Jesus spoke one day of ninety—nine sheep,
And of one which had gone astray—
It’s easy to picture the hopelessness
Of that poor sheep that lost its way——
He was the hundredth sheep,
Tattered and torn and bruised was he—
Staring with fright at the blackness of night,
For no pathway he could see.
He had wandered away from the guiding staff,
From the rod that could his foes defeat—
For the grass on yon hill had seemed greener to him,
Other waters especially sweet.
So he’d played in other lush meadows,
He had tasted their finest of grass,
He had sipped from mountain streams
That sparkled in sunlight like glass.
But suddenly the sky had darkened,
And deep shadows fell everywhere,
And sounds in the dimness around him,
Brought visions of wolves lurking there.
He fled, in panic, through fields, and through brambles
Whose thorns at him viciously tore,
Until, at last, exhausted, he fell to the ground,
For he could not run anymore.
He lay hurting, lost and afraid,
And who’d ever search for him?
He was only a foolish, disobedient sheep—
And now death faced him, cold and grim.
Then he heard a soft voice beside him,
He felt a warm, gentle touch—
“Did you think that I had forgotten you?
How could I? I love you too much!”
Then he was lifted and tenderly carried
Through those darkest of valleys he’d feared,
Through slippery mountainous passes and streams,
‘Til the door of the fold appeared.
And there as he lay in the warmth and the safety,
From without rang a joyful voice:
“Look, I have found my sheep that was lost!
Come, friends, with me and rejoice!”
We may sometimes feel like that hundredth sheep,
For we, too, like sheep, have strayed—
But we have a Good Shepherd named Jesus,
And for our place in the fold He has paid.
He died on the cross that we might know
His saving, forgiving touch—
And rejoices when one of His stray sheep comes home—
For He loves us! He’s proven how much!
Jesus spoke one day of ninety—nine sheep,
And of one which had gone astray—
It’s easy to picture the hopelessness
Of that poor sheep that lost its way——
He was the hundredth sheep,
Tattered and torn and bruised was he—
Staring with fright at the blackness of night,
For no pathway he could see.
He had wandered away from the guiding staff,
From the rod that could his foes defeat—
For the grass on yon hill had seemed greener to him,
Other waters especially sweet.
So he’d played in other lush meadows,
He had tasted their finest of grass,
He had sipped from mountain streams
That sparkled in sunlight like glass.
But suddenly the sky had darkened,
And deep shadows fell everywhere,
And sounds in the dimness around him,
Brought visions of wolves lurking there.
He fled, in panic, through fields, and through brambles
Whose thorns at him viciously tore,
Until, at last, exhausted, he fell to the ground,
For he could not run anymore.