Love, let me, like the hundredth sheep, come back.
Pride's towering mountains loom so grim and black.
I stumbled on the stones of stubbornness,
Refused Thy guiding staff, Thy rod's caress.
But here the chasms yawn before me deep.
Wolves howl. Thorns tear my flesh. The rocks are steep.
I am so weary with the road I roam—
Love, seek me out and bring me safely home
To be Thy hundredth sheep.
The shepherd, when he counted up his own.
Was not content with ninety-nine alone.
(So innocent, so inoffensive, free
From taint of error or iniquity,
His sheep dwell safe and warm within his fold—
They never wander in the dark and cold.)
But always, when he counted, he could see
He had a hundred sheep, and counted me
Among the faithful sheep.
Love, let me, like the hundredth sheep, rejoice
That now I hear and hearken to Thy voice—
Abundantly rejoice that heaven's bliss,
The harmony I have regained, is this:
To know Thy law, Thy government, Thy reign,
Meekly to walk the way Thy Word makes plain.
Love never saw a wayward sheep, or bad.
The loving Shepherd always knew He had
A hundred faithful sheep!
