A traveler once, when skies were rose and gold with sunset, paused beside the fold where a shepherd housed his flock;
Only a circling wall of rough, gray rock - No door, no gate, but just an opening wide enough for snowy, huddling sheep to come inside.
"So," questioned he, "Then, no wild beasts you dread?"
"Ah yes, the wolf is near," the shepherd said.
"But," strange and sweet the words 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 - illuminated evermore
for us, His timid sheep -
"I am the door!"