Christ Our King and Hope, in Poetry

Poems by Ryan Diaz
Photo by  Ismael Paramo on Unsplash


The God of Golgotha;

Enthroned on a skull.

The conquering king-

With a crown of thorns.

The perpetually loved

And forsaken son.

The eternal God,

Who made flesh his home

And learned to reign

By giving up his throne.

Photo by KEEM IBARRA on Unsplash


Born on a bedside

Nursed in the dark

Forgotten in the morning

Hidden in the heart.

Shared like a secret

Screamed in despair

Sung like a song

No Sound fills the air.

Carved out of questions

Stitched with a hope

Shaped by the faith

Of men trying to cope.

About Ryan Diaz

Ryan Diaz is a poet, lecturer, and theologian from Queens, NY. He holds a BA in History from St. John’s University, and he is currently completing a MA in Biblical Studies. Diaz’s writing attempts to find the divine in the ordinary, the thin place where fantasy and reality meet. Diaz’s work has been featured in Scribble, Ekstasis, Wingless Dreamer, In Parentheses, Tempered Runes Press, and The Washington Institute. He currently lives in Queens, NY, with his wife, Janiece. For more information, visit Diaz on Instagram.

For more inspirational content, please visit our Lost Pen Blog page. To download Lost Pen Magazine, visit our Magazine Issues page. 

Poetry: Burden Racing

Poem by Maed Rill Monte
Photo by  Braden Collum on Unsplash

The world being 

an auction of methods

and a competition of weights.

Unsatisfied, in seeing much.

Hearing many, knows the minimum.

Somewhere near, even within,

the Spirit leading: there, there.

Far to the back, old and rugged 

and all-permeating: the Cross, the weight

to choose. To boast

of none, but it. To lose

it all, but it.

Shouldering the Cross,

a racetrack comes to sight.

Something tells I’m born to run;

set these feet on glory road.

No horizon light but an inner light;

no score of trumpets but a quiet thought.

Face set like flint, presses on.

The Way to the narrow gate found;

not a walk in the park

but a work of sacrifice—

so the serpent sheds skin on occasion

and even the forbidden tree

let go of one fruit.

About Maed Rill Monte

Maed Rill Monte is a poet hailing from Ormoc City, Philippines. He started crafting poetry at seventeen, influenced by G.K. Chesterton, Edgar Albert Guest and many others. He lives with his family, books, and an unnamed dog. For more, visit him on Facebook or contact him at

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Faith, in Poetry

Poems by Ruth Callaghan do Valle
Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash
Photo by Anuja Mary Tilj on Unsplash

Raised up

Staked as a snake
Raised up in the wilderness
Bringing healing to all those who
Stake their hope on you

Struck down once
To raise up the down-trodden
You’ve trodden down the serpent’s head
Raised to strike you

Now raised to glory
Restored to rightful rule
Hell-raider, Hope-raiser
Earth-shaker, Homemaker

Photo by Corinne Kutz on Unsplash

Never lost to You

Yearning to begin again
Spurning sin again
Learning to love again
Burning to belong again

But I have never been cast off
Once found, I have often
Lost sight of You
But I am never lost to You

You are the Finder
The Founder of my faith
The firm Rock beneath my feet
The firm grip on my hand
As I flounder beneath the waves

You are the One who holds me
Upholds me
Enfolds me
You mould me
You’ve told me
You’ll make me whole again

About Ruth Callaghan do Valle

Ruth Callaghan do Valle writes in English with forays into Portuguese, and currently lives in small-town rural Brazil with her husband and toddler. You can follow Callaghan do Valle on Twitter and find her spoken word poems on Instagram and her poetry and posts about life in Brazil on her blog. 

For more inspirational content, please visit our Lost Pen Blog  page. To download Lost Pen Magazine, visit our Magazine Issues page. 

Poetry: Cry to the Lord

Cry to the Lord

by Lynne Farmer

photo by  Diana Simumpande, Unsplash

I heard someone 

                crying the other night

                           as I lay safe in my bed

            to describe it seemed 

                    impossible but then 

               like a message sent in the night sounding out its call—

I could hear . . . the cry of a little boy 

                     as he lay on the filthy ground, 

                          rubbing the dirt from his face the other boys had thrown

                 trying his hardest not to cry 

                            while the other kids just stood and watched. . .

Oh, Lord, You see it all as You did once long ago

                hearing the boy’s plaintive cry

                          longing for him or anyone else 

            to cry out to the One who knows and understands.

            Then, the sounds of crying came again—

                         this time in a high school girl’s restroom

                   as a girl locked in a stall cries achingly, 

                        clutching the letter that made her doubt 

                                        everything, even herself,

            and some people saw her coming apart but only watched. . .

Oh, Lord, You see it all as You did once long ago

                hearing the girl’s plaintive cry

                          longing for her or anyone else 

            to cry out to the One who knows and understands.

Still again the picture changes to a hospital room 

                          where a grieving family awaits a miracle

                                      for their young son,

                          tears later flowing down as his body stills 

                                            yet his spirit soars on. . .

Oh, Lord, You see it all as You did once long ago

                hearing the family’s plaintive cry

                          longing for them or anyone else 

            to cry out to the One who knows and understands.

            One more time I heard crying in the night, 

                                              and then came

            the man hanging up on the cross in the middle of 

                                      two others crucified also, lamenting

                        “My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me!?”

            Oh, Lord, You saw then your Son’s pain, 

                          felt His longing as Your own 

                          and could have touched his grief easily, 

            but You heard beyond the years. . .

To the cries of the little boy hurting on the hard ground

                    and Your Love helped him dust off the dirt, 

                            to stand and You walked with him 

                                 as he left the others behind.

And Lord, You could even hear the cries of the teenage 

                          girl as her whole being broke 

and Your heart grieved too, yet Your Love 

                         shone through to her later and she felt 

                   Your warm Hand in hers.

Yes, Lord, You heard and were there with the grieving 

                 family, also holding their hands, wiping each 

                              precious tear and filling their hearts with the peace 

                      of knowing they would see their son again someday.

Suddenly, I could hear where the cries were coming from

                   and found myself hurrying down the hallway.

            There, sitting up on the bed clutching his favorite

                               rabbit was my little boy. 

            Tears ran down his face and onto his heart 

                           that was about to break,

            For he had cried out in the darkness 

                            thinking he was all alone. 

Opening the door brought a shaft of light 

                     inside dispelling the darkness

            as I reached out to scoop him up into my arms. 

His bawling stilled after a few minutes 

                      as I sang to him a song about Jesus’s Love.

 He is too young to understand right now that 

            he is never alone.

We are all never alone in our joy or sorrow

                       because Jesus became the way to the Light 

                        when He died upon that cross for all of us. 

Believe in Him and thereafter will you feel 

                 the warmth from the light of God’s face 

                                                     shining upon yours. 

            For you see, He loves us with an 

                      unspeakable joy in an everlasting time,

            enfolding us into His ever-loving arms 

                              when we but cry out for Him,

                      our Savior and our Lord forevermore. . .

About Lynne Farmer

Farmer hails from Stillwater, Oklahoma. She is married, has three children, and works as a teacher in the Head Start program. Farmer has been writing since the age of thirteen and is hopes to see more of her work published.

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Poetry: Peace

Photo by  @whoisbenjamin (Unsplash)



by Olowo Hope


The more I struggled, the more it grew

Pushing me further down deep.

The clouds above hovered in pity

Thunder spoke in roars

Lightning flashed through the walls of darkness,

I sunk deeper, fighting the waves.


 Bereft of strength, I yielded.

 Dancing to the drumbeats of fear, I surrendered.

 Letting go of me, my voice echoing for help

 The waves rose higher; the thunder roared louder,

 The lightning flashed all the more, enraged.


 But through the mighty wind, there came the sound of One running,

 In the fierce storm, my hand was held,

 And all fell still.


About Olowo Hope

Hope is a 17-year old from Nigeria. Her first poem, “A New Me,” will appear in Issue 3 of Lost Pen Magazine.

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