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Harvesting
The mission fields are ripe for harvest
I look around, survey the view
As, standing in a concrete forest
I realize again how few
Step up and accept the call
Gladly, for the sake of all.
The cement jungle lures the weary
Promising its “get rich” schemes
It glosses over all that’s dreary
Drawing the hordes to what it seems
Never showing what is wrong
Swallowing the searching throngs.
Why send me when I’ve not been gifted
With silver tongue or golden voice?
The tiny bag of talent, sifted
Shows that there is nothing choice.
It is only full of rags,
Remnants of life’s struggles, snags.
Searching rags and snags and struggles, found:
The Word, a Bible, greatly used,
Well-searched, still guiding those heavenward bound,
The cover ripped, torn, and abused,
Evidence of searching hands
Reaching for the Promised Land.
Gnarled hands can guide searching small ones
Through tattered pages, truly worn,
Still gently showing struggling lost ones
The ancient journey to the throne
Where loving arms await us.
They’ll welcome and embrace us.
The mission fields are ripe for harvest
We’re missionaries, one and all,
Step out in faith into the darkness
In cities, countries, local mall
“As you treat the least of these
You have done it unto Me.”
His call goes out: “Go, tell, and baptize.”
Use all your gifts, be what they might.
The battle rages, reach for the prize.
Reaching into that deadly night
Sin and Satan, still allures,
Christ’s compassion still endures.
A missionary models Jesus
Compassion dripping from each pore
Blending the motley bits and pieces
Combining lives that passed before.
By washing feet I’m set free!
Jesus’ll be the death of “me.”
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