The Shepherd walks our winding ways

1.
The Shepherd walks our winding ways
In silence, soft and deep;
Where curlew drifts above the bog,
His watchful mercies keep.
By Barrow reeds in morning mist,
By Kildare’s quiet streams,
He leads us with a tender grace
That steadies all our dreams.

2.
When shadows cross the stony path
And winds from sea arise,
His rod and staff are calm and sure,
A peace before our eyes.
The hare that stirs at first light’s hush,
The wren in furze and thorn,
All rest within the gentle voice
That wakes the Easter morn.

3.
At altar‑stone His offering stands,
A love both still and strong;
In broken bread and lifted cup
We join His ancient song.
The Shepherd feeds His quiet flock,
His presence warm and near;
In sacrament He soothes our wounds
And gathers every fear.

4.
He is the Gate that opens wide
To fields of healing air;
He leads us out to pasture green
And draws the lost with care.
The One who bore our grief and wrong
Now walks beside our way;
His goodness lingers at our heels
Through every passing day.

5.
From Slemish slopes to Shannon’s tide,
From oak‑groves bowed with rain,
His risen life renews the earth
And makes us whole again.
So let our hearts, in quiet trust,
Move gently in His light;
For Christ, our Shepherd and our Host,
Holds all our paths in light.

Hymn information

First line: The Shepherd walks our winding ways
Text: Michael McFarland Campbell
Metre: DCM
Tune: Kingsfold, Forest Green,
Theme: Easter4, Good Shepherd, Eucharist

Reflection

There is something in the readings of the Fourth Sunday of Easter that speaks most clearly when the world is quiet. I meet them the way I meet the Barrow at first light—not by rushing toward them, but by letting them come to me slowly, in their own time. The Shepherd in John 10 does not shout; He calls in a tone that those who are attuned to subtle things can recognise. It is a voice that does not overwhelm. It is a voice that waits.

Psalm 23 feels like a landscape I already know in my bones: still water, soft ground, a path that is not always straight but is always held. I read it the way I walk the riverbank—noticing the small movements first: the wren in the thorn, the shift of light on water, the way peace can be something you feel before you understand it.

Acts 3 and 1 Peter speak of wounds and healing, and I hear them not as dramatic events but as the slow mending that happens when someone finally sees you as you are. Healing, for me, is rarely sudden. It is more like the Barrow in morning mist—quiet, steady, patient, moving even when it looks still.

The hymn gathers all of this into a rhythm that feels like breathing. The Shepherd is not a distant figure but someone who walks at the pace I can manage. The creatures—hare, wren, curlew—are companions in noticing, each one moving gently through the world without demanding anything. The Eucharistic verse feels like the heart of it: a place where love is not loud, but deep; where the offering is not a spectacle, but a calm presence that steadies the inner world.

What these texts and this hymn offer is a way of belonging that does not require performance. A way of being held without being hurried. A way of being guided by Someone who understands that some of us walk more slowly, listen more carefully, and find God most easily in the quiet places—along the river, in the mist, in the soft breath of morning.

In that stillness, the Shepherd’s voice is not hard to hear. It is already there, waiting, gentle as light on water.

Copyright 

© Michael McFarland Campbell. 2026. 
Permission granted for local church or parish use with attribution. Not for commercial reproduction.

Written recently and shared here as part of the NeuroDivine hymn collection.