Jesus' Feet

Modern day battles wear no steel,

No clashing swords, no sharpened heel—

They rise in silence, clothed in doubt,

Where screens and noise drown Heaven out.

But warriors still are called to stand,

Not with the sword, but with the Lamb.

Their strength is not in worldly might,

But feeding daily on the Light.

Each morning spent at Jesus’ feet,

Is victory found in slow retreat—

From anxious hearts and frantic pace,

To stillness in His Word of grace.

Feeding is fighting. Every verse,

A weapon forged to break the curse.

Each word a seed, each prayer a blade,

In Christ’s own strength, the dark must fade.

No time with Him is ever lost,

Though rest may come at heavy cost.

The world may scoff, "You waste the day!"

But Heaven counts each breath you pray.

For every line your soul repeats,

Each promise whispered in defeat,

Is armor placed upon your frame—

The Word, your fire. The Word, your flame.

So fight today the quiet war:

Open the Book. Step through the door.

Feed on His love, His truth, His peace—

In Christ alone, your wars will cease.