How oftentimes he must have watched,
With patient eyes and still,
The shepherds guarding close their sheep
Upon some lonely hill,
The while he yearned to gather men—
This shepherd long ago—
Into his Father's pastures green,
Where peaceful waters flow!
How oft at eventide when flocks
Came bleating to the fold
Where they were safe from savage beasts,
And wind, and storm, and cold,
He must have thought of mansions bright
With room enough for all,
Would they but hear his tender voice,
And follow at his call!
I like to think of him today—
This shepherd wise and kind—
Who labored well that we, his sheep,
Safe pasturage might find
Within the Father's sheltered fields,
Within the Father's care,
Where winds are tempered when they blow,
And lack is never there.
