The Second Miraculous Draught

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.