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Fishing
Hopes
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These boys that
fishermen would be,
As they bait a hook upon
bended knee.
And the final toss as
line is dangled,
Followed by a shout “Our
lines are tangled!”
Spots are crowded and
the worms are spilled.
The things caught are
not ones that are gilled.
They snag a limb, or
fish get the bait.
With patience unknown
before, they wait.
Heard over and over “Can’t
catch a thing!”
And maybe one will boast
a sting.
Long hours are spent
slapping pests in the heat.
Not a catch all day;
they’re tired and beat.
“Maybe next time”, and
they smile with hope,
As homeward bound they
climb the slope.
And they chatter of
perfect spots they sought
And how big were the
ones they nearly caught!
New Hopes
Fishers of men these
boys would be,
As they read “the Book” on bended knee.
The final toss as “truth”
is dangled,
Following the shout “Our
lives are tangled!”
Crowds come and worms
are spilled.
Men are sought and hearts
are filled.
Words fly away, or are
crushed with hate.
With patience unknown
before, they wait.
“Can’t touch a heart!”,
heard again and again,
“They do not hear, or
turn from sin!”
Long hours are spent
fighting Satan in the heat.
So few responses, but never
defeat!
But maybe soon, and they
smile with hope,
As homeward bound they
climb the slope.
And they chatter of the
souls they sought
And weep over the ones
that were nearly caught!
