I met the Good Shep­herd, just now on the plain,
As home­ward He car­ried His lost one again;
I mar­veled how gent­ly His bur­den He bore;
And as He passed by me, I knelt to adore.

O Shep­herd, Good Shep­herd, Thy wounds they are deep;
The wolves have sore hurt Thee in sav­ing Thy sheep.
Thy rai­ment all ov­er with crim­son is dyed;
And what is this wound they have made in Thy side?

O Shep­herd, Good Shep­herd, and is it for me
This griev­ous af­flict­ion has fall­en on Thee?
Thy wounds make me love Thee, my heart shall be Thine;
With Thee I will jour­ney, my Shep­herd di­vine.