When Jesus stood upon the shore,
Athwart the lonely wave
The fishers watched, nor knew the Lord
New risen from the grave.
All night they toiled, and nothing took,
But now they cast aright;
And morning’s beams are mingling with
The risen Savior’s light.
Poor store and mean could they but glean,
When first they smote the deep;
No net was hurled to wake the world,
Till He had woke from sleep:
O, glorious was the fishing then,
No mixing in the throw
The refuse with the great and good,
All safely gathered now.
No severed toils, no sinking ships,
No frighted fisher’s cry,
Depart from me, O Lord, depart,
A sinful man am I!
Fivescore the sea, and fifty-three,
Wrung from its niggard breast,
To bless the man whom Jesus loved,
And him who loved Him best.
Though numbered now, they tell of saints
Unnumbered at the day,
When sea and shore shall be no more,
And time shall pass away.
Men-fishers true the warning knew,
To heal the midnight’s dearth,
With knots new-strung the net was flung
Whose cords should sweep the earth.
Still more they drew, as morning grew,
Embosomed in the fold,
The sceptered monarch on the throne,
The merchant and his gold;
The baron mailed, in moated halls,
The young, the old, and yet,
For all they were so many there,
Not broken was the net.