Ninety-Nine and the One That Got Away

He reads it in a doorway,

knees hugged to chest,

back cold to the brick.

Gospel half-torn,

creased and smudged,

given by Lighthouse,

tucked in his coat

like a ten bag.

Luke, chapter fifteen.

Lost sheep.

Some shepherd lad off his rocker,

leaves the flock to chase the one that bolted.

He snorts.

“Mad move that, bro.”

But his laugh catches

like a spliff too tight.

Because that one—

that strayed one—

that’s him.

Flesh inked with pain-maps,

scars like scripture.

Every line a liturgy:

Mum gone.

Dad worse.

Spice his first kiss.

Crack his next prayer.

He wears his psalms in scabs

and still tastes the night

he nearly didn’t make.

And yet—

this story.

This ragged rabbi

who walks out

from the safe and sound,

into sad streets stinking

of piss and regret.

No clipboard.

No cold charity.

Just mercy—

with bloody hands

and dirt under the nails.

He sparks a fag.

Drags deep.

Could he be the one?

Not one of the ninety-nine

with clean shoes and certificates,

but the one the world gave up on.

The ghost in the system.

The wounded.

The watched.

The written-off.

The lost.

He sees it:

And he shakes,

a silent sob

as

Wild Goose whispers,

“I see you, lad.”

‘Mate,

if grace had a postcode,

it’d be yours.

If love was a searchlight,

it’d be sweeping the estates

just to find

the boy who thought

he was too far gone.

But the Shepherd don’t forget.

Don’t clock off.

And ain’t scared of the dark.

Come home,

Mate,

Come home.’

- Rev’d Jon Swales