Classic Poem

They wander, straggling sheep without a fold,
Called here and there by falsely-guiding cries;
No hands from them the slaughtering wolves withhold,
But one by one each hireling shepherd flies;
They wander on, but not a blade of green
Blesses the sight along the scorching sand;
No spring-fed stream with living voice is seen
Still gliding on companion of their band;
But soon their weary pilgrimage shall close,
And the good shepherd guide their feet in peace;
For all its paths his eye experienced knows,
And at each step their joys in him increase,
Till welcomed there where he in honor reigns
He at his Father's board each faithful son sustains.