How fond of it he was It was young, pure, white like a cloud in an April sky. The shepherd used to look at it with so much love, thinking how much good he could do for it. And it strayed. A tempter passed on the road that runs along the pasture; with a many-coloured robe and a golden belt with sweet-sounding bells like the song of a nightingale, singing and drops handfuls of salt that shine on the dark road. Ninety-nine sheep look and stay where they are. The hundredth, the youngest and dearest one, makes a leap and disappears behind the tempter. The shepherd calls it but it runs faster than the wind to join the tempter. And to sustain itself whilst it runs, it tastes some of the salt that gives it a strange burning frenzy that makes the poor sheep crave for the cool water of the deep green shades of the forest. And following the tempter it goes into the forest, climbs and descends and falls... once, twice, three times. And each time it feels round its neck, the slimy embrace of reptiles. Being thirsty it drinks foul water and when it is hungry it eats herbs that shine with revolting slobber.The good shepherd leaves the ninety-nine faithful ones in a safe place and sets out and does not stop until he finds traces of the lost sheep. He calls it in a loud voice, begging the wind to carry his call to it and sees it from afar, intoxicated, in the coils of reptiles. So intoxicated that it does not feel nostalgia for the man who loves it, but mocks him. And yet the good shepherd goes on looking for it, following its traces and weeping when he loses them: strips of fleece; traces of its soul; traces of blood; various crimes; filth; proofs of its lust; but he goes on and reaches it. Ah I found you, my beloved. I reached you at last How far have I walked for you, to take you back to the fold. Do not bend your dejected head. Your sin is buried in my heart. Nobody will know about it, except me, and I love you. I will defend you from the criticism of other people, shield you with my body to protect you against the stones of accusers. Come. Oh Let me see your wounds. I want you to show them to me with the confidence you had when you were pure and you looked at me, your shepherd and your God, with innocent eyes. How deep they are How many wounds How much torn fleece, how much blood, how much bramble O my poor little disappointed soul But tell me: if I forgive you, will you still love me? Tell me: if I stretch out my arms to you, will you come to them?...