[Written for the Sentinel.]


Sea-beaten, weary, toiling through the night
The "children" came, grief-burdened with their loss.
Had not the Master suffered on the cross?
Had he not yielded to the Sanhedrim's force?
Where now the promised kingdom of his might?

Peter, who could not still the throbbing pain
Of deep remorse for his denials three,
Had said, "I go a-fishing." "So go we,"
The others cried, and launched upon the sea
Humbly to cast their fishers' nets again.

Wearied with rowing as they face the breeze,
Hopes disappointed and with vain regrets
(Against the vessel's side the sea foam frets),
While from the deep they draw their dripping nets
With no return their hunger to appease.

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