Rough Fabric

When the quiet waters lapped the shore
and the strong nets were in their hands
He called them.
He called them—
rough fabric, as they were,
weathered within and out
unfit for much use (as some would think).

They left it all behind—the trappings
of their lives,
their sustenance and their families’ too.
The half-mended nets,
the boats still on the lake,
for He Who spoke as no other
had spoken to them.

Fishers of men…
how could they understand that, then?
or the road that would bend
to Calvary, and beyond
into all the world
to crosses of their own…?

When the sun shone on Galilee
and they labored by the sea
He called them,
and their hearts leapt,
hands shook,
feet eagerly stumbled
in haste to follow

Jesus Joseph’s son.
He, young, unafraid,
spoke the Words of God,
but they little knew then
He was their Consolation,
their Redeemer,
their promised Messiah,
and His fire would consume them—

rough fabric, as they were,
unfit for any use but something hard—
to be beaten, to be stretched,
to be wrung, or cut in two,
and in the end,
(though not by human hands)
to be all burned up.