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  A Prodigal Son  

 

Does 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 G. Rossetti


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