A Prose Poem Lamenting the Neglected Sheep of God’s Church
Born as sheep, live as sheep, die as sheep.
The Good Shepherd knows us by name, but they know us not.
We hear them, see them, pass by them.
They see us, greet us, pass by us.
They speak to us, but rarely to me.
Where are they in our weakness, in our sickness, in our struggles?
Where are they in our crying, our woes, our sorrows?
They come for the pastures.
They leave for greener pastures.
But who comes for the sheep?
Who stays for the sheep?
Who is like the Shepherd?
Must sheep feed themselves, guard themselves, clean themselves?
Must we "provide" for them, only to be given a place and a trough?
We are sheep told to graze without their rod and staff—
Told, but not led.
How can we by ourselves lay aside every weight, every sin?
How can we ourselves defend against Vanity Fair, Worldly Wisemen, and Enchanted Ground?
Do sheep fight wolves by themselves?
Yet they protect us from afar, offering words alone—
Oh, just words—
While some are consumed without or sometimes within.
Born as sheep, live as sheep, die as sheep.
We are sheep without shepherds.