The streets of black are your own
Meadows of jade and envy.
Greed and crowds are empty flocks
The wolves embodied in kin and friend.
One sheep is bleating amidst the fold,
Its message loud and pure.
Its knees are bruised from atoning
Its crippled heart, implored.
The raging fold engulfs it
Wool tainted by the blood
It searches for the crook and pen
A pasture for the vessel and the arms
Of the Shepherd strong who hearkens
And with his hand he guides
To every sheep that's lost
Amidst the steel and glass and wire.
The woolen blood now washed free
Wrung through the bread and sun.
The Good Shepherd always hears the bleating,
Always loves the one.