That’s Redemption—Take 2.

When I wrote Redemptions, I wasn’t trying to explain redemption so much as trace it—watch it happen in real places, under ordinary pressures.

Each cycle in the book begins with something that binds: sin, imitation, constraint, seriousness, noise, daily struggle.

And each cycle turns—not by avoiding the struggle, but by staying with it long enough for grace to do its quiet work.

In the Introduction, each movement ends the same way: That’s redemption.

Redemption, here, isn’t just forgiveness—though it includes forgiveness like in this poem:

“Deliverance”

Ponderous weight dost squelch my soul,

Heir of ’dam’s disgrace.

Ponderous grace dost wax it full,

Heir of Christ’s embrace.

It isn’t just escape—though it brings freedom.

It’s the moment when something that held us loosens its grip.

When breath returns.

When joy sharpens instead of dulls.

When silence steadies instead of empties.

The poems don’t argue for redemption. They witness it—six times, across six dimensions of life.

Something binds you. Something frees you. Grace speaks to your heart.

That turning—sometimes sudden, sometimes slow—is where redemption lives.