Category: Writing

A simple sheep, a little lamb,
With fleece so soft and white.
Small and frail, innocent, pure,
Born into a bigger plan.

To protect, to keep perfect and safe,
Shepherds would wrap his legs with care
Single strips of swaddling cloths,
Holding and shaping each precious limb.

Stronger he grew, frolicking and grazing,
Always under the shepherd’s watch,
Until the time came for inspection,
Until the time came for sacrifice.  

A sweet baby boy, a little child,
Born among the sheep and cattle,
Came from a virgin, a young girl,
And rested in a cold, stone cradle.

She wrapped Him in the same cloths,
The shepherds used for the sheep,
And laid him down in hay that poked,
Like the thorns of His future crown.

He grew into a man and began His ministry,
Performing miracles, preaching, and leading,
Until the world turned against Him,
Until they all demanded crucifixion.   

Like the sheep led to slaughter,
He followed with no complaint.
The Lamb of God died on the cross,
Forever taking the sheep’s place.

He returned to the bed of stone,
This time a tomb, instead of a cradle,
Wrapped again in simple cloths,
Laid down and placed for final rest.

But on the third day, He rose again,
Defeating death and darkness at once.
The little child, of humble birth,
Destroyed the hold of the serpent’s curse.

The perfect Prince took our place,
And died the death He didn’t deserve,
All so we could receive His gift, His love,
And a life with Him forever.

The little lamb, the manger scene,
The shepherd’s care, the virgin mother,
Were all part of the Master plan, the greater message:
Christmas has no meaning without Easter.