(poems go here) The lambs, the lambs
Oh are they ever bleating
Calling, wailing, screaming.
Never can they find their way,
Having willingly chosen the wrong path.
Never will they see the light,
Having been blinded long ago.
And oh the lambs,
They are ever bleating.
But what of the One who protects them all?
The One who sees their white fleece underneath all their grime?
He is here too,
In this godforsaken place.
He wanders,
Beaten, barefooted, broken.
And here He nurtures the lambs.
But oh, are they ever bleating.
Every one,
Every lamb,
He picks up with his hand.
He holds them close, he holds them dear,
To clean and heal and dress their wounds.
Their wounds of heart,
He stitches gently.
Their wounds of soul
He eases aptly.
Their wounds of mind,
He fixes quickly.
But still they want back down,
Down to the ground,
Where they stay ever bleeding.
He tries to keep them there in his grasp,
Trying to keep them warm,
But no matter how snug they may be,
They shiver, freezing still.
Denying the cold,
Denying the warmth.
Yet the lambs,
Oh the lambs,
Oh are they ever bleeding.