There is a lit­tle lone­ly fold,
Whose flock one shep­herd keeps,
Through sum­mer’s heat and win­ter’s cold,
With eye that nev­er sleeps.

By ev­il beast, or burn­ing sky,
Or damp of mid­night air—
Not one in all that flock shall die
Beneath that shep­herd’s care.

For if, un­heed­ing or be­guiled,
In dan­ger’s path they roam,
His pi­ty fol­lows through the wild
And guards them safe­ly home.

O gen­tle Shep­herd! still be­hold
Thy help­less charge in me;
And take a wan­der­er to Thy fold
That tremb­ling turns to Thee.