A Prodigal Son
Christina RossettiDoes that lamp still burn in my Father's house,
Which he kindled the night I went away?
I turned once beneath the cedar boughs,
And marked it gleam with a golden ray;
Did he think to light me home some day?Hungry here with the crunching swine,
Hungry harvest have I to reap;
In a dream I count my Father's kine,
I hear the tinkling bells of his sheep,
I watch his lambs that browse and leap.There is plenty of bread at home,
His servants have bread enough and to spare;
The purple wine-fat froths with foam,
Oil and spices make sweet the air,
While I perish hungry and bare.Rich and blessed those servants, rather
Than I who see not my Father's face!
I will arise and go to my Father:—
"Fallen from sonship, beggared of grace,
Grant me. Father, a servant's place."
Christina RossettiDoes that lamp still burn in my Father's house,
Which he kindled the night I went away?I turned once beneath the cedar boughs,
And marked it gleam with a golden ray;Did he think to light me home some day?Hungry here with the crunching swine,Hungry harvest have I to reap;In a dream I count my Father's kine,
I hear the tinkling bells of his sheep,I watch his lambs that browse and leap.There is plenty of bread at home,His servants have bread enough and to spare;The purple wine-fat froths with foam,
Oil and spices make sweet the air,While I perish hungry and bare.Rich and blessed those servants, ratherThan I who see not my Father's face!I will arise and go to my Father:—
"Fallen from sonship, beggared of grace,Grant me. Father, a servant's place."