Poor little lamb, you've lost your way by leaving the meadows where your Shepherd stays.
Not happy to graze in the fields of His mercy , you wandered to places that made you quite thirsty.
Eating the dust of the dry arid places, leaving behind His goodness and graces.
Picking up cockleburs attached to your wool, your beautiful fleece is now matted and dull.
Your bleating's devoid of the praise of the chosen, in its place the cold cry of a heart that is frozen.
Afraid of the shadows that move out of sight, no one to comfort you through the long night.
Convincing yourself that its better to dwell in the valley of darkness in the presence of hell.
Poor little lamb, you've lost your place. I see the tears swell and roll down your face.