The Shepherd's Prize Lamb Poem by Akachukwu Lekwauwa

The black sheep of the flock,
And the proud white breed,
Still spotted in corruption;
All love to go astray,
Everyone in their own way,
Wandering off where their fancy takes them.
In the open field of life,
They lie around and graze all day
On staple of abominations;
Yet remains an empty gut
Behind an unquenched thirst.

The missing and wallowing sheep,
Afflicted and oppressed for their many sins,
Still opened their foul mouths wide,
Bleating vituperation on the Shepherd;
Squealing and protesting to their judgement.
How long will you continue in your own way?

Give thanks in your heart,
The Shepherd has picked His Prize Lamb,
Laying the sin of the whole flock on Him;
Yet He opened not His mouth,
But in wordless submission,
He goes knowingly and willingly.
Stricken and spat upon,
All for the transgression of the wandering sheep.
Slaughtered and hung on the tree,
That the lost sheep might return home.

Give thanks in your heart,
For this spotless, sinless lamb
Who takes away the sins,
Not of one,
But, of the whole world.
You astraying sheep,
Won't you return home to the Shepherd?
The guardian of your souls.