Wolves Among the Fold

In twilight fields where gentle breezes sigh  

and sheep graze soft beneath a shepherd's eye,  

a shadow moves with measured, borrowed grace,  

clad in the fleece that hides a predator's face.  

Beware, the Master warned, for danger walks  

disguised in wool, where innocence once talked,  

the ravenous wolf in sheep's clothing comes near,  

his hunger veiled by words that soothe the ear.

He speaks of peace, of paths both broad and bright,  

of burdens lifted in the dead of night,  

his voice like honey dripping from the comb,  

yet underneath the heart beats cold as stone.  

The flock draws close, entranced by silver tongue,  

unaware the jaws beneath are sprung,  

for what seems lamb is beast in borrowed skin,  

a deceiver bent on drawing souls within.

But nature whispers secrets none can feign:  

no thornbush yields the purple grape's domain,  

no thistle bears the fig's sweet, heavy load,  

the tree declares itself by what it sowed.  

So let the harvest speak when voices fail,  

observe the branches bending in the gale—  

do clusters swell with life-giving delight,  

or do they rot and poison in the light?

A sound tree stands, its roots in living earth,  

drawing from depths where grace has given birth,  

its boughs extend with fruit that feeds the poor,  

that heals the broken, opens heaven's door.  

Love ripens there in clusters red and true,  

joy overflows when storms would rend them through,  

peace holds the branch when winds of doubt arise,  

patience endures beneath accusing skies.

Kindness adorns the leaves in gentle hue,  

goodness the sap that courses fresh and new,  

faithfulness the trunk that never bends,  

gentleness the shade where weary friends  

find rest, and self-control the steady hand  

that prunes away what cannot understand  

the kingdom's way, where mercy reigns supreme  

and truth is more than fleeting, hollow dream.

Yet turn to see the barren, twisted form  

that promises much yet delivers storm—  

its fruit is gall, its yield is bitter thorn,  

division sown where unity was born.  

Pride swells the trunk, greed poisons every vein,  

anger the wind that scatters joy like rain,  

deceit the blight that spreads from leaf to stem,  

until the whole stands hollow, dead within.

The axe is laid, the fire waits its claim,  

for every tree unfruitful bears the same  

inevitable end when judgment calls—  

the chaff consumed, the worthless branch that falls.  

No mask can save what heart has long betrayed,  

no clever word can turn the rot to shade,  

the reckoning comes not by sight alone  

but by the evidence the years have shown.

So walk with eyes that see beyond the guise,  

test every spirit where the tempter lies,  

seek not the flash of eloquence or might,  

but weigh the quiet fruit produced by light.  

In orchard vast where kingdom seeds are sown,  

let good trees flourish, rooted, overthrown  

no more by wolves that prowl in faithful dress—  

discernment guards the soul from emptiness.

Thus know them, as the Teacher plainly said,  

by what their lives in secret hours have bred:  

the wolf departs when fruit reveals the lie,  

the true vine stands beneath the endless sky,  

bearing abundance for the hungering world,  

its branches heavy, banners gently furled,  

a living testament that truth endures  

where shallow fleece and hidden fangs are cured.