"And when he came to himself"—we read these words
In that rich story which the Master told
And left for us who come to ponder on,
That story of the wayward prodigal.
(It was a day when sinners had drawn near,
And roused the scorn of scribe and Pharisee.)
Came to himself—and then straightway arose
And set his face toward his father's house,
Humbly retracing, one by one, his steps,
And veering never from that narrow road
Which led, he knew, directly to his home.
A glimpse he'd had of his high heritage,
His sonship, though as yet he had not caught
The vision of its glorious full import,
And asked only to be as one who served,
Not worthy now place at his father's side.
Then, as the story goes, a great way off
His father saw him come, and ran to him,
And, welcoming, with joy acclaimed him son,
Clothed him and fed him, rejoiced over him
Until he understood his true estate
And knew himself beloved—his father's child.
It must have stirred the wayworn hearts that day,
Of those who to the Master had drawn near.
It must have roused them from their troubled dreams,
And turned their faces toward the Father's house.
It stirs hearts now. Now, as when Jesus spoke,
Truth heals the thought which would see man apart
Or outcast ever from his Father's love;
Truth clothes man in die robe of righteousness,
Feeds him from out the one exhaustless store,
Pours forth the light until, his vision cleared,
Come to himself, he sees, as Jesus saw,
Man's only self to be his Father's child,
Radiant forever in his Father's smile,
Doing His will—the very well beloved.
