The Sacred Fisherman

He gave his fresh young heart to God,
Nor shrank the cross to bear;
The narrow path of life he trod,
With watch, and fast, and prayer.

To Him who gave Himself he gave,
Not man's imperfect good,
But a new heart Christ died to save,
Wash'd in His, precious blood.

No labour hard, no suffering loss,
So only he might prove
How cheerfully he bore his cross
For the dear sake of love.

And at His word, into the deep
Launch'd forth his toils to set;
Though many a night, while others sleep,
He draws an empty net:

Yet, at the bidding of his Lord,
He casts that net again, —
His strength, the warrant of His word,
His prize, the souls of men.

And day and night he seeks to win,
As sinks and swells life's tide,
Out of the troubled depths of sin
Souls for which Jesus died;

Until the wish'd-for morn appear,
And he, toil-worn, at last
Feels that that precious gift is near
Which well o'er-pays the past, —

The teeming net, which yields at length
For labour long and hard,
For broken health, and vanish'd strength,
More than its full reward.

In life's deep waters, o'er its shoals
Spread henceforth never more;
The net is broken, but the souls
Are gather'd in to shore.