Yes, I’m thinking, wife, of Willie, the boy who went away—
Thoughts of him fill the heart of me when comes this time of day.
I watch you praying for his soul, a light in your dear e’e,
Methinks a soul from heaven itself might well come back to see.
But I—I cannot pray at all; the words they will not come,
My soul rebels and will not bow—my boy is far from home.
My lad I was so proud of, though often I was stern,
Wilful was he, but ah, to-night for his presence I yearn.”
There’s a step on the walk outside, trembling hands at the door,
And some one is kneeling by them, sobbing out o’er and o’er:
“Father, your prodigal has come, unworthy of your name,
Broken in spirit, buffeted, baptised with bitter shame.
But say forgiven, and lay your hand on me in the old way;
Pride kept me long from you, but I had to come home to-day.”
Such a welcome he got from them—the old love changeth not,
Faithful to death, unswerving—miracles hath it wrought.
The father turned a glowing face, and whispered: Let us pray,
My pride has kept me long from God, but I’ll go home to-day.
And then with the firelight shining, leaving his heavy load,
A prodigal old and hoary came tremblingly back to God.