Thursday, June 18, 2015

The fisherman

Times I wish to be back, hauling
nets, often unfilled, inevitable
smell of fish on my hands, my hair,
my clothes, my feet, what my father
said I was born to do, hothead that
I was.

My enthusiasm, my bravado,
tamed, three times

No bravado now, when I stand
before crowds, before priests,
only words, measured words,
quiet words marked with a conviction
I did not know, then, words
coming from external to me, shaking
my very being before embedding
in my heart.


The word.

Three times I lied
three times I denied
one time I ran and hid

They listen, not all, some
only hear, and afterward
I stand amazed at what
God does with liars,
and deniers.

This poem began with listening to a sermon on Acts 3:1-10 and 19-20.

Photograph by Petr Kratochvil via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.


Mary Harwell Sayler said...

May this poem help us to get real! I'll highlight it on the Christian Poets & Writers blog -

Glynn said...

Mary - thank you!

JofIndia said...

Quo vadis, indeed...