Comfort Earns Its Recompense

The fear for me,

Is complacency,

Being cast into the fire.

Pharisees and scribes are told parables as a goad,

Let not the scattered seed get crushed upon the road.

There is a list,

We’d all agree,

Acts that bring God’s ire.

Violence to humans, derision and scorn,

Others say drinking, gambling and porn.

To make one free,

Takes eyes to see,

That I’m walking on a wire.

Middle road, comfortable, no active sword I wield,

Comfort earns its’ recompense a place in Potter’s Field.

Keyed up at three,

Quite anxiously,

The kiln in which I’m fired.

Scared to take the noble road, uneasy to lead or track,

To follow Him who lived for God, my sins upon His back.

The seed that’s sown,

Oft surreptitiously,

By men who work for hire.

Fertile soil, stretching out, resting in such grace,

Yielding fruit a hundred-fold, behold the Master’s face.

Photo by Vince Veras on Unsplash