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”