Agnes and the Little Lamb

A Tale of Innocence, Courage, and Faith

Jun 04, 2025

It was spring, and the meadow danced with color. Dew clung to every blade of grass like a blessing. The sun stretched warm fingers across the field. Birds trilled from the trees, and a little lamb, barely old enough to stray from her mother, leapt higher than ever before.

She heard laughter. A silver sound, like water skipping over stones.

A girl sat in the grass, her hair kissed by sunlight, her eyes full of delight. When the lamb saw her, she bounded toward her, thrilled to find someone to play with.

The girl’s name was Agnes. She came to the fields each morning to greet the animals, whisper secrets to the breeze, and cradle joy in her arms.

Each day, the lamb returned. Each day, Agnes was there, her laughter the lamb’s favorite melody. She called the lamb “Luce”—light.

But Luce was a wriggly one. Whenever Agnes held her too tight, she’d spring free with a little “baaa!” and dash in wide circles, inviting the chase.

The Shadows at the Edge

One day, while they were tumbling through wildflowers, Agnes froze mid-step.

Luce nearly bumped her.

“What is it?” the lamb asked with her eyes.

Agnes pressed a finger to her lips. “Shh. Something’s wrong.”

From the forest’s edge came a low growl. Yellow eyes blinked between the branches.

A wolf.

It stepped out—slow, deliberate. Hunger oozed from its every movement.

Agnes placed herself between the wolf and the lamb.

“You shall not touch her,” she said, voice steady. “She’s not yours. She’s a gift from God.”

The wolf crept closer, teeth bared.

“I will protect this lamb,” Agnes said. “Find something else to eat.”

Then—a shout.

“I’ll protect you!”

A young man burst from the trees, sword drawn. “Back, beast!”

The wolf snarled, hesitated, then turned tail and fled.

The young man sheathed his sword and grinned. “You owe me.”

Agnes blinked. “Owe you?”

“A kiss,” he said. “For saving your life.”

Agnes stiffened. “No.”

“I saved you,” he insisted, stepping closer.

“I belong to God,” she said, pulling Luce close.

“Forget the lamb,” he sneered. “Give me my reward.”

Agnes turned and ran, the lamb bleating in alarm. They reached her family’s farm breathless. The young man stood at the gate, glowering.

Agnes’s mother appeared. “Can I help you, sir?”

The man hesitated, then spat, “I wish,” and turned away.

Agnes trembled as she clutched Luce.

“It’s nothing,” she told her mother. “Let’s say our prayers.”

The Disappearance

That afternoon, Agnes returned to the meadow with Luce in tow. But when Luce rejoined her flock, Agnes saw him again—the young man, pacing.

“You still want that kiss?” she asked.

“I want you.”

“My heart is not for sale.”

He sneered. “Then I’ll take it.”

He lunged.

Luce screamed. Agnes fought. But the man was stronger. He dragged her away.

Smoke on the Wind

Luce ran to the farm.

The mother, kneading dough, looked up. “Where’s my daughter?” she asked.

Luce bolted through the village, searching every street.

Then—smoke.

She followed it to the square.

Agnes was tied to a post, her voice cracked with sobbing. Men fumbled with kindling, laughter dark and cruel.

“Go away!” Agnes screamed when she saw the lamb. “They’ll hurt you too!”

Luce wouldn’t leave.

Strong arms grabbed her. “Let’s roast the lamb too,” a man jeered.

He lifted her—tight grip, hot breath.

But as he neared the fire, Luce sneezed violently from the smoke. She wriggled and kicked. Surprised, the man dropped her.

She ran. Fast as the wind. Faster.

That was the last time Luce saw Agnes.

The Songs of the Sisters

Luce returned to the farm. The parents searched, wept, prayed. But Agnes was gone.

Days passed. Then weeks.

The lamb stayed, offering what comfort she could.

One morning, the parents walked to the graveyard. Luce followed, pressed her head to the mother’s knee. They said her name softly.

Agnes.

Time passed.

Luce grew older. Became a mother. Her flock was tended by gentle sisters in white veils and soft voices.

One day, a kind sister approached. “May I bring two of your lambs to the church?”

Luce didn’t understand—but sensed no danger. She followed.

At the chapel, the lambs were blessed. Candles flickered. Voices sang. It happened every year—on the same day Agnes had vanished.

Luce's wool was sheared and spun into soft white bands called pallia—symbols worn by bishops, shepherds of souls, who promised to protect their flock, especially the smallest and most vulnerable.

And each year, the sisters sang of a girl named Agnes.

A girl who gave her heart only to the One who would never betray it.
A girl who stood against wolves and other predators.
A girl whose love was gentle—but unbreakable.
Not because she was weak—
But because she belonged to the Lamb.

🕊️

Why this story matters:
Because in a world where power so often bullies innocence, Saint Agnes reminds us that vulnerability can be strength, and that real love never demands—it gives. In every act of gentle courage, her story continues.

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