Father, the hour is come
When, like the prodigal, I see
I must arise and wend my way to Thee,
Secure in knowing that Thy tender love
Is ever waiting to forgive my sin,
And prove Thy pardon by destruction
Of its seeming power and victory.
The husks of old beliefs and outworn creeds
Have failed to satisfy. Pleasures
That once I craved and sought for with avidity
Seem but like empty dreams,
And all I long for now is leave
To serve Thee in the humblest place,
As keeper of Thy door, which ever opens
To the one who, losing self, seeks all in Thee.
I thank Thee, Father, for Thy wondrous gift,
The ring, that everlasting circle of Thy boundless love!
And the best robe, the robe of righteousness—
The garment of salvation!
Thus hath the prodigal returned
To find himself enriched beyond all hope,
A royal heir, inheritor of good!
