I AM THE LAST OF THE ONE HUNDRED

He strolls amidst the other sheep; becomes the wool amidst the wools.

"What do you think? If a man owns a hundred sheep, and one of them wanders away, will he not leave the ninety-nine on the hills and go to look for the one that wandered off? (Matthew 18:12)

"For he has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves." (Colossians 1:13)

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The gate is opened, the rusty, locked threshold to a hidden green.

There is a shepherd, an overseer, a protector. A cry breaks out among the silence. He looks for the sheep belonging to this cry. He longs to see it’s nozzle among the shroud of darkness. He won't stop relenting. The crows croak: "You can't go in there. You fool." He strolls amidst the other sheep; becomes the wool amidst the wools. Some can tell the difference and others cannot.

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The wolves fang into every sheep. They drive them in a corner, destined for death. What they think is their last breath is the last time they ever would dare to fear. The enemies turn their eyes away...and look towards the sheep. A full raid against him ensues. The sheep pants his last breath. A darkness mantles within the domain. The wolves scream and bark at the success of death. They praise themselves for this defeat. It’s silent for a spell and hopeless begins its bleak mantra. What seems an eternity of silence is broken with an uproar that echoes across the plains. A light rides on a white horse; for its far greater than any light that has been seen before. The palisade surrounding the inhabitance blows up and away – for it is no more.

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There are myriads of other sheep the new light reveals. The wolves still remain. They still prowl in the darkness of the sky and the isolation of the trees. The sheep turn their eyes into the hills; a song reverberating in the distance. They are free; no trellis impedes; no wolves king over their wool; no thorn keeps them in the pit of their abyss. They see beyond what was before. They see a shape they cannot distinguish, but it feels familiar. It resonates within their souls. They belong to it; to the calling amongst the heathlands. The sheep before is no longer what is once was, but now it belongs to what is. It’s the overseer, the protector.

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Those who answer the call ascend. Those who steep in the old fallows tend to their own flower and grass. The pasture is still the same; the inhabitants make the difference. The climb begins. The wolves still appeal and the darkness bids to induce, but the overseer is the guide and leads the sheep along the way; the way into the a “greater green” than what this green could ever grow.