the shepherd

The shepherd has but gone over the hill,
The setting sun has but few hours to rise—
Yet with the dark has fled our pasture’s will,
Waking is left now only for the wise.
Our withered flock now wanders to and fro,
While on the path few track our herder’s steps;
We sit and wail, drawing the wolves below,
While few seek higher ground for this night’s test.
If day will come, our shepherd will come home,
In what way will he find us on life’s plain—
With heavy hearts will we now idly roam?
Or will our grief drive us to seek his reign?
Do not forget, our death calls to our birth:
Muhammad’s son still walks upon this earth.


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