Forsaking the far country, famine scourged,
Weary of wanton waywardness and urged
By wakened memories, he homeward turned
To find again the love once lightly spurned.
This youthful prodigal, so debonair,
So strong before, eager alone to fare,
Now undeceived, his course repentant took,
A suppliant, with humble, downcast look.
To every passer-by he seemed forlorn,
Bereft of manly grace, by trouble worn,
An outcast of mankind to loathe and shun—
Yet mark the father's greeting: This my son!
So we, sin-clothed, this realm of dreams must leave,
Quitting earth's pain, low pleasures that deceive.
Time's lessons stern all soon or late must learn;
To Soul's bright home each gladly must return.
Alas! perchance we cry, we seem so base,
Our guilt and shame forbid to seek Love's face,
And charge unfitness e'en to touch his feet.
God speaks of thus: He holds man pure, complete.
Howe'er ignoble we to men appear,
The Christ reveals man always perfect, dear.
Though deemed by error's wiles ensnared, undone,
Still waits for us the welcome: This my son.
When meeting other wanderers astray,
Victims of blind belief in matter's sway,—
The sick who crave from wretchedness release,
The penitent who yearn for heaven's peace,—
And noting in this motley mortal throng
Someone who did us an apparent wrong,
Accept we evil's lying evidence?
Or, wholly separate from human sense,
Know we God's children, altogether fair,
Our brothers true, who share His changeless care?
What joy to think aright of everyone,
As the All-Father judges: This my son!
