E. M. H. Gates

HOW many sheep are straying,

Lost from the Saviour’s fold;

Upon the lonely mountain

They shiver with the cold;

Within the tangled thickets,

Where poison vines do creep;

And over rocky ledges

Wander the poor lost sheep.

Oh, come, let us go and find them,

In the paths of death they roam;

At the close of the day, ’twill be sweet to say,

I have brought some lost one home.


Oh! who will go to find them?

Who, for the Saviour’s sake,

Will search, with tireless patience,

Through briar and through brake?

Unheeding thirst or hunger,

Who still, from day to day,

Will seek, as for a treasure,

The sheep that go astray?


Say, will you seek to find them?

From pleasant bowers of ease,

Will you go forth determined

To find the “least of these”?

For still the Saviour calls them,

And looks across the wold,

And still he holds wide open

The door into His fold.


How sweet ’twould be at evening,

If you and I could say,

Good Shepherd, we’ve been seeking,

The sheep that went astray:

Heartsore and faint with hunger,

We heard them making moan,

And, lo! we come at nightfall

And bear them safely home.


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