Come, Follow Me

By the shores of Galilee, where the waves whisper ancient songs,  

Two brothers stood with calloused hands, mending nets in the dawn.  

Simon and Andrew, sons of the sea, casting lines into the deep,  

Drawing silver treasures from waters that never sleep.  

The sun climbed slow over Capernaum's hills, painting gold on the tide,  

When a stranger approached on the pebbled beach, with eyes like eternal light.  

His voice was calm as the morning breeze, yet it carried the weight of storms,  

"Come, follow Me," He said to them, "and leave these familiar forms."  

No thunder roared, no angels sang, just words that pierced the soul,  

Inviting them from the life they knew, to a journey yet untold.  

They felt the pull, like a hidden current beneath the surface calm,  

And without a word, they dropped their nets, drawn by His quiet psalm.  

"And I will make you fishers of men," He promised with gentle grace,  

Not for scales or fins in the watery realm, but for hearts in the human race.  

To cast the net of mercy wide, into the seas of strife,  

To draw the lost and wandering souls into the harbor of life.  

Imagine the nets they once repaired, woven strong from flax and twine,  

Now transformed by heavenly purpose, to gather the divine.  

No longer chasing fleeting schools that slip through fingers cold,  

But seeking those adrift in darkness, with stories yet untold.  

The weary traveler on dusty roads, burdened by chains unseen,  

The outcast sitting by the well, where judgment's shadows lean.  

The proud who hide their brokenness behind walls of stone and pride,  

The child who fears the coming night, with no safe place to hide.  

He teaches them to mend the tears in spirits worn and frayed,  

To cast with love, not hooks of fear, in the light of truth displayed.  

Through storms on the lake, when waves rise high and doubt begins to creep,  

He calms the wind with whispered peace, and bids the waters sleep.  

They learn the art of patient waiting, in the quiet hours of prayer,  

To trust the catch is in His hands, beyond what eyes can bear.  

For men are not like fish that fight only to break the line,  

But souls that choose to turn away, or step into the divine.  

Years unfold like rolling waves, from Galilee to distant shores,  

The call echoes through crowded streets and opens prison doors.  

Peter preaches with fiery zeal, Andrew wanders far and wide,  

James and John, the sons of thunder, walk boldly by His side.  

Yet every follower since that day hears the same inviting voice,  

In the hush of morning solitude, or midst the world's loud noise.  

"Come, follow Me," it calls again, to those who mend their nets,  

In offices, in homes, in fields, where daily labor sets.  

Leave the familiar boats behind, the catches small and sure,  

For the greater deep where souls await, in need of something pure.  

He promises to shape our hands, unskilled in grace's art,  

To make us bearers of His light, to heal the wounded heart.  

Through rejection's bitter chill, when nets come empty home,  

Through mockery and hardened stares, when we feel most alone.  

Still He walks the shore beside us, mending what we tear,  

Teaching us that every cast is answered in His care.  

For the harvest is not in numbers pulled swiftly to the shore,  

But in lives transformed by gentle truth, forever changed and more.  

One soul drawn from despair's dark wave, one heart that learns to sing,  

Is worth the toil of countless nights, the patience faith can bring.  

And in the end, when evening falls on this earthly sea so vast,  

We'll gather on a farther shore, where no more nets are cast.  

For there the catch is complete at last, in joy beyond our dreams,  

Where every soul He called us to is safe in living streams.  

So hear the voice upon the waves, that bids you leave the known,  

"Come, follow Me," the Savior calls, "and you shall not walk alone.  

I will make you fishers bold, in waters deep and wide,  

To draw My wandering children home, forever to abide."