An Ode To A Cross-Cultural Missionary

An Ode To A Cross-Cultural Missionary

The cross cultural missionary, I tell you, is a dying breed today
Though once a raging fire, now in ashes lay;
Movements die, methods change, God's ways a mystery,
Before the embers singe the sand, here is my bouquet.

Cometh the hour, riseth the man and so they came from town and country
In God's time they obeyed the call, to go as a missionary;
Armed with zeal and passion for souls, no manual in their hands
They set out to sow the seeds of life and see it become a tree.

As wood on the pyre, awaiting fire, on the altar lay their dreams,
All strewn around, college degrees and their fat pay-cheque leaves;
With crying family, moist eyed friends trying to squelch the spirit,
With stoic resolve they blaze the trail to the far off mission fields.

Along came children, zesty, playful, lovely girl and a boy
But soon they had to leave the nest, dragging along a toy
For the Moriah altar, now asks for the child, and who may dare deny
And so in a heap, on the altar lay, their one and only joy.

No ram entangled in the thorns, no hand to stay the sword
No voice this time, no provision divine, only comfort in the word;
With hand to the plough, no turning back, bracing the loss they move
“He that giveth, taketh” they said, as they reached the end of the road.

Weary bodied, weathered skin, with aching bones and old
They returned home, empty handed, no laurels or medals of gold;
While singers and preachers are revered here, no such rank they hold
Yet I only sing of these great men, whose stories may never be told.

I wait for that day when the roll shall be called and rewards given out
These men will rise to great acclaim and a loud shout about;
And then shall my heart leap like a deer and I shall proudly pout
For once on the cruel Moriah altar, I had to lay about!




First published in Blessing magazine of Blessing Youth Mission, India