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Their Teacher, Lord, and Master,
He who died but rose again,
commissioned His disciples:
Go ye forth and fish for men.
Empowered by The Spirit,
they went out to spread The News.
All could have eternal life-
gentiles, Romans, Greeks, and Jews.
In hot and dusty sandals,
facing coldness, scorn, and wrath
from soldiers, thieves, and vandals-
still, they trod the narrow path.
In one town, then to others,
at the merchant shops and shore-
they pressed upon their brothers,
“Don’t you yearn for Something More?”
When they spoke in synagogues
or the temples of high priests,
they were chased like mangy dogs,
caned by worshippers of beasts.
In hot and dusty sandals,
facing coldness, scorn, and wrath
from soldiers, thieves, and vandals-
still, they trod the narrow path.
Far afield, deprived of rest,
the men stumbled down the road,
foot-sore pilgrims put to test
by the burden of their load.
Their enthusiasm waned.
They were withered, overtaxed.
Stores of energy were drained
as the pangs of hunger waxed.
In hot and dusty sandals,
facing coldness, scorn, and wrath
from soldiers, thieves, and vandals-
still, they trod the narrow path.
In a wretched town of sinners,
they put timid knocks to wood;
Looking less and less like winners,
at the portal where they stood.
A welcome, not shrugged shoulder,
from the smiling Pharisee.
“Poor strangers, it grows colder;
come within! Share bread with me.”
They left, in dusted sandals,
fortified to face the wrath,
no dread of thieves and vandals-
strength renewed, they trod His Path.
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