I met the Good Shepherd but now on the plain,
As homeward he carried his lost one again;
I marveled how greatly his burden he bore;
And as he passed by me, I knelt to adore.

O Shepherd, Good Shepherd, thy wounds they are deep
The wolves have sore hurt thee in saving sheep,
The raiment all over with crimson is dyed;
And what is this rent they have made in side?

Ah me, how the thorns have entangled thy hair
And cruelly riven that forehead so fair!
How feebly thou drawest thy faltering breath;
And lo, on thy face is the paleness of death!

O Shepherd, Good Shepherd, and is it for me
such grievous affliction hath fallen on thee?
Oh, then, let me strive, for the love thou hast borne,
To give thee no longer occasion to mourn.