the night,
And step into His perfect light.

I knelt with empty hands and hollowed heart,
No words weaved, no prayers to start.
My tongue was still, my soul unspoken,
A vessel, a spirit broken.
The weight of silence pressed my chest,
No eloquence, no voice confessed
I searched for phrases I couldn't find,
A prayer unformed, lost in my mind.
But in the quiet, a warmth arose,
A familiar presence my heart still knows.
No perfect lines, no rhyme to share,
And yet somehow, he was already there.
He heard the ache I could not name,
The quiet cry, my hidden shame.
You wiped the tears I hadn't shown,
The depths of me, you've always known.
So I sat, with hands held wide,
In you my God, I always abide.
In the stillness, your love is clear,
My wordless prayer reached your ear.
For in my void, you still speak,
To my heart, compared to you, so frail and weak.
No crafted speech, no grand display,
You heard my soul that couldn't pray.

He sat among the twelve, the betrayer unknown,
His heart concealed, his sin not shown
But Jesus, knowing all, with tender grace,
Met Judas’ gaze and held his place.
No word of scorn, no hint of disdain,
No bitterness marred the love maintained.
He washed his feet with the same gentle care,
As though no betrayal was hidden there.
At supper’s table, His voice soft and kind,
He broke the bread, His love intertwined.
“This is my body, broken for you,”
Even for Judas, the promise was true.
To love your enemy, to bless the one,
Who trades your life for thirty silver and none.
This is the measure of love divine,
To hold no grudge, to give no sign.
When Judas kissed Him in the garden’s deep,
Jesus met him with eyes that weep.
“Friend,” He said, as soldiers drew near,
A word of love, untainted by fear.
And so the secret remained untold,
For love like this is pure as gold.
To love as Jesus did, so real and true,
To bless even those who betray you.
For in His grace, we learn and see,
If Jesus can love a betrayer like Judas
Then he can love a betrayer like me

How much must I close my heart,
to see your soul drifting,
and say nothing?
To hold the key to eternity,
but keep it hidden in trembling hands.

What fear binds my tongue?
What pride blinds my eyes?
How much must I love my comfort,
to leave you lost in the dark?
I **** you with my silence.

If I believe in a light
that shatters death,
that has power over the grave,
how can I keep it from you?

Every moment I stay silent,
is a choice,
a denial of the hope I claim.
If I believe, if truly I believe like I say
Then why do I **** you with my silence?
How much must I hate you
to let you walk alone?

It is not kindness to say nothing.
It is not compassion to let you remain.
My silence does not free you of rules,
it does not free you of consequences,
My silence damns you

So my silence I must break,
Even if it costs me everything,
even if you turn away.
Because to love
is to share what cannot be lost

The Word takes flesh, the dark ignites,
Eternal dawn in frailest light.
A manger throne, the heavens quake
What King is this, for sinners’ sake?

The angels sing, the skies resound,
The shepherds bow on holy ground.
The stars declare, the wise draw near
What Child is this, whom we revere?

Love bends the skies, a Son is given,
The key to earth, the gate of heaven.
Behold the Lamb, end of world’s despair,
God dwells with us, beyond compare.

The sun descends, its golden light refrains,
A canvas brushed with amber’s fleeting hues.
Through whispered winds, the day’s last joy remains,
A fleeting kiss the twilight can’t refuse.

The sky ignites in crimson’s soft embrace,
A fiery bloom that time will soon unlace.
Yet in its glow, a quiet peace imbues,
Each moment held, a perfect, fragile space.

The clouds alight, their edges etched with fire,
While shadows stretch like secrets yet to tell.
The day retires, its heart no longer higher,
But leaves behind a gentle, sweet farewell.

And though the night comes in
And all gets colder and blood runs thin
The beauty forever holds with these
Pulchra ignis finis

I met a traveler from a distant place
who spoke of ruins buried not in sand
but in a mountain of refuse,
where glass and steel jutted like bones
from the carcass of a city.

There, among the wreckage of progress,
a fractured head lay,
its gaze hollow, its mouth locked in a grin
both triumphant and cruel.
A hand, severed, still reached upward,
grasping for something unseen.

On a shattered pedestal nearby,
words etched deep into tarnished metal:
“Behold my greatness, all who pass by,
and bow before what I have wrought.”

Around it, silence.
The monuments of men—crushed plastic,
twisted wires, broken screens—
formed its audience, indifferent and eternal.

The traveler paused,
surveying the heap that swallowed the horizon.
“All that they built,
all that they fought to preserve,
is here, decaying in the shadow
of their ambition.”

And so the mountain grew,
layer upon layer of forgotten dreams,
while the wind carried whispers of kings
whose names no one spoke.

In the stillness of dusk, a blackbird descended,
its feathers glistening with the weight of night.
Its eyes like embers, an alluring glow
it whispered into the dark.
pierced the man’s silence,
its voice a low hum, dark and familiar.
lies come to the blackbird as easy as breathing.

“Come,” it murmured,
“Leave the earth behind.
There is no peace in your toil,
no justice in your suffering.
I will give you wings,
a kingdom of wind and shadow,
a place where pain is swallowed whole.
You have no need for God,
I will make you King.”

The man’s breath faltered.
The promises settled into his chest,
their edges jagged, cutting through memory.
He thought of his failures,
the burdens he carried like stones in his soul.
The blackbird leaned closer,
its presence both suffocating and magnetic.

“I see you,” it said.
“Your wounds, your shame, your endless striving.
There is no need to fight anymore.
Come, and you will reign.”

But from within him rose another voice—
gentle, steady, like a stream over stone.
It spoke of a cross,
of blood spilled for love,
of a victory not born of power,
but of sacrifice.

The man turned his gaze to the blackbird,
its form now trembling,
its shadow unraveling in the growing light.
“I will not follow you,” he said,
his voice firm,
carrying the weight of a name
he could not deny.

The blackbird screeched,
its cry swallowed by the dawn.
into ashes it became, scattered by the wind.

The man stood,
the weight in his chest lifted.
The world stretched before him,
not free of suffering,
but full of purpose.
He walked forward,
toward the light that called him home.

When the shadows loom, and worries rise,
And doubt whispers low, hope seems to die,
Weight of the world feels down on your chest
Turn to the Savior; He offers you rest.
For Jesus, the Shepherd, so tender and kind,
Knows every thought in your heart, your mind.
Walks through your valleys, always by your side, He is your home when there is nowhere to hide.
The storms of this life may rage and assail,
But the Author of peace will always prevail.
With hands that heal, with love that endures,
He writes your story, and His plans are sure.
The God of creation, the Maker of all,
Hears every whisper, cry and call.
No thread in your life is spun without care,
For the Author of grace has placed it there.
So why would you trust any other hand,
To write the story of your life’s plan?
He sees the triumph, the ending , the light,
When even all seems consumed by the night.
Lay down your worry, lay down your fear,
For the King of Kings shall always be near
The pen in His hand holds mercy untold,
Each chapter weaved, precious than gold.
Trust in the Savior, your story’s best part,
Is written with love from the depths of His heart.
When your last page has reached its dawn
You’ll see you were his masterpiece all along.

For there is a reason for living
For my life the Lord keeps giving
But it feels as if I need a reason
To keep on going in this season
I look to the world for guidance
But all I have found is silence
The things of this world do not fulfill
One day health will fall downhill
When all the money and stones are dust
When all the silver and gold are rust
What is my reason for living
An empty life feels fitting
But God has something more
My path to hell is gone
He has settled the score
My life begins a new dawn
The veil between now undrawn
Freedom he has given me
A beautiful purpose from thee
I am forgiven no matter my flaws
All of this world aside I must toss
This new life I must share
To all others who live in despair
For your life is not a loss
Behold the man upon a cross