The portion that my father gave
Was generous, so far exceeding every need,
And yet to feel this as my own
Is not what I remember now;
Nor yet the journey into a far country,
Each step to suit my will and erring mood:
Nor yet the wild abandon as I spent my all,
A prodigal, nor recked the lessons
Of the years within my father's home.
Not even to rehearse my degradation
I would wish, when in the depths
I ate the very husks for daily food.
But, oh, that moment of awakening,
That breaking of the stubborn dream
Of my false self, when I arose and turned,
And started humbly on my homeward way,
Willing to be a servant in my father's house.
This I recall, this was the real.
And then the glad astonishment to see
My father on his way to meet me.
Not the best robe, the ring, the shoes,
Nor yet the fatted calf and feast;
But the compassion in his eyes,
His arms about me, and his kiss,
This I recall, and those dear words
That wiped away the foolish past,
"My son is found;"
This, this alone, I would remember now.
