The Apostles

The Apostles

Twelve men; an odd bunch all.

Who’d pick them to start a revolution?

Twelve men, not much to look at,

A motley crew – could be taken

For the lager louts of their time!

Twelve men of working class origins,

Not to be trusted – but trust was theirs.

Twelve men to shape a world or catch a fish,

Betrayers, traitors and doubters, they.

Yet they could leap from the boat

And tread their way across the deep,

Braving storms because of who He was.

They could step into the cauldron

Of middle-eastern politics

Trodden down by a despot’s heels;

Swallowed in a mighty empire’s grasp;

Forgotten outpost of a seething, plotting nation;

Despite which they stood out in the street

And preached the good (the glorious) news

That all men are free (and women too.)

There is no more domination;

No nation can control the hand of God,

Reaching from a rough hewn cross

His bloody hand to mother and to son.

A mighty wind blows them across the world.

A spirit lights their lives with tongues of flame.

They cry in love and peace the name

Above all names; cried to a hungry world.

And then they die, killed to live forever.

Your kingdom comes apace through these,

Your chosen few, who have become an army

Crying out for justice in a bitter paining world.

Maranatha is their call, the cross their banner,

And the song of angels is their battle cry.

Victory and Empire have been won

By our God who will rule forever.