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.