“But”—strange and sweet the voice divine of yore
Fell on his startled ear—“I am the door!
When skies are sown with stars, and I may trace
The velvet shadows, in this narrow space
I lay me down. No silly sheep may go
Without the fold but I, the shepherd, know.
Nor need my cherished flock, close-sheltered, warm,
Fear ravening wolf, save o’er my prostrate form.”
O word of Christ—illumined evermore
For us His timid sheep—“I am the door!”