There they are, the whole motley group of them. Some bleeding, some sickly, some tangled in the briar, some just about to fall from off the cliff! Who would have thought way back when that they’d end up such a ragamuffin group as this?
Where are the shepherds? That’s what I would like to know. Where are the ones responsible to feed and shelter them? They don’t mind making money from the ragged things: their meat and wool bring a tidy sum. But where are they when the wounded need patient bandaging or the stragglers need someone to brooke the wind and cold to bring them home?
I know One who will do the job, who loves the sheep, every muddy, thorn-filled one of them; I know One who would leave all behind to find just one lost lamb. Bad shepherds always get fired, you know . . . it just might be time for a new round of hiring.
Artwork: Our English Coasts by William Holman Hunt