The Calling of the Twelve

A Poem Inspired by Matthew 10:1-4

In quiet dawn when Galilee lay still,

And silver mist upon the waters slept,

The Teacher walked the hill with solemn will,

While heaven watched and ancient promise kept.

The olive leaves were whispering in the breeze,

The early light touched stones with gentle flame,

And through the hush of earth and waking seas

He spoke the twelve and called them each by name.

Not kings they were, nor robed in courts of gold,

Nor scribes adorned with scroll and scholar’s art;

But fishermen with nets both rough and old,

And men who bore the dust of common heart.

Yet in their hands a greater task would rest,

A seed of fire the ages could not quell—

For from their steps the distant East and West

Would one day hear the living gospel swell.

First Simon stood, whom Peter He would call,

A rock though once a wave-tossed, trembling reed;

His brother Andrew heard the Master's call

As once he listened to the ocean’s creed.

Then James appeared, with John beside his way,

The sons of thunder with their fervent flame;

Their hearts like storms that break the silent day,

Yet shaped by grace to honor heaven’s name.

Then Philip came with wondering, searching eyes,

And Bartholomew whose soul was clear and true;

And Thomas, slow yet faithful when he tries

To pierce the veil and find what faith can view.

Matthew the scribe who left the counting board,

His silver coins abandoned in the dust;

He followed then the footsteps of the Lord,

To trade the weight of gold for living trust.

James son of Alphaeus quietly stood,

While Thaddaeus listened in humble grace;

Simon the Zealot once in fervor burned

For freedom’s cause in Rome’s relentless face.

And last of all the shadowed twelfth drew near,

Judas, whose path the future veiled in night—

Yet still he walked among them year by year

Beneath the Master's patient, watchful sight.

Then Jesus spoke with voice both calm and strong,

As winds that shape the desert’s endless sand:

The world is broken, wandering in wrong;

Go forth and heal with mercy in your hand.

I give you power over shadowed breath,

Over the sickness that consumes the frame;

Over the whispering tyranny of death—

Go forth and speak the healing in my name.

The morning sun climbed slowly in the sky,

And light poured down like blessing from above;

The twelve looked out where distant villages lie,

And felt the weight and wonder of His love.

No sword He gave, no armor forged of steel,

No purse of wealth, no throne for them to claim;

Yet in their hearts a fire no night could seal—

The quiet strength that burns in heaven’s name.

So from that hill began a humble band,

Twelve fragile lights against the coming years;

Through storm and prison, desert, sea, and land,

Through doubt and courage, sacrifice and tears.

And though their sandals wore upon the stone,

Their voices carried far beyond their breath—

For in their steps the kingdom had been sown,

A living word that walks the world through death.

O ancient morning on that Galilean height,

Your echo lingers still in mortal ears:

That heaven often chooses lesser light

To kindle dawn across the darkened years.

For where the humble answer heaven’s call,

And faith walks forth though trembling in its start,

There moves the quiet power that conquers all—

The gentle kingdom growing in the heart.