— INSPIRATION-CENTERED LEADERSHIP · WORKSHOP VII —
Why Joy Comes
In The Morning
Sunday morning always comes. The question is whether you will be standing when it does.
"Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning."
— PSALM 30:5
THE PRESENTATION
Seven Slides. One Prophetic Declaration.
ABOUT THIS WORKSHOP
Workshop VII —
Joy & Renewal
This workshop is the final movement of the ICL Series — a theology of joy rooted in the Saturday between the cross and the resurrection. The disciples did not know Sunday was coming. They only knew the grave was sealed. This workshop declares: you are not in the grave. You are in the Saturday.
Drawing from Psalm 30:5 and the resurrection narrative, this workshop calls every leader to embrace joy not as a feeling but as a discipline — a prophetic act of defiance against every force that said you would not survive your Saturday.
"Sunday morning always comes. You just have to survive your Saturday long enough to see it."BOOK THIS WORKSHOP →
FULL ICL WORKSHOP SERIES
I
The Generation That Saw Too Much
Generational Trauma & Rising
II
Mama, Why Do You Weep?
Resurrection & Hope
III
Bearing Your Cross Alone
Identity & Purpose
IV
The Pregnant PAIN Of A Man
Fatherhood & Legacy
V
Strung Out On Hope
Faith & Perseverance
VI
Leadership That Begins Inside The Wound
Authenticity & Resilience
VII
Why Joy Comes In The MorningTHIS WORKSHOP
Joy & Renewal
— SERMONIC POETRY ARCHIVE —
Workshop VII · Source Poems
The sermonic poems that undergird Why Joy Comes In The Morning — each one a declaration that Sunday morning always comes, and the question is whether you will be standing when it does.
POEM I
Good Friday
Maurice L. Calhoun
It was Friday when they nailed Him to the wood,
Friday when the crowd misunderstood.
Friday when the sky turned dark at noon,
Friday when the disciples thought it was too soon.
Friday felt like failure. Friday felt like loss.
Friday felt like God had left the cross.
Friday felt like silence after the cry —
'My God, My God, why have You let me die?'
But Friday is not the final word.
Sunday is the answer that the grave has heard.
Friday is the labor. Sunday is the birth.
Friday is the burial. Sunday is the worth.
So if you're living in a Friday right now,
If the stone is rolled and you don't know how —
Hold on. Don't let go. Don't walk away.
Sunday is coming. Joy comes in the morning of that day.
POEM II
At His Best
Maurice L. Calhoun
God is not at His best when the road is smooth,
Not when the music plays and the people move.
Not when the blessing lands right on your door,
Not when you have everything and need nothing more.
God is at His best when the storm won't quit,
When the pit is deep and you can't get out of it.
When the diagnosis comes and the prognosis is grim,
When the only thing left is to trust in Him.
He's at His best in the valley, not the peak.
At His best when you are broken, not when you're sleek.
At His best in the midnight, not the noon.
At His best when you've run out of room.
So when life strips you down to your last thread,
When every voice around you says you're dead —
Know that God is warming up. He's clearing His throat.
He's at His best. He's about to write your note.
POEM III
But After
Maurice L. Calhoun
But after the weeping — joy.
But after the winter — spring.
But after the silence — a song.
But after the breaking — a ring.
But after the pit — the palace.
But after the prison — the throne.
But after the wilderness — the promised land.
But after the exile — home.
But after the cross — the resurrection.
But after the grave — the stone rolled away.
But after the Friday — the Sunday morning.
But after the night — the day.
Hold on to the 'but after.'
It is the hinge of every holy story.
The 'but after' is where God shows up,
And turns your mourning into glory.
POEM IV
Holla
Maurice L. Calhoun
Holla, if you've been through something.
Holla, if the road was long.
Holla, if you almost didn't make it,
But somehow you're still strong.
Holla, if the night was heavy.
Holla, if the tears were real.
Holla, if you prayed through midnight
And you're still here to feel.
Holla, if God showed up unexpected.
Holla, if the grace was new.
Holla, if you're standing in the morning
That you never thought you'd get to.
Holla — not because it's easy.
Holla — because you're still here.
Holla — because Sunday morning came,
And joy replaced the fear.
POEM V
David, Did Abigail Find You?
Maurice L. Calhoun
David… Son of Jesse…
Shepherd turned warrior, harp in hand, sword on fire —
Running from Saul, running on fumes, chased by fear and desire.
Dust on your feet, caves in your chest, thunder in your breath,
Anointed for a crown, yet surrounded by death.
Tell me David…
Did Abigail find you before anger did?
Before rage wrote a story Heaven never hid?
You were carrying Baggage and PAIN, heavy and worn,
Oil on your head, but your spirit was torn.
But God… Oh, but God…
Sent wisdom wrapped in a woman's voice,
Sent Grace before wrath could make its choice.
Abigail came… on a donkey, soft steps, strong spirit, truth in her hand,
Bread for your hunger, peace for your land.
David… Did Abigail find you… or did God send Mercy?
To stop a King from becoming too 'thirsty'
For blood, for pride, for momentary release —
When Heaven had already scheduled your peace?
You dropped your sword… Not because you were weak —
But because wisdom spoke, you chose not to speak.
Sometimes strength… is when the storm is near…
And you still choose peace over a 'pregnant' fear.
POEM VI
Wrong Bus, Right Reasons
Maurice L. Calhoun
I've boarded buses headed the wrong way,
With the best of intentions on the worst of days.
Convinced the route was right, the timing was fine,
Only to find I'd crossed the wrong line.
Like Moses who struck when he should have spoken,
Like Peter who swore and left the Lord broken,
Like Jonah who ran from the call of his name —
I've boarded wrong buses, and I've felt the shame.
But God's the Driver, the Route Designer,
A GPS with mercy, that's much finer.
When you miss your turn, don't despair —
His 'Recalculating' will get you there.
The cross became the transfer station,
Trading regret for restoration.
Wrong bus, right heart, crooked path —
God still draws purpose, from aftermath.
With hands of grace, He'll shift the seasons…
Even when you're on the Wrong bus — for all the Right reasons.
POEM VII
Which Thief Will You Become?
Maurice L. Calhoun
We've spoken of nights that hide the sun,
Of PAIN that no quick pill can outrun.
Of whispers that quietly steer the wheel,
Of plans that break though they once felt real.
Two thieves hung there that solemn day,
Both only moments from slipping away.
Both had lived crooked and broken lives,
Both felt the nails. Both heard the cries.
One thief said, 'If you're the King, then save yourself first.'
His voice was sharp with anger and thirst.
Pain had hardened his wounded heart.
Bitterness had torn his soul apart.
But the other thief, bruised and torn,
Saw something different through the thorn.
He looked at Jesus through blood and shame
And whispered softly a sacred name.
'Remember me.' Not when kingdoms rise in worldly fame —
But when You come in Glory's breath,
Past this suffering, past this death.
And Mercy answered: 'Today… you'll walk with Me there.'
Because every day we slowly weave
The heart of one of those thieves.
Each grudge we hold. Each grace we show.
Each road we take. Each truth we know.
When suffering comes and hope grows thin…
Which thief will rise within?
Will pride grow loud and curse the sky?
Or will Faith whisper softly before we die?
Because the hill of decision never disappeared.
It simply moved inside the heart and re-appeared.
And every soul must answer with a 'hum':
Which thief will I become?