Harvest
As a kid, I recall, the call that I heard: a harvest of souls was now ripe for the Word if only we’d go to the lost God secured! They’d call: where now are the workers?
Maybe it’s winter now; there’s a different desire: it’s changed in churches from outreach to ire. They send not the Word, but two fox-tails on fire, when they call: where now are the workers?
It’s smaller now, distant, but look to the fields: is Ruth on the edges, holding leftovers’ yields? If we serve the Redeemer, should we not be her shield, as He calls: where now are my workers?
When a king sits in Samsonite wrath on his throne, and God’s people have hearts made of ice and of stone, and they hunt down the stranger in their fields and their homes, and howl: where now are those workers?
I go climb up Mt. Horeb, and beg God to show, “I believe”, I cry, “but help me to know, that Your people can change – that You hear us below! We need rescue; where now are Your workers?”
I wait for the whirlwind to answer my prayer. I look in the earthquake, but God isn’t there. I leave.
A small shard of cardboard greets me en route, in the hand of a man, with a prayer for some food, And for the first time, I stop, seeing God speak anew to me, quietly: are you not My worker?