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 faither’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 rise and go to my father – 

 “Fallen from sonship, beggared of grace 

Grant me, Father, a servant’s place.”