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“No sun, no moon, no stars, no light,
No colours penetrate the night;
Can’t see my hand before my face,
All is pitch black dark in this place.
A putrid hole; it smells of mould;
The walls run damp, my bed stone cold;
Rats scurry ‘round, bugs big and small
On skin and hair; they bite and crawl.
This dungeon deep is where I dwell;
Some men would say—a living hell!!
For gospel preaching I’m down here;
I’m not left alone—Christ is near.
Though men conspire to kill the light,
Prefer the black, abhor the white,
Consign our lives to dungeon holes,
They can’t imprison hearts and souls.
All those who’ve come to light in Christ,
Those redeemed through his sacrifice
Are free in Him where’er they be
And none can bind what Christ sets free.
Tomorrow morn the fire I face;
‘God be my strength, supply me grace,
Be with me in the furnace then
As a testament to other men’.”
I write this as an epitaph
To those who trod the martyr’s path;
Unknown to us—to God they’re known—
We are the fruit of seeds they’ve sown.
The opinions expressed by authors may not necessarily reflect the opinion of FaithWriters.com.
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