I Am The Door of the Sheepfold: A Poem for Good Shepherd Sunday

I am the door of the Sheepfold

Today, the 4th Sunday of Easter, the lectionary gives us the wonderful  discourse of Jesus in the tenth chapter of John’s Gospel in which he reflects on the shepherd’s role and identifies himself as ‘the Good Shepherd’:

 

Then said Jesus unto them again, Verily, verily, I say unto you, I am the door of the sheep.

⁸ All that ever came before me are thieves and robbers: but the sheep did not hear them.

⁹ I am the door: by me if any man enter in, he shall be saved, and shall go in and out, and find pasture.

¹⁰ The thief cometh not, but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy: I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.

¹¹ I am the good shepherd: the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep. (John 10:7-11)

I have begun what I hope will be a sequence of sonnets on the sayings of Jesus, to be called Parable and Paradox, a sequel to Sounding the Seasons, my book with Canterbury Press. I posted the first one some time ago Here.

Now here, for Good Shepherd Sunday, I am reposting the second one, meditating on that great ‘I Am’ saying of Jesus: ‘I Am the Door of the Sheep’.

I remember reading in a commentary once that in this saying Jesus is alluding to the round stone sheepfolds in the high pastures, built with an open gap so the sheep could pass through in safety and the shepherd himself would then lie down across the gap becoming himself the door that kept them safe. So I allude to that, as well as to a number of other doors, opened and unopened in Scripture.

As always you can hear the poem by clicking on the title or the ‘play’ button should it appear in your browser

‘I Am The Door Of The Sheepfold’

 

Not one that’s gently hinged or deftly hung,

Not like the ones you planed at Joseph’s place,

Not like the well-oiled openings that swung

So easily for Pilate’s practiced pace,

Not like the ones that closed in Mary’s face

From house to house in brimming Bethlehem,

Not like the one that no man may assail,

The dreadful curtain, The forbidding veil

That waits your breaking in Jerusalem.

 

Not one you made but one you have become:

Load-bearing, balancing, a weighted beam

To bridge the gap, to bring us within reach

Of your high pasture. Calling us by name,

You lay your body down across the breach,

Yourself the door that opens into home.