I unveiled my skill for writing poems when I was in my own tomb. A season of my life filled with silence, heaviness, and spiritual stillness. Back then, poetry became my prayer, my therapy, my confession. I wrote from a place of deep wrestling, sometimes with God, sometimes with myself. I used to write poems in the shadows, not because I had the answers, but because I was desperate for resurrection. Writing wasn’t just a creative outlet it was survival. In those quiet hours, when hope felt buried, poems became a way to dig through the darkness, searching for light. Friends “Watch This” is more than a poem. It’s a testimony from my tomb and a reminder that even when the stone is rolled in place, and it feels like the end, Jesus is up to something. So if you’re in your own tomb era then hold on. The Author hasn’t finished writing. And when He does, you’ll hear Him say with a smile, Watch this.

Watch This

They hung Him high, then pierced His side,
A crown of thorns, who He was, denied
The crowd grew still, the sky turned black,
It looked like death had won the track.

The cross was meant to be the end,
No more teacher, no more friend.
With no more breath and battered frame,
The grave received Him without shame.

But Heaven whispered through the morning mist
“Hold on a minute 

You gotta watch this.“

The stone was rolled, the tomb undone,
The silence shattered by the Son.
Death lost its sting, sin lost its claim,
And grace lit up the world again.

This wasn’t just a tale retold,
It’s hope reborn, it’s love made bold.
It’s God who paints with mercy’s hue,
And rewrites stories, like me and you.

She came alone at noon’s high heat,
Ashamed to walk the village street.
The well was deep, her heart was dry,
Another day to just get by.

Five husbands gone, her shame well-known,
She got her water all alone.
But then a voice, a man, a Jew,
Who spoke as if He really knew.

He told her all she’d ever done,
And offered grace beneath the sun.
No scorn, no stone, just living stream,
A holy pause, a grace-filled dream.

And what if that same woman, brave,
Returned one day and saw the grave
What if the one who once felt loss
Had come to weep beneath the cross

And what if she, with trembling grace,
Reached up and wiped her Savior’s face
The One who knew her at the well
Had journeyed far, to rescue hell.

Now friend, I ask, what weighs you down
What chains of shame, what thorny crown
Where have you whispered, This must be
The end of hope, the end of me

But listen close, He’s not yet through.
The stone that rolled was rolled for you.
Where death had sealed the final page,
He tore it open in His rage.

For grace still walks through bolted doors,
Still meets you on the dried-out shores.
Still interrupts the script you’ve known,
And calls your weary heart back home.

So when your strength feels small and thin,
And darkness whispers, You won’t win,
Remember this, with holy bliss—
Your Savior smiles and says:

Watch this