The Shepherd’s Quiet Song
By Shaheen P. Parshad
Miriam had tended the sheep on Geshur’s hills for as long
as anyone could remember. Each morning, she followed the narrow, oak‑lined
trails, the soft bleating of her flock blending with the wind. The villagers
called her ‘the steadfast one’ because she never missed a wandering lamb, never
left an ewe unprotected, and never complained under the scorching sun.
One evening the sky turned deep purple and the first
stars appeared. A sudden cry shattered the calm: “Help! My lamb is gone!” A
breathless boy raced up the hill, pointing toward a dark thicket. Miriam’s
heart tightened. She knew that tangled brush and its hidden ravines could trap
the unwary. Without a word she gathered her staff, called the rest of the flock
to stay close, and hurried toward the sound.
The forest seemed to close in as she entered, trees
whispering ancient tales. Shadows stretched like fingers, the air grew cooler,
and the scent of pine and earth thickened. Guided by a faint, trembling bleat,
Miriam whispered a prayer her grandmother had taught her: “Lord, you are the
Good Shepherd; lead me to the lost.”
Soon she found a tiny white lamb caught in a bramble of
thorns, its wool tangled and eyes wide with fear. She knelt, her hands gentle,
and began to free it. Each thorn that pricked her fingers reminded her of the
crown of thorns once placed on a humble carpenter’s head—a crown that bore the
world’s sin. She thought of how that crown had become a crown of glory and
whispered, “Even as you suffer, you are not forgotten.”
When the lamb was finally free, it leapt into her arms,
trembling but alive. Miriam brushed the thorns from her own skin, feeling the
sting, yet she smiled. She lifted the lamb onto her shoulders and started the
slow trek back to the fold. The other sheep gathered around, their soft ‘baas’
a chorus of relief.
As they walked, Miriam sang a simple psalm that had been
passed down through generations: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want; He
leads me beside still waters, restores my soul, guides my path…” The words
resonated in the cool night air, and villagers, hearing the melody, emerged
from their homes. They saw Miriam, the lamb cradled in her arms, thorns still
clinging to her sleeves, and her staff gleaming faintly in the firelight.
The boy who had called for help ran forward; cheeks
flushed with gratitude. “You saved my lamb,” he said, voice trembling. Miriam
looked at him, then at the lamb, then at the hills beyond. “We are all like
that lamb,” she said softly. “Sometimes we wander into places we cannot see,
tangled in thorns we did not choose. But the Good Shepherd never leaves us. He
comes, even when the night is darkest, to rescue us and carry us home.”
The crowd fell silent, the crackle of the fire the only
sound. In that moment, the story of a young carpenter felt close, as if the
hills themselves echoed the promise that love would always seek out the lost.
The lamb nestled deeper into Miriam’s cloak, and the shepherd’s song rose
again, this time joined by many voices.
When dawn finally broke, the flock moved as one toward
the village, the shepherd’s staff beating a steady rhythm on the stone path.
The sun rose, painting the hills gold, and the people carried the memory of the
night’s rescue into their daily lives. They tended their fields with renewed
vigour, helped a neighbour in need, and shared their bread with those who had
none, remembering that every act of kindness is a small echo of the Great
Shepherd’s love.
Miriam’s story spread beyond Geshur, whispered in
marketplaces and sung in homes. It reminded all who heard it that no matter how
far we stray, the Good Shepherd is always willing to walk the thorn‑filled path
to bring us back. And in that simple truth, the hills of Geshur found a new
song—one of hope, redemption, and a love that never let go.
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