That was a sad trip you took
into a far country where
the very glamour that you sought
finally left you empty.
Not lavish feasts nor husks
shared with swine
could ever satisfy
your real desires.
At a dead end any choice is better
than none, although swine pens
were never what you had in mind—
they were only the last stop on
an ill-considered detour.
From here the servants' quarters
of your father's house seemed
good and oh—much more—
the chance of wiping out the memory
of waste and shrill excitement
with shallow friends; to eat
in quietness some honest bread
to come to yourself.
In your dejected state
of misery and self-condemning pride
you could not visualize
that loving father-welcome—
that running form, familiar
to your yearning heart
as was the warm embrace
melting the barriers
that sin erected.
As for the robe, the ring,
who could imagine such
a richness of affection?
only those who like yourself
have learned the hard-won secret
of canceling sin's sentence:
humility
repentance.
