Scarlet Robe Creations

Twelve. Those who walked in sandals, tattered, over dust and stone. A betrayer among them. A denier as well. One would die by his own hand, spilling his ransom like blood. Another would weep when the rooster crowed, and a time of emptiness was ushered in. Ten who stood in a room, afraid of every shadow, yet to witness the failure of death to gain victory, unsure in their hearts what the women had seen. One, absent, whose doubt caused him to touch, to impale his fingers in the wounds, before embracing faith. Twelve. Those who had tossed nets where they were directed, into an empty sea. Those who collected twelve baskets of bread and fish, after five loaves and two fish had nourished the masses. Those who had seen the blind see, the lame walk, sores heal, a prostitute sob. copyright 2025 - Donald P James Jr https://www.amazon.com/stores/Donald-P.-James-Jr./author

(Matthew 4.12-22; Mark 1.14-20; Luke 4.14,15; 5.1-11)   I labor with my hands. Hard calloused hands.   I know work and little rest. My night is finished, but you ask me to cast out one more time.   See these hands, teacher, these tired hands. They have mended nets torn by a day’s drudgery.   See these muscles, they are weary and seared. I have nothing to show for my efforts but sweat and ingrained filth.   And you ask me to cast out on the sea again.   My brother hears you speak and he brings you to me, hoping I will listen. Your words excite James and John, but they see life differently than I.   I need to feed my family. My brother and Zebedee’s sons chase prophets and harbor dreams that our world might be different,                 some day.   Your eyes look into my soul. What do you see in me? A body fatigued from its labor. A soul trapped in trial. I do as I say and n...