While the Master spake Blew down the mount the dust of pattering feet, White goats and black sheep winding slow their way, With many a lingering nibble at the tufts, And wanderings from the path, where water gleamed Or wild figs hung. But always as they strayed The herdsman cried, or slung his sling, and kept The silly crowd still moving to the plain. A ewe with couplets in the flock there was. Some hurt had lamed one lamb, which toiled behind Bleeding, while in the front its fellow skipped, And the vexed dam hither and thither ran, Fearful to lose this little one or that; Which when our Lord did mark, full tenderly He took the limping lamb upon his neck, Saying: "Poor woolly mother, be at peace! Whither thou goest I will bear thy care; 'T were all as good to ease one beast of grief As sit and watch the sorrows of the world In yonder caverns with the priests who pray." "But," spake he to the herdsmen, "wherefore, friends, Drive ye the flocks adown under high noon, Since 't is at evening that men fold their sheep?" And answer gave the peasants: "We are sent To fetch a sacrifice of goats five score, And five score sheep, the which our Lord the King Slayeth this night in worship of his gods." Then said the Master, "I will also go." So paced he patiently, bearing the lamb Beside the herdsmen in the dust and sun, The wistful ewe low-bleating at his feet.