The Ox Knows Its Owner

A Poem Inspired by Isaiah 1:3

By Russ Hjelm

In the quiet fields where dawn first breaks the dark,  

the ox lifts its heavy head from dew-wet grass  

and turns without command toward the familiar gate.  

No philosopher has taught it metaphysics,  

no prophet whispered doctrines in its ear,  

yet it knows—knows the hand that scatters grain,  

the voice that calls through morning mist,  

the shadow that falls long across the furrow  

and means both labor and return.  

It plods the same path every twilight,  

drawn by memory deeper than thought,  

to the stall where hay is piled,  

where the master's care is measured out in mouthfuls.

Beside it stands the donkey, gray and patient,  

ears flicking at flies, eyes half-closed in contentment.  

It does not question why the crib is filled each day,  

nor ponder the kindness behind the wooden rim.  

It simply comes. The trough is there,  

the scent of barley steady as sunrise,  

and so the creature lowers its muzzle,  

trusting without words the one who owns the field,  

the one who mends the broken fence,  

the one whose step it knows before the door is opened.

But Israel—ah, Israel—  

you who were carried from the womb of Egypt,  

fed on manna in the howling waste,  

watered from the rock that followed you,  

you who heard the thunder on Sinai  

and saw the fire that did not consume the bush—  

you do not know.  

Your eyes, fashioned to behold the glory,  

have turned to chase after shadows.  

Your ears, tuned once to the shepherd's call,  

now strain for the murmur of foreign gods.  

The ox remembers the yoke and finds rest in it;  

you have cast yours off and called it freedom.

The crib stands empty in your story,  

though the Lord has filled it season after season.  

He spread the table in the wilderness,  

poured oil on the head of your kings,  

sent prophets with words like bread from heaven,  

yet you have forgotten the hand that fed you.  

You have said in your heart, "I am rich, I have need of nothing,"  

while the Provider stands outside the gate,  

unrecognized, unnamed, unloved.

Still the animals bear their silent witness.  

In every barn across the centuries  

the ox bows its neck and the donkey waits,  

teaching a lesson no sermon can surpass:  

that dependence is the truest wisdom,  

that to know is to return,  

to come again to the place of provision,  

to rest where the master has prepared rest.

And then, in the fullness of time,  

the irony becomes unbearable beauty.  

The same Lord who was spurned by his people  

enters the world not in a palace but in a stable,  

laid where the animals feed—  

in a manger, a crib of rough-hewn wood.  

There the ox and donkey stand watch,  

their breath warming the air around the child,  

their presence a mute fulfillment of prophecy.  

They know their owner when he comes,  

lowering their heads in instinctive reverence,  

while shepherds wonder and kings travel far.

The one who was unknown is now made known in flesh.  

The crib once ignored becomes the cradle of salvation.  

Through this infant the eyes of the blind are opened,  

the forgetful heart is called back,  

the rebel is invited once more to recognize  

the hand that has never ceased to provide.

O that we might learn from the patient beasts,  

might cease our wanderings and simply come—  

come to the trough that overflows with grace,  

come to the master whose love is older than our rebellion,  

come and know, as the ox knows, as the donkey knows,  

the one who calls us by name  

and waits for our return at every dawn.