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

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.

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.