O, Prescient Ewe
That knows where to stand
Avoids ambivalent hand

That bore this world
Of life’s command
To bear its high demand

O, Precocious Hen
Knows when not to lay
A life down in the hay

A babe unborn,
Uncracked, unraised
Unknown to her dismay

O, Prodigal Mare
Beware not to sprain
Or you will bear the strain

Though not for long
You’ll be for this plain
Where retired mounts are lain

O, Impassioned Pig
Whose fattening
Welcomes a fatter thing

Wash away
The amber glaze
Chase not the dangling

O, Prescient Ewe
Return to me
What is it you see?

Be sure it is
What’s to come
Not what you wish it be.

I heard the voice of the good shepherd say;
"I did your sad and weary soul salvage,
lean on me, I did for your freedom pay.
Lean on me, and come to God with courage."
The soft voice of Jesus tenderly speaks,
when in moments of pain, my sadness peaks.
His assuring words give my poor soul rest,
as I lay my wearied head on his breast.

I heard the voice of the good shepherd say;
of the life giving bread he freely gives
to all the redeemed in whose hearts he lives.
I came to him as hungry as I was,
and my spiritual stomach he did sate.
His soft spoken voice always pleads my cause,
his love for me is always up to date;
thus on him only I can hang my fate.

I heard the voice of the good shepherd say;
"I am the only sacrificial lamb,
no one else can duplicate my good role."
I once was lost, but he rescued my soul,
he did protect my fallen soul from harm.
When from his sheepfold I stubbornly strayed,
with no regard for the price he gladly paid,
he lovingly sought me out without delay.

Beneath the fair blue face of Heaven, harp
In hand, a shepherd flats an A that's sharp.
He plucks and tunes and finds the perfect pitch
And plays a harmony exceeding rich.
The afternoon is hot, and all the sheep
Are full of grass and falling fast asleep.
Cotton ball clouds go slowly floating by
While drowsy songbirds neither sing nor fly.
Even the shiny fish in waters cool
Nap in the cooler shadows in the pool.
Save for the sound of rills that gently spill,
All things are silent.  Everything is still.
     So too a watchful lion keeping eyes
Upon a ewe lamb dozing where she lies.
As still as stone he stalks his sleepy prey:
He's waited patiently the livelong day.
And now the time has come to work his plan,
While most at ease is bird and beast and man.
He takes the first small steps in his approach,
Then breaks into a run and makes the poach.
Bewildered sheep in panic loudly bleat—
Asleep to wide awake in one heartbeat!
The shepherd's senses rush, and running down
The brute, he smites the beast upon his crown.
Dazed and confused, the lion drops the lamb
That lives but by the grace of Him, I AM.
The shepherd grabs the lion's beard, and, hair
In hand, he slays him (as he'll slay a bear.)  
     Returning safe the lamb unto the flock,
The shepherd goes and stands upon a rock.
He lifts his hands to God, and, singing psalms
Of praise, he gives the LORD his weather'd palms.
Cotton ball clouds go slowly floating by
As stars begin to twinkle in the sky.

'I'll live with Thee and be Thy love,'
I said to God, who, as a dove,
Did build a Nest within my Heart,
And who from me shall ne'er depart.

He gardens, farms, and tends a flock
Of silly sheep of spotless stock;
Secure beneath the Shepherd's gaze,
The sheep do roam and safely graze.  

He made for me a robe of wool,
The finest wool that He could pull:
It's snowy white, like Winter's breast:
In spotless wool He hath me drest.  

He makes the Sun to rise and shine,
And turns the fruit of life to wine,
And shares the Vintage when we sup,
And fills, and fills again, my cup.

For Him I sing a song that's new,
Falero, lero, lero, loo!
I pluck a string, and raise my voice,
And alway in the Lord rejoice.

My true love hath my heart, and I
Have His, because I heard on high
His wooing voice, which did me move
To live with Him and be His love.

He still looks at me
Like I'm his Meredith. Make
of it what you want.

In the valley of darkness, I shall not want
Though a hole resides where the heartbeat should be
The vessels still do their work

My lungs decay, black and smoked out
And my organs dry up from strong rums
And the things I hold dear become a desert storm

But I shall not ask for the help of dying trees
Whose fruit, though ripe, would leave me with less leaves
Or perhaps with more than I could bear

No, I stand on the mountains
The mountains we lived in, where the church sits upon the hill
I stand on the mountains and call for him

I call for him
and I know - without science or senses -
That he is near