The Flock

They sit on Sunday morning all in rows,
Just close enough to nod, to touch, to talk.
The old ones graze,
the youngest scamper loudly.
They are the sheep, the lambs.
They are the flock.
It's been a fearsome week for some of them;
They've seen a wolf;
they've heard his howls at night..
And others suffered pain--they still endure it--but they smile and push the agony aside.
The headstrong try the fences, never settled.
The wounded hide from the balms they badly need.
My job is still to tend them, teach them, love them.
His mandate was that simple: Feed my Sheep.