Sunday, March 3, 2013
Poem: “A Prodigal Son” By Christina Rossetti
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 servant 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.”
*Kine: archaic plural for “cow”