Invictus Anyone?

I’ve always appreciated the poem Invictus, especially knowing how it helped sustain Nelson Mandela during his 27 years in prison. There’s something noble in the sheer will to endure—something God-given about the drive to live, create, conquer, win, and overcome. I never want to discourage that instinct. It’s part of how we’re wired.

Survivor stories often highlight that same spirit—the deep inner determination that pushes people past every limit. That kind of resolve is admirable.

But taken to its ultimate conclusion, Invictus is eternally dangerous. The truths it leans on—courage, perseverance, grit—are only borrowed from the deeper Truth. To persevere is good. But to recognize the living God in the middle of our pain and struggle? That’s better. That’s where transformation begins.

We all live by some kind of salvation story. The question is: what are we trusting in? At the end of the day, every worldview boils down to one of two options—salvation is either from God, or it’s from ourselves.

The idea that we can save ourselves isn’t new. It’s the old tower of Babel story repackaged: “Let us make a name for ourselves. Let us build our own way to heaven.” Whether that’s through good deeds, rituals, knowledge, or even sheer determination, man remains his own savior in every religion except Christianity.

But self-salvation—especially when it forgets God altogether—eventually takes a toll.

My oldest daughter used to be an ER nurse. Some of the stories she shared from that season in her life have stuck with me. She once helped hold the head of a gunshot victim as the family wheeled him into the emergency room themselves. Just one example among many.

But maybe the hardest thing to hear was how normalized death had become. The atmosphere she described wasn’t one of fear or mourning—it was often resignation. Sometimes, even the families didn’t cry. It was just the expected next step in a cycle of crime, addiction, despair, and decay. Life, it seemed, had lost its value.

And I can’t help but wonder—does that loss of reverence for life go hand in hand with a loss of the knowledge of God? If we thought more about Him, would we think more about eternity? And if we took eternity seriously, would we live with more purpose, with more humility, with more hope?

Hell isn’t a comfortable topic. But it’s one Jesus spoke about more than anyone else in the Bible. He called it real. He described it in haunting, unforgettable images: fire that doesn’t consume, worms that don’t die, outer darkness filled with weeping and gnashing of teeth. If those are metaphors, the reality must be worse than we can imagine.

C.S. Lewis wrote about this with his usual insight. He said the doors of hell are locked from the inside. That the damned are rebels who get exactly what they demanded—the right to rule their own lives. And in one of his most sobering quotes, he put it this way: “There are only two kinds of people in the end: those who say to God, ‘Thy will be done,’ and those to whom God says, in the end, ‘Thy will be done.’”

That’s what inspired my poem Conquered. It’s a response to Invictus—not in mockery, but in redirection. It’s not weakness to be broken before God. It’s not surrender in defeat—it’s surrender to life. To grace. To the arms of a Father who is more powerful than us, but who invites us into joy.

It's OK to lose when losing means being found.

It's OK to bow when the one you're bowing to is also the one who lifts you up.

You don't need to understand everything. You just need to be embraced by the One who does.

It is never too late. Your sin is never too great.

Let the Savior in. He’s already reaching for you.

Here is my poem again- 

Jayopsis
CONQUERED

Out of the grace that smothers me,
Shining like the sun and making me whole,
I praise my Father that in His glee
Broke and conquered my unbending soul.

In His providential and settled stance
I beat my chest and cried aloud.
His stripes of purpose and romance
Left me stripped, humbled, and bowed.

But out of the prison of wrath and tears
I rested in a couch of crisscrossed shade,
At peace and secure now for eternal years
I journey dark paths joyously unafraid.

It matters not the Accuser at the gate
Charging my many dark blots on the scroll.
God, the I AM is Master of my fate:
Jesus Christ the captain of my soul.