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The
gracious God is calling souls
so tenderly, He calls them sheep.
In pastures fair He gives them care;
each one He promises to keep.
How
lovely is the picture when
describing sweetly from on high,
He says, uniquely Mine they are;
they're just the apple of My eye.
So
many sheep are far away
beyond the shelter of a fold.
These, too, He promises to bring—
some young, some middle-age, some old.
But
where is safe enough to bring them?
Where is it that light beams strong
In such a world so dark with woe
that what is right is told it's wrong?
It's
only where God's truth is held,
a fold where principles are kept—
Where Ten Commandments reign supreme
to guide His sheep for whom He wept.
This
fold must climb an upward path;
its ranks cannot be false or fake,
for God is true—and His pure church
He's already begun to make.
Will
you be there, will I, my friend?
To stand the test of surety,
be grounded in the faith of saints,
and shine in loving purity?
Then
let's press on the upward course,
not fearing friend or even foe,
regardless what the world may say,
and shunning all that's from below.
Without
a spot or wrinkle there,
this fold will soon seem very odd.
Yet glowing will its victory be
when wholly for the Lamb of God.
It's
time to look to that dear Lamb.
For us He suffered to be slain.
The time is ripe for His dear fold
to ne'ermore take that call in vain.
—bhm
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