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Thursday, March 11, 2021

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.”

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