Fishers of Men
Once upon a time there was a man called Andrew
Who lived beside the sea.
He had a more famous brother and a fishing boat.
One day the Lord came walking on the shore.
It had been a bad day’s fishing but the Lord said,
Cast your net in one more time
And they did and caught such a shoal of fish-
A great slap-happy mass of silver- they had to call for help
Then the lord said stow your nets; from now on you’ll be catching men.
After that it was all travelling, looking for men to catch.
He went to Constantinople, then Patras where he died on a crux decussata
Because he wasn’t worthy of a straight-up one;
His word, not mine.
After that he traveled some more. Wilfred brought him to Hexham
Where they made him a house, digged into the earth
And lined with stone from the houses of the Romans.
Later Acca took him over the wall
And gave him to the Picts because their need was greater.
Travelling is some men’s wyrd; mine is to stay in the one place-
In the house Wilfred built, where Andrew dwelt briefly-
And sit in the scriptorium all hours that light lasts
Writing words in books-
As I am bidden, as I am very happy to do-
A maker not a caster of nets.
But my sneaking, prideful hope is this-
That my books will be given to kings or bishops or other great men
And so travel from place to place- like Andrew.