A Prodigal Son.

Does that lamp still burn in my Father's house,

Which he kindled the night I went away?

I turned once beneath the cedar boughs,

And marked it gleam with a golden ray;

Did he think to light me home some day?

Hungry here with the crunching swine,

Hungry harvest have I to reap;

In a dream I count my Father's kine,

I hear the tinkling bells of his sheep,

I watch his lambs that browse and leap.

There is plenty of bread at home,

His servants have bread enough and to spare;

The purple wine-fat froths with foam,

Oil and spices make sweet the air,

While I perish hungry and bare.

Rich and blessed those servants, rather

Than I who see not my Father's face!

I will arise and go to my Father: -

"Fallen from sonship, beggared of grace,

Grant me, Father, a servant's place."