The pain of ministry ever lingers,
As sheep shepherds keep watch,
The Enemy reaches with creeping fingers,
Condemning all for every botch.
We spy wolves seeking success,
Attack the fold, they make a mess,
The flock sees not persistent duress,
They mistake claws for sweet caress.
Oh my finite impotence,
Oh my inability apparent,
I save none outside the fence,
Nor bring any into God's tent.
Like all, my weakness I must bring,
Each transgression's weight too much,
To the bloody cross of suffering,
I seek healing, a potent touch.
There alone is the soul's content,
There alone each sheep must flee,
Where the Father commanded Son sent,
Where life bought for me, for thee.
So, now I go and bring my sorrows,
To a King crucified, not dead,
The one who holds all the morrows,
I, a member, He, the Head.