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.”

Christina Rossetti, A Prodigal Son

Advertisements

4 thoughts

  1. Pingback: Recovery #3~~The Prodigal Duck « Sally's Serenity Spot

  2. Pingback: Design Speaks « ElephantsWind

  3. Undeniably believe that which you stated. Your favorite justification seemed to be
    on the internet the easiest thing to be aware of.
    I say to you, I definitely get irked while people consider worries that they just
    don’t know about. You managed to hit the nail upon the top as well as defined out the whole thing without having side effect , people can take a signal. Will likely be back to get more. Thanks

  4. Pingback: Rembrandt’s Meditation on the Younger Son | Broken Believers ♥

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: