We shepherds three
camped in the
fields below the hill
our flocks
huddled for warmth
in the cave at our backs.
We are the door of the sheep,
with our fire at
the cave mouth,
our cheeses,
breads, and skins of wine,
one with a
flute, and one with a lute
and one with the
voice of a frog.
We cast no grand illusion.
We are not pious folk.
Often our wives are glad to see
us home,
often they are glad to see us
gone,
rough men,
unkempt men, smelly men,
“You sleep with
the sheep.
You smell like
the sheep,”
the townsmen say.
This night was like all other
nights
if anything darker, the wind more
severe,
We expected nothing except a cold
long watch
with the sheep
in the cave at our backs,
with our fire at
the cave mouth,
our cheeses,
breads, and skins of wine,
one with a
flute, and one with a lute
and one with the
voice of a frog.
I wish I could say we were at
prayer
and that incense, not smoke,
filled
the night air.
But we sang shepherd songs
of loves long
since lost,
of fighting and
brawling,
the things we
know most.
It was then that the angels came
and the glory of
God filled the night air.
To shepherds three, coarse and
unkempt
they brought great tidings of
joy.
“This day in the
city high on the hill
a Saviour is born
Christ our Lord.
A babe you will
find, laid in a manger
and wrapped all secure.”
And suddenly the sky was filled
with
thousands of
angels singing God’s praise.
We shepherds three penned up our
sheep
and went up the
hill to find him asleep.
Mary, and Joseph
with Jesus the child.
We gave what we had to the baby
so mild
our cheeses, and
breads,
and skins filled with wine,
And we sang him a lullaby
one with a
flute, and one with a lute
and one with the
voice of a frog.
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