Love
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No blade He drew, no war He won,yet darkness trembled at the Son.He bore no flag, led no parade,but wore a crown the thorns had made. While kings demand and tyrants strive,His mercy made the dead alive.Love, not conquest, broke the night.The Cross, not sword, became His might. Read more
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Arms stretched on the treemercy flows from every woundpure, unearned, and wideeven death bows to His lovestill He calls me by my name Read more
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He isbreath of life,the stillness in which the voice of Godspoke light into being.He walked in Eden’s hush,not as echo or wind,but as Presence. He isthe fire that burned without consuming,the whisper Moses could not name.He etched commandments into stone,and in the fullness of timeoffered His hands to be pierced by them. He isthe thunder Read more
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I do not hold the cure,nor the answer,nor the strength to mend what’s broken,but I know the One who does. In silence, then,deeper than my knowing,I lift your name to Godlike a fragile flame in trembling hands,to the altar of mercy. Not to fix,but to carry.Not to control,but to surrender. In this offering,somehow,your pain becomes Read more
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Maybe this morningyou’ll catch me being Christ to someone.A quiet kindness, unseen yet felt,a patience that steadies a weary heart,a love that does not ask but gives. Maybe this morningyou’ll see the face of God in my eyes.No radiant brilliance or grandeur,just a soft smile of mercy,and the warmth of a heart turned outward. Maybe Read more
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Not my will,for it falters with fearand bends toward comfort.But Yours,steady and burningwith holy love. Teach me to liveas You have spoken,not just in great moments,but in the quiet yesof morning surrender,in the unseen kindness,in the heavy lifting of grace. You have made menot for self-glory,but for Your delight,reflecting Your mercy,carrying Your peace,being a living Read more
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The snapped crayon,splintered in weary hands,no longer whole, no longer perfect—just a fragment of what once was. God gathers the pieces,pressing them against the canvas of eternity,where cracks do not limit color,but deepen its depth, its meaning, its grace. The jagged edges, the worn-down tips,the wax too melted to hold its shape.He does not discard, Read more
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We watched Him die,the sky torn open,the earth groaning beneath the weight of sorrow.We stood, breathless,at the foot of the splintered tree,where mercy bled and hope seemed lost. We wept (oh, how we wept)until the silence of the tombbecame the silence of our own hearts. But then,O morning of mornings!stone rolled away, light pouring in,and Read more
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The stone was rolled but not by handsNor Roman might nor weeping friendBut by the weight of Glory’s breathThe crushing of death’s own end What fullness speaks from emptinessWhat voice resounds from vacant spaceYet here within this hollowed graveEternity unveils its face The linen folds no body’s weightYet every wound is sanctifiedThe marks remain but Read more
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Not the thorn,twisted cruelly into brow,nor the lash,ripping skin from bone,nor the jeering mouths,spitting scorn at Love Incarnate. Not the timber’s weight,splitting the shoulders of Innocence,nor the hammer’s pounding,sealing wrists to splintered wood,nor the blood, thickening the earth,unrecognized by the ones it would ransom. The good is deeper and more powerful,buried beneath agony,seeded in sorrow. Read more
Prayerfully Poetic 