There is a little, lonely fold,

Whose flock one Shepherd keeps,

Through summer’s heat and winter’s cold,

With eye that never sleeps.

2 By evil beast, or burning sky,

Or damp of midnight air,

Not one in all that flock shall die

Beneath that Shepherd’s care.

3 For if, unheeding or beguiled,

In danger’s path they roam,

His pity follows through the wild,

And guards them safely home.

4 O, gentle Shepherd, still behold

Thy helpless charge in me;

And take a wanderer to thy fold,

That, trembling, turns to thee.