’Cause the sheep can always tell.
They follow a little tradition and have for a long spell.
On Christmas Eve around midnight, the sheep, wherever they are, all rise in quiet unison and fixate on a star.
And from their stirring comes a sound, a chuckling tra, la, la.
That weaves and builds itself into a soft melodious baaa.
Which carries like a dove’s lament when nights are very still.
As if they’re calling for someone beyond a yonder hill.
The legend herders passed on down attributes this tradition to one late night in Bethlehem. A heavenly petition.
Wherein a host of angels came and lured them with a song.
The herders left in haste, they say, and stayed gone all night long.
Well, sheep don’t do too well alone. They’ve never comprehended
that on that night they waited up, the world was upended.
So, now when daylight shortens up and nights get long and cold
I make my check at midnight like we’ve done since days of old.
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