It wasn’t his place – that sheep was put to pasture,
sick, soaked by stain of sin.
Besides, how might it look and what would people think -
no telling where she’d been.

His place was here in happy holding pen laughing
with other ninety-nine.
What’s done was done. Little lamb would find his own way
to some greener meadow.

Where was his place but here in safe shelter singing
hymns of great praise to God?
Yes, he would rejoice here in his place with good sheep,
his smile, his staff, his rod.

He’d heard tales of a bloodied sheep wandering, dazed,
a lamb crying at night.
He led a prayer in his place: “May God’s will be done.”
Silence. A moonless night.

Believing he’d done his part to rid church of sin,
he proclaimed the vict’ry,
told faithful flock that right o’er wrong would always win,
stood in place, would not bend.